Getting Home

At the Frankfurt airport, I met Jessica and Kevin. While we were halfway through a line with about 50 people in it, an older man walked into a gap in front of me. The couple behind me looked at each other, then me, then him. We asked him if he knew that he cut us in line. He mumbled something about him being allowed to do that because he’s quite old. I will remember this trick in 40 years if I stop caring about being rude in those intervening decades.


That’s how I started talking to the couple behind me. Their names are Jessica and Kevin. They live in Arizona.

I learned that they were on a weeklong vacation, mostly in Amsterdam. I assumed that they’d been together for a while. They seemed comfortable with each other, and it looked like each of them knew how the other would react when a stranger confidently cut them in line.

Kevin was an actor in LA for the better part of a decade, but he said he mostly worked in restaurants. He’s been everywhere from Army barracks to the Playboy Mansion (and claimed to see Axel Rose crawling around drunk on the floor, Bill Maher drunk on the floor, etc. drunk on the floor).

Jessica is looking for a more stable job and is delivering pizzas right now. Kevin definitely was in more of a mood to chat, but maybe he was just blowing off steam as the older man stood right front of us, staring intently forward.

I asked them why they came out to vacation.

Jessica is in the middle of a divorce. Kevin just went through a breakup. They met about 3 weeks ago on Tinder.

He had already planned the trip, but didn’t know who he should take. He almost took his mom, but instead floated the idea by Jessica (sorry mom). She promptly told her coworkers that she would be out of town for “school” and packed up her things.

Then, they partied. Hard. They got kicked out of their Air BnB in Amsterdam for being too loud too late. I asked them what they did. “What didn’t we do!” said Jessica to avoid telling me. Kevin piped in with a story of doing a nitrous balloon back in college. I’m not entirely sure how it was relevant, but it painted a more vibrant picture of what they might have been doing to get kicked out of an Amsterdam BnB.

We both got our tickets. I assume we both got home. At least I know for sure that I got home.


I write that to write this - I slept in my own bed last night. I made my own coffee. I showered in my own shower and used my own soap. I cleaned up some spiderwebs and plugged in my bedroom reading light.

I’m happy and thankful. I’m happy to go back to work. I’m happy to live across the street from work. I’m happy to sleep alone for the first time in about a month. I’m happy to go to the grocery and cook a meal for myself. I’m happy to splurge on a bottle of whisky and spend money on beer for the first time in what feels like forever.

I’m excited to finish writing this batch of songs. I’m excited to arrange this batch of songs. I’m excited to rehearse this batch of songs. I’m excited to record this batch of songs. I’m excited to see if they’re any good. I’m excited for people to hear them. And I’m excited to go back on another tour after that’s all happened.

Looking forward to looking back with a bit clearer head over these next few weeks. Looking forward to sharing a beer or coffee with friends I haven’t seen in a bit. Looking forward to squeezing in some tennis before the winter. Looking forward to what comes after that.

Thank you to everyone who gave us a place to sleep, a place to play, food to eat, beer to drink, and stories to share and carry with us. My favorite part of this were the conversations with strangers who seem a bit less strange after talking for a few minutes - and we can find that anywhere.



PS: I need to ship some of this nectar of the gods over to my house every month. Club-Mate is the real hero of this tour.