It’s time to go home. As the final show of the tour approaches, it’s hard not to have the cliché thought about how it seemed like the time would never pass. It could not be said that it passed quickly – it merely goes easier as you adapt to your temporary surroundings and lifestyle. Now comes the tricky part of reverting back. As touring makes you an animal, so coming home is like bringing Tarzan back to civilization. At the same time, touring being a life of certain deprivations, there are fantastic reunions in store. Some are obvious – the people I love, for instance. Perhaps less obvious, my toilet.
For this last month I have had to search for toilets, most of the time finding something incredibly disappointing. There are the festival toilets, which are portable, rickety, frequently flooded, and almost always destroyed by noon. When in cities, usually the best option is to seek out a shopping mall or restaurant restroom. The club bathrooms have frequent issues, like lacking seats, doors, toilet paper, and hand soap. Some countries have different styles of toilets altogether (such as two hand grips and a hole in the ground), the use of which generally results in feelings of humiliation and fear. A side note – truthfully, as I was writing the preceding sentence, one of the members of the band informed me that he was on his way to perform an emergency operation commonly called the “bag of shame” for lack of sanitary, usable facilities on the grounds of today’s festival.
Being able to take a shower whenever I want to. It sounds like bliss. The showers on tours like this are also partial credit recipients. Festival or club, they are never really good, in fact mediocre showers often elicit praise from one band member or another. But the bad ones are plain unusable. A person wants to feel cleaner coming out than when they went in, right? And when one gets to the point that the layer of grime completely hinders comfort, having a usable shower (with hot water even) seems like it should be a basic human right.
I’m looking forward to spending some time by myself. Except when you’re in your bunk, there is very little personal space or time alone on tour. And even when you’re in your bunk there is often someone inches away (who you can hear or smell), in the two or more adjacent bunks. There is no place where you can relax knowing you will not be joined, disturbed or interrupted in whatever you happen to be doing. The thought of sitting alone in a room undisturbed for even an hour or two is delightful.
The only other remotely profound thought I have regarding the end of the tour is that it wasn’t as difficult as it felt. What makes it feel difficult is the slow growing insanity, compounded daily, which conspires against both the logical and emotional halves of a person’s mind. It afflicts all members of the group, creating the illusion that it has afflicted none. Even those in charge lose their cool, as well as their grip, eventually. The captain and crew of the ship are crazy – get me out of here.
