I think, for me, Cologne will always be remembered as the Morrissey trip that didn’t go to plan. Somewhat against the odds, the show itself went ahead, and I enjoyed every moment of it, but the 48 hours or so surrounding it tested my sanity.
Actually, it all started 4 days prior to travelling, with the collapse of Flybe, which sends me scrambling to book a replacement flight to Cologne with another airline. The new flight leaves Manchester airport early enough to necessitate an overnight stay in an airport hotel, a situation I usually make a point of avoiding. Accordingly, I am deposited at Leeds bus station with my small wheelie case, late afternoon, the day before the show, excited nonetheless at the prospect of the four days adventure and two Morrissey shows ahead of me.
En route to Manchester airport I receive a message from a kind Italian friend, in lockdown and unable to travel as planned, informing me that France have just changed the restriction on mass gatherings from 5000 to 1000 people. Salle Pleyel has a capacity of 2000. Shit.
I have fifteen minutes to find the hotel shuttle bus at the airport, or it’s an hour until the next one. The bus operator has given me directions that include going through a door to the left of the City Cars office. There is more than one City Cars office. I make it just in time, and as soon as I enter my hotel room I am busy busy online looking at news reports, social media, flights from Cologne back to the UK…..What to do? I phone my husband who is of the opinion that I should go to Paris anyway and enjoy sightseeing with fewer crowds than usual, and suggests I just get some sleep. He is always so annoyingly chilled out when I am not. Still uncertain, but feeling I need to secure options, I book the one budget flight back to Manchester from Cologne, at the crack of dawn after the show, before forcing myself to put my phone down and go to sleep.
I manage to get my bags through security at Manchester airport without being stopped for an additional search, having been prepped by my last experience passing through this airport en route to Vancouver. This is actually quite an achievement since it seems that here they reject about 80% of the hand luggage going through the scanner, leading to a chaotic crowd of shoeless travellers clamouring to retrieve, or even see, their belongings as they are searched in random order, and offending items, usually a forgotten lipstick in a forgotten handbag pocket, are rooted out and confiscated.
Waiting at the departure gate I spot a couple of familiar Morrissey travellers, and having spoken to one of them am reassured by their confidence that the shows will still go ahead. I doze my way through the short flight to Cologne, knowing that in any case there is no more online scrambling to be done until I arrive. From Cologne airport I have just two short train rides already mapped out, to reach my accommodation. I’ve planned everything, it should be simple….
The ticket machines at Cologne airport are impossible to fathom without enlisting the help of a friendly local, a sign of things to come, but I am not overly fazed at this stage, and I accept the short delay before I am on the correct platform awaiting my first train. I like getting trains rather than buses when I’m travelling in unfamiliar places. It’s always obvious where to get off….
The flaw in this plan in Cologne, it seems, is the difficulty in finding where to get on the damn thing. At the next station I spend an age wandering up and down platforms and staircases, and in and out of tunnels, asking for help from at least three different people, who despite being local are still unable to give me any definitive answer as to where the fuck I need to be. There is no signage, and nothing makes any sense. I have been around long enough, and travelled often enough, to have navigated the transport systems of many different cities around the world, but here in Cologne I seem to have finally reached the limit of my abilities. Almost ready to scream with frustration, it is by pure accident that I finally find myself in the right place. My final station is two stops away. I simply cannot believe how difficult this has been.
I finally alight with my case, some considerable relief, an empty stomach and some seriously jangled nerves, to commence the walk to my Airbnb. I am happy to walk, it always calms me, and enables me to take in my surroundings without the distraction of being dependent on impossibly baffling transport systems. Despite my skyrocketing stress levels and my anxiety to finally reach my accommodation, I am enticed to break my journey when I pass a food outlet entitled ‘Vegan Land’. Into here I venture, and communicate sufficiently to avail myself of the luxury of a vegan hot dog. There is some hope that Cologne may yet endear itself.
My Airbnb room contains three single beds, and I try them all out, like Goldilocks, before settling down on one with my phone to try to make sense of the Paris situation. It seems the cancellation of the show is still not official, and hopes are afloat that the French ban on mass gatherings will not be implemented in time. But with over 48 hours to go, this seems to me a long shot, and I now have just a one hour window in which I can still cancel my Paris accommodation and get a refund. Risk needlessly missing the show, or risk needless travel to a badly affected region of Europe in the midst of a growing global pandemic? Neither one particularly appeals to me. My Italian friend forwards another French article listing Salle Pleyel as a venue that will be affected by the ban. I forward it to another friend, present in Cologne, who I know is also unsure about Paris travel. She is clearly stressed too, and her curt and snappy response tips me over the edge. You see, I’ll never learn.
Unconditional love and support are, however, always available at home, and feeling suddenly very much vulnerable and alone, I am able to reset, following a tearful phone call to my husband. I’m here to enjoy the show in Cologne, and deciding to push everything else aside until after that show, I take a deep breath and set out on foot again towards the venue.
On arrival, just an hour and a half before doors, I quickly join the queue that has formed down the side of the building. A friendly Swedish lady and a German couple keep my spot whilst I visit some friends nearer the front of the queue, where I obtain a much needed hug from a Canadian friend.
As 6.30pm draws near, some security staff appear, and one of them starts shouting out instructions in German. A German lady next to me briefly translates that we have simply been advised to remove any items from our pockets ready for inspection, and to have the barcodes on our tickets ready for scanning. Everyone shuffles forward in anticipation, rummaging in pockets.
When the doors open I am delighted to make a remarkably smooth entry, being ushered over to a far door where no-one else is waiting, then ushered further forward to a female security guard for searching. There are shouts from security as we run towards the front of the stage, and I duck past some outstretched arms to reach a spot right behind an American friend who was number 1 on The List and queuing since last night. I congratulate her on reaching her well deserved barrier spot, and myself for my chosen strategy, once again, of queuing for a mere 90 minutes in order to stand a mere 80cms further back. I am tall, and having the security of the barrier is less important in venues outside the UK. Here in Germany the crowd apparently don’t feel the need to act like savages in order to enjoy themselves, and in stark contrast to the previous show in Leeds, I am struck by the total lack of unnecessary pushing or even bodily contact, whilst the passion and appreciation for the music is by no means diminished. It is a beautiful show with a beautiful atmosphere, and I smile my way through it in bliss.
During the show, Morrissey himself confirms the cancellation of the Paris show, and there is no debate for me. Someone please take me home.
When the show ends I hang about half-heartedly but I know I am still too shaken by my earlier experience of the day to truly feel inclined to socialise. In any case, my flight home leaves horribly early and I still have further arrangements to make before I can sleep, so I head off alone into the night, fuelled by a cold drink from the venue bar. Walking away alone from a Morrissey show feels like a return to my earlier days of Morrissey adventures, but maybe this is just the way it’s meant to be. Not relying on anyone else, or feeling I need anyone else around to feel safe is, for a shy and anxious traveller like me, strangely empowering and liberating. Before I started travelling to see Morrissey, I went everywhere with my husband, and venturing abroad without him still feels like a brave move. But I find I’m OK by myself. My lone travels have helped me reconnect with my own individuality and sense of independence, and my self-confidence and self-belief has grown. And yet alongside this is the consciousness of that safe place to which I return every time, for which I consider myself so very lucky.
Back at my accommodation I tuck into the four days worth of snacks from my little suitcase, whilst tapping away at my phone, booking a bus from Manchester airport to Leeds, cancelling my Cologne to Paris train, and cancelling my Paris Airbnb room. My main concern, however, is getting back to Cologne airport in the morning. There is no way I’m throwing myself upon the mercy of the local transport system again, with the added pressure of a plane to catch, and I decide the exceptional circumstances warrant the breaking of my budget traveller rules; a taxi to the airport.
I pack my things up again, and sleep in my chosen bed for the remaining 3 hours before I must emerge again into the darkness. I stare at lights and road signs from the taxi window, wondering if I’ll ever return to make my planned visit to the cathedral and the Hohenzollern Bridge.
The bus station at Manchester airport is some considerable distance from my arrival terminal, but is extremely easy to find, with clear signage at every turn. There is even a little bus icon on the button in the lift. It’s good to be home, despite the lack of sleep, and a sense that I have been travelling for days, with a brief 90 minute break to watch a Morrissey show. I settle down on a plastic seat to await my bus, which arrives 40 minutes late due to morning traffic. When it pulls into the bay, myself and one other traveller, seemingly the only two people waiting, jump up and drag our luggage over to the bus door, but whilst we wait expectantly for the driver to alight, another man moves in front of us and starts asking the driver questions – directions from what I can overhear. I hate it when people try to use bus drivers as some sort of information point, which clearly they are not, whilst apparently either stupidly unaware, or selfishly unconcerned at the delay this causes for all the passengers as they sit or stand through this pointless exchange. Perhaps the driver in this instance shares my thoughts as he suddenly closes the doors, almost trapping the man’s head in them in the process. Mr Selfish doesn’t take kindly to this, and bangs on the doors angrily, demanding they be opened again. I am faintly amused, watching from my zombie-like state on the curb, but the driver apparently is not, and he backs the bus out of the bay and drives away, leaving myself and my fellow bus traveller staring at the disappearing bus and back at each other in disbelief, whilst Mr Selfish continues to rant and rave like an idiot.
At this stage I am so tired, and my patience so severely tested, that I am barely able to react to this latest development, and I watch in a sort of numb disbelief as my fellow bus traveller, who it seems has just disembarked from a 14 hour flight, tries in vain to get some sense from the bus station customer service desk, even though I know perfectly well that this will be a fruitless waste of time. Eventually I snap out of it, call Megabus, and get us both booked onto the next bus to Leeds, departing in 50 minutes. God give me patience.
On arrival home I realise I don’t have my house key, having left it ‘safe’ at home, since I had expected to be picked up from Leeds Bradford airport by my husband two days hence. The neighbours keep a spare key and fortunately one of them is home. He looks puzzled at my dishevelled and zombie-eyed appearance with a suitcase and no key to my own house, but wisely judges it best not to ask.
Adventures of a middle-aged Morrissey fan 