Diary of a hired gun (part two)

Our guest columnist this week, Anders Pedersen (or Peasoup for short), is a veteran of the open road.

A core member of Howe Gelbs Giant Sand, he knows the lay of the land, both geographically and musically-speaking. He doesn’t belong on any map, but his roots hail from Denmark.

And so, read on for part two of his Boneyard column, which sees him restlessly held hostage at the airport, facing every traveller’s worst fears: A delayed flight.

Take it away, again, Anders…

DESTINATION: MUNICH

My flight keeps being pushed back as I sit there and have a coffee.

It now looks like there is a delay of at least two and a half hours, so I get out the laptop to make something of the time. ‘Bullet Train’ becomes my business, and an hour and a half zip by in a flurry of brilliant stunt work, clever one liners and no decent plot.

Empty calories, as we say in Danish.

The buffet has changed in the meantime, so after the initial bread and cheese I change to meatballs and greens. It’s now 11am, and I decide to go to the gate.

Missing a delayed flight is another classic I don’t need to replay.

It turns out the delay was caused by ice and snow covering all planes that spent the night in Amsterdam airport, so they were waiting in line to be de-iced before heading out. Okay.

My new connection flight leaves time for ramen and a beer in Schiphol airport, but not till after I’ve secured an adaptor for the weird power outlets in Switzerland. €16,95 is another one of those expenses that makes it necessary to hang on to all your receipts on the road.

Deductions are half of the pay.

I nod off on the flight, but well before touching ground, my hand luggage is packed and I am ready to beat everybody to the luggage claim. Needless, of course, as we all depend on the pace of the ground crew in Munich, but sometimes you get lucky and your stuff turns up in the first bunch.

While waiting, I check up on the exact stop for the airport shuttle. It’s near, and I’m ready when my gear turns up. 15 minutes later I’m at the bus stop, ready for the ride into town.

I keep one eye on the street where the bus should arrive shortly, and spot a sign in German advising to get a ticket in advance by following some online link.

I receive confirmation just as the bus pulls up; there’s no time to waste anywhere now. It’s 6:15pm, and I’m four hours late.

The bus is hot, and two Danes next to me discuss what colour sox to wear with brown shoes. We hit some traffic.

My subway train at Nordfriedhof towards Klinikum Grosshadern runs every 10 minutes, but I’d rather be on the first possible one as the show starts at 8pm and I still have an hour of transportation to get to the club.

The bus moves again; it’s five minutes behind schedule.

I check the location of the bus stop and the walk to the subway station when I notice my phone is in the red.

No panic: A hitman always keeps a spare round of ammunition handy, and I pull out a battery pack and watch the bleep on the phone move towards Brandenburger Strasse.

The bus comes to a stop and a woman gets out of the seat in front of me. She’s still arguing with the bus driver when I have to excuse myself and squeeze by her.

Time is of the essence. I turn the street corner and see the ‘U’ sign for subway station just 100 yards away. It seems much closer than I’d imagined.

I head down Ungerer Strasse and fly down the slow motion escalator.

There’s only two tracks: The U6 is the only line stopping here. Hah! Simple, the track on the right is mine.

Ticket machine just in front of me. Wait.

How many zones am I going? It’s seven stops, I settle on two zones and get the ticket and take the time to wait for the precious receipt; I don’t hear a train yet and I can see the tracks.

Staring firmly at the platform I spot another machine out of the corner of my eye. In German it says ‘ticket needs validation’. Oh!

The ticket must be stamped. I punch it in the machine and set foot on the platform as the train pulls in. As I enter the train a girl smiles at me. I look away to beat the urge to scrutinise her facial features and haircut.

Ten minutes later we pull into to my stop at Sedlinger Tor and I walk out in the evening chill, heading towards Holzstrasse and the Milla Club.

Soon I will be reunited with my friends.

We will play a show that will sit very well with the audience.

And even later, in the dead of night, my buddy Mark McKowski and I will head to the 25Hours Hotel in Munich for a night cap, when that same girl with the endearing smile from the subway train passes us on the street.

She has no clue and doesn’t notice the light-headed and relieved hitman with the happy smile smeared all over his mug.

Arrival means you’re right on time, and my steady heart has kept my nose to the grindstone all the way and never missed a beat.

Mission accomplished.