Touring-A Weird Life unto Itself

Dear Readers:
I haven’t talked about touring (as an entertainer coach driver for bands) in awhile. Sometimes, I like to forget that part of my life.

Biceps and I have the occasional rendezvous, but it’s nothing like packing up your life for two months, riding around the country seeing what most never get to see, stressing out over mountain passes and sudden snowstorms, babysitting lead singers that you used to idolize, and watching girls disrespect themselves so that they can have a story to tell later on.

It’s a weird and isolating life.

With a flipped schedule from most normal humans, you get to see cities when they are at their quietest. Often, the only people you talk to throughout the day are other bus drivers (which isn’t always a bonus), the checker at the Flying J and your hubby (if you are lucky and his bus hasn’t broken down somewhere).

Biceps sent me an article found in Spin magazine highlighting the life of a tour bus driver. The article said that they are only 12 female tour bus drivers in the U.S.. I don’t know if I was counted or not, but even if there are 13 of us-we are quite the minority.

Throw in the fact that I wear a dress when I drive, change the oil in the generator and do my pre-trip inspection, I am in the smallest of minorities.

I both love(d) the life and hate(d) the touring life. But with time, you tend to forget the worst and focus on the best.

I loved spending Thanksgiving in a Chinese restaurant in a deserted downtown with only Biceps and a styrofoam container of Mu Gu Gai Pan. Depressing at first, I soon realized we had never spent a Thanksgiving alone, just him and I. It became pretty romantic even if we were eating off of plastic forks.

I loved being invited to the home of one of our coastal living crew members and then promptly being stuffed full of fresh caught crab, corn, potatoes, beer and death-by-chocolate desserts.

I loved seeing the weird stuff in cities that make me laugh outloud. I’ve seen enough cathedrals, city halls and monuments to last a lifetime.

And I loved being so bored on long drives that Biceps and I began to name the bug splatter on the windshield, come up with personalities for each of them and write their obituaries.

And isolation isn’t always bad. Enjoying sunrises and hot cups of coffee on deserted city streets with your best friend is calming.

I can handle the drunk lead singers, dragging my luggage through gravel parking lots, a snow goose breaking my windshield on the last day of tour and waylaying me at a truck stop for two days in Canada, having my anniversary outside of a bait shop, all because I was on the adventure with my best friend.

Touring is a weird life unto itself, but at least I was with my weirdo husband and I (think) loved every minute of it.

God’s Great Country-Salzburg, Austria

Dear Readers:
I’ve felt as of late, that I’m barely making it up the mountain in my life, while being passed by others who don’t seem to mind the climb. While reading this scripture this morning, “I will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint.” Jeremiah 31:25, I was reminded of this scenario.

Just outside of the city of Salzburg, Biceps and I found a hostel that perched atop a mountain, promising spectacular views. We had to take a train to get there, but trains meant croissants, hot coffee and jam. Stepping off the train and onto the desolate track, with our backpacks firmly in place, we began the long ascent on foot to Haus Lindner.

A couple of Billy Goat school-aged kids had hopped off the train with us. Dressed in their dark blue uniforms, they immediately passed us by. Their backpacks were only packed for the day-not the entire month. And the Billy Goat kids’ calves and lungs were used to climbing the mountain home.

Biceps and I were sucking wind within five minutes.

With my best attempts at speaking plain German, and hoping they’d understand, I asked how far it was to our hostel. They replied (I think), “Just up that hill.”
The hill was a mountain. And it wasn’t a small one. “Follow us,” they said, looking over their shoulders.
Determined that the whippersnappers would not get too far ahead, and wanting to make America proud, Biceps and I picked up our pace.

Finally, after reaching the top, the Billy Goat kids pointed out our hostel and trotted off for home. My legs ached and my backpack seemed to have gained an extra 10 pounds on the long climb up.

But, the scenery spread out before me-bright, spring-fed grass covered the mountain, the sun had begin peaking its head over the horizon, the terra cotta roofs dotted their way down the lane we had just climbed. It was breathtaking.

The Billy Goat kids had been conditioned for the climb-they were ready. And although I am a runner, my midwest legs only knew slight inclines-I wasn’t ready for the mountain.

But determination of not being the weak link and the promise of more croissants are rather motivating factors for this girl. I knew that I had to just get inside the hostel, set down my backpack and the breakfast would be waiting. The climb had been worth it.

I knew there would be rest eventually for me-“the weary”. If you are, like me, struggling on your mountain climb today, know that there will be rest for you. God in his faithfulness will give you rest and hopefully a croissant.

A Castle, A Beer & A Pizza

There are times when I obsess about and long for a flavor from the past. It is a hunger that cannot be quenched until I tastes of its goodness once again.

There are times when this is impossible-due to the nature of where the food came from.

I have been craving a food from the source of Salzburg, Germany-found only here at this castle.

After a vigorous climb to get to the castle (we were too cheap to ride the gondola up), Biceps and I sat down to enjoy this view…

…at the edge of the castle’s restaurant.

First things first, we ordered a tall Pilsner beer. Then, we ordered a pizza (cheapest thing on the menu) and sat back to watch the tiny cars below zipping around as our food was being prepared.

The pizza was absolutely amazing and ridiculously simple-spinach, tomatoes, mozzarella and a red sauce. I need this pizza. I want this pizza.

Blame my obsession over this fantasy pizza on the long trek to the castle, the fact that I had been subsisting on pastries and cheese for days at that point or that the scenery was unbelievably beautiful.

I don’t care. I know in my heart that my hunger for this pizza will not subside. Biceps, pack your bags. We are going back to Germany. The end.

You Matter. Your Vote Matters. America Matters.

I am more than proud to be an American. I believe this is the greatest country to grow up in, to raise my children in and to believe in. Of course, it’s run by humans that are at times deeply flawed and selfish.

But, America is still amazing. And with July 4th right around the corner, I get a bit patriotic.

That’s not to say that my heart doesn’t long for my ancestral home from time to time.

My maiden name was “Matlach” (pronounced mat-lock) and then I married a “Greiman” (pronounced gry-man). My great-grandparents took a boat over to escape the impending WW1. There is still a Greimann farm (yep, the original spelling had two “n’s”) in Germany. I was born in Landstuhl, Germany and resided there for three years. My roomie and I treated ourselves to a European vacation upon graduation. Heck, I even speak German. We love beer, Wienerschnitzel and Lederhosen.

Could we get any more Kraut than that?

With our profound love for Germany, Biceps and I took a month long vacation to see as much of Europe as we could. As beautiful as many of the places were that we visited, I couldn’t shake the feeling that humanity had seen evil and had turned its head.

Hitler had come from nothing and became the German savior. He promised economic stability, had given hope to a people poor and disillusioned and had promised to rid the earth of the “Jewish problem”.

Under his regime millions of Jews, disabled and mentally unstable persons, Catholics, Soviets, Polish and more were murdered. The German people had given up and trusted Adolf implicitly.

This monument in Berlin was to remind the world of the grottos the Jews and the other “undesirables” were forced to live in for years. The monument was suffocating, confining and repetitive.

I remembered hearing about Check Point Charlie and all of those that died trying to cross through these gates, deliver Bibles, or just try to get information to their loved ones on the other side.

I remembered watching the Berlin wall being destroyed by fed up Germans in 1989 and I remembered hearing Reagan’s infamous words “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”.

As beautiful as Germany is, as wonderful as my German heritage is, I am still thankful to be an American. We aren’t perfect, but we demand democracy. If we will only do our part and let our tiny little voices that live in Tulsa, Ok or Dayton, Oh or Murfreesboro, Tn or anywhere else be heard-we will continue on with our democratic system.

As soon as we decide our vote doesn’t matter, we have given up our rights and have been seduced to think we don’t matter–that the government will do what it wants.

America is wonderful-screwed up, messed up, and sometimes downright awful-but it’s ours. Don’t give it away to anyone else. Don’t turn your head and expect someone else to do something about it. Because you may not like what it is they do in your name.

You matter.