I do it my way

Dogs, duty-free humans and the joy of emergency shopping

I am not entirely sure what woke me up first: the urgent need to go to the bathroom, or my daughter’s three large dogs staging a full-scale rescue operation outside our bedroom door. They are always delighted to see us when we visit, and I have to admit the enthusiasm is very much mutual—although perhaps slightly less vocal on our side.

By 9:30 a.m., we were up, presentable, and revising the day’s plans. With our suitcases still pursuing their own independent cultural exchange programme, we decided it was time for serious emergency shopping. Clothes for the next couple of days were no longer a luxury; they were a strategic necessity.

Fortunately, my daughter’s Renault ZOE came with unexpected privileges. Electric car parking in Hannover is free for two and a half hours, which immediately made us feel morally superior to all internal combustion engines. We even found a spot right in front of the Markthalle, which felt nothing short of miraculous. Coffee and croissants followed—both excellent—and the place brought back memories of a time when I used to meet friends there early in the morning on my way to work, back when mornings felt younger and coffee felt optional.

From there, it was only a short walk to the main shopping streets. We split up, each convinced the other would make questionable choices. We reunited at the cashiers, arms full, faces triumphant, and wallets noticeably lighter. After a couple of hours, we returned to the car with bags full of brand-new “essentials”—items we had been perfectly capable of living without until Amsterdam decided otherwise.

Next stop: Algermissen, where our youngest son awaited us with the grandchildren. And what a welcome that was. At that age, a few months make an astonishing difference. The eldest, now five, finally decided that English was worth attempting with me. A breakthrough moment—possibly encouraged by the promise of future rewards.

The grandchildren, being the main reason for the trip, immediately lifted my spirits. I should add that we have other grandchildren too, significantly older and therefore harder to impress. They will be seen later this week.

The rest of the day unfolded exactly as it should: stories were read, games were played, Father Christmas was briefly visited, the obligatory Bratwurst was consumed, Christmas carols were endured enthusiastically, and the day concluded with a pizza dinner at the local Italian restaurant. Cultural integration at its finest.

Back at our son’s place for the night, the children were finally in bed, silence returned, and—almost ceremoniously—a bottle of whisky appeared on the table.

Proof, if any were needed, that even a day that starts without luggage can end extremely well.

Part 5

The snowman, time travel and the great Amsterdam suitcase museum

The night was perfectly peaceful. Almost suspiciously so. That should have been my first warning.

Peace lasted until the youngest of the grandchildren decided that my bed was, in fact, a trampoline. This energetic intervention brought my rest to an abrupt and very definitive end. There is no snooze button when a small human is bouncing enthusiastically on your chest.

After breakfast, we gathered around my laptop to watch the timeless classic The Snowman. When my own children were small, I must have watched it at least a thousand times. Possibly more. And yet, more than thirty years later, it remains an absolute hit with the grandchildren. Proof that some things age beautifully—unlike the person watching it.

That’s the good news.

The less good news is that there is still absolutely no information about our lost suitcases. They are most likely resting peacefully somewhere in Amsterdam Airport, possibly in what is now the world’s largest temporary luggage exhibition. Rumour has it that around 20,000 suitcases are involved. Ours have presumably made friends by now.

No one, it seems, is able to give any precise information. Not when. Not where. Not even a comforting “soon.” The suitcases have officially entered the realm of legend.

Which leaves me with only one possible course of action.

I may have to go shopping again tomorrow. There are still a couple of “essentials” missing—items that, until very recently, I had managed to survive without for decades. But needs must, and apparently Amsterdam has decided to sponsor my wardrobe update.

At this point, I’m beginning to wonder whether the suitcases will ever return… or whether they’ll simply reappear one day, confused, overdressed, and entirely unnecessary.

To be continued.

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How to Outsmart Farmers, Tractors, and Alarm Clocks

So, the farmers were at it again.

By “at it,” I mean heroically blocking roads, motorways, roundabouts, slip roads, and possibly a few secret paths known only to goats. And of course, on that day, we had to drive to Toulouse airport.

Fortunately, a rare moment of strategic brilliance occurred: we had decided to leave one day earlier than our indecently early flight and treat ourselves to the luxury of an airport hotel. This meant getting up at 4 a.m. instead of 2 a.m.—a difference that, at that hour, feels roughly equivalent to winning the lottery.

But the real advantage? Time. Time to avoid tractors, barricades, and visibly annoyed farmers by taking the scenic route—also known as every B road in the département. We glided past sleepy villages, untouched by agricultural fury, and arrived at the airport without seeing a single pitchfork. Victory.

After checking into the hotel and abandoning the car in the pre-arranged long-term car park (always a leap of faith), we called an Uber and headed into town. Destination: Place du Capitole, where the Christmas market was in full swing.

Lights, colours, crowds, mulled wine—was there a better place for an aperitif? I think not. Any argument to the contrary will be ignored.

Dinner followed a few hundred metres away at the Indian restaurant Maharaja, which turned out to be excellent. So excellent, in fact, that it has already secured a place on our “we’ll definitely come back here” list—a list that is long, optimistic, and rarely consulted again.

Across the road, the bar La Réserve was packed. Miraculously, one single table was free. One. Clearly fate wanted us to have a nightcap. We accepted the hint, enjoyed a drink, and then did the unthinkable: went to bed early.

Too early.

As usual, my internal alarm clock—unreliable, unnecessary, and impossible to disable—decided to wake me up before the real alarm. So when 4 a.m. finally arrived, I was already fully awake and deeply resentful.

The next couple of hours were spent doing what modern air travel does best: standing in slow-moving queues. Queue to check in. Queue to drop bags. Queue for security. Queue to breathe. We even had to abandon the idea of buying duty-free chocolates because the queue to pay was moving at geological speed. Some pleasures are not worth the sacrifice.

Just time for a coffee before boarding our flight to Amsterdam, which—miraculously—departed on time at 6:15 a.m.

And here I am now, at 30,000 feet, halfway to our destination, typing these lines. The Air France stewardess is charming, professional, and without question the best thing that has happened so far today.

Germany awaits.
Eventually.

The Great Suitcase Disappearance

The transfer in Amsterdam was smooth enough, which already felt suspicious. We even had time to buy the duty-free chocolates we had heroically abandoned in Toulouse a few hours earlier. Clearly, civilisation had not entirely collapsed yet.

There was, however, a 30-minute delay before departure to our final destination, Hannover. Nothing dramatic—just enough to remind us that this short KLM flight is never taken under ideal conditions. I don’t think I have ever boarded it fully rested. In the past, it was usually after landing from a long-haul flight from Asia, jet-lagged and sleep-deprived. This time, it was thanks to an indecently early start from a European city that, inexplicably, has no direct flights to Hannover. Different cause, same exhaustion.

The approach to Hannover Airport (HAJ) holds no mysteries for me. I’ve done it many times as a passenger, once from the jump seat of a private jet, a couple of times assisting my friend Armin on a private plane, and once—most memorably—at the controls of an Airbus A320. Granted, that was in a simulator in Hamburg, but it still counts. A fantastic birthday present and proof that I can land an A320… provided nobody is actually on board.

We landed about 30 minutes late. At least we did.

Our luggage did not.

Some forty passengers—including ourselves—were informed, in no uncertain terms, that “there are no more suitcases to be unloaded.” End of discussion. We rushed to the luggage service office, which, unlike in the old days, had been replaced by two computer screens. These screens stubbornly refused to accept the numbers we typed, possibly out of solidarity with the missing suitcases.

A helpful notice explained that everything could be done online… within a couple of days. Comforting.

Armed with this optimism, we climbed into our son-in-law’s car and headed to his house. Online, we discovered the reassuring news that due to a software issue, some 20,000 bags had been stuck in Amsterdam the day before alone. Sorting it out could take days. Excellent.

Only one solution remained: emergency shopping. First, the absolute essentials. Then, a carefully considered list of essentials needed for “a few days”—a concept that tends to expand rapidly.

But first: lunch.

At one of our favourite Italian restaurants from when we used to live in Gehrden. The staff recognised us immediately and were genuinely happy to see us, which almost made us forget that all our belongings were currently enjoying an extended stay in Amsterdam.

Then came the shopping next door. Essentials were purchased. Dignity was partially preserved.

Back at our daughter’s place, it was finally time for a much-needed nap—proof that while suitcases may travel independently, exhaustion is always punctual.

Proof that time passes, but pubs don’t

Over the previous days, a few friends had contacted us and we agreed to meet in the centre of our little town, where carol singers were due to perform. The rendezvous was set for 6 p.m.

As we were a little early, we naturally did the sensible thing and went to the bar next to the meeting point: Linie 10.

Nothing had changed. Not the décor. Not the clientele. The only noticeable difference was that both were now eight years older. And, to my great surprise, it was still a smoking bar. I genuinely thought this had become illegal sometime in the last century, but apparently Linie 10 lives in a parallel universe where regulations politely knock and then go away.

The place brought back a flood of memories. At 6 p.m., after a small Pils—purely for nostalgic reasons—we stepped outside. Our friends were already there, along with quite a few other familiar faces. In fact, I realised that I knew or recognised almost everyone. Either the town is very small, or I have been coming here for far too long. Possibly both.

After a few carols, we migrated across the small square to the mulled wine stand, where—unsurprisingly—we bumped into yet more acquaintances. Clearly, the entire town had agreed on the same evening plan without consulting us.

By around 7:30 p.m., most of us relocated to our local pub, the Hischenhus, where even more people we knew were already enjoying a pint. We spent the rest of the evening there, catching up, laughing, and feeling completely at home—as if we had never left eight years ago.

The ten-minute walk home did us a world of good, and we were in bed at a very reasonable hour.

Some places change.
Some people change.
But a good pub, familiar faces, and that feeling of belonging?
Apparently, they age remarkably well.

So far, this trip had delivered a familiar travel cocktail: strategic planning to outsmart tractors, festive evenings in Toulouse, heroic early mornings, polite queues, mysteriously independent suitcases, and emergency shopping that nobody ever plans for—but always remembers.

And yet, despite delayed flights, absent luggage, and the modern efficiency of computer screens that refuse to cooperate, something rather comforting had happened along the way.

We had arrived.

Not just geographically, but emotionally. In a town where the bars hadn’t changed, the pubs still felt like home, the faces were familiar, and eight years seemed to have passed without anyone really noticing. Between mulled wine, old friends, and a ten-minute walk home, the stress of travel quietly faded into the background.

Suitcases may take their own time.
Journeys may rarely go as planned.
But some destinations don’t need luggage at all.

To be continued.

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Or how Perpignan turned into 1979

Last night, dear readers, we did something wonderfully reckless: we drove all the way to Perpignan for a concert by a band called CoverTramp. Yes, the name does exactly what it says on the tin — they cover Supertramp.

And let me tell you, they don’t just cover Supertramp…they slip into the songs like a perfectly tailored vintage suit.

From the very first notes, it felt like someone had opened a wormhole straight back to the late 1970s. Three hours — yes, three magnificent hours — of memories, Wurlitzer magic, soaring falsettos, and those unmistakable sax lines that make you want to both dance and reflect on the meaning of life.

You know how some tribute bands simply play the songs?

CoverTramp inhabit them.

They deliver the full Supertramp experience without the air miles, the stadium queues, or the questionable 70s trousers.

And here’s the part that warmed my Occitan heart even more than the venue’s heating: they’re French. A proper French band keeping the legends of the 70s alive, polished, and belted out with gusto.

It’s rather comforting to know that while the world races ahead with AI, quantum bits, and other dizzying modernities, somewhere in France a group of musicians is making sure The Logical Song still hits you right in the nostalgia.

The drive down to Perpignan — which, let’s be honest, can sometimes feel like a quest — paid off handsomely.

We came home to our friend’s house with full hearts, ringing ears, and that unmistakable post-concert glow that says:

Yes, the 70s truly were something… and luckily, they’re not quite over yet.

Supertramp forever.

And for now: vive CoverTramp.

(More about Supertramp below)

🇫🇷

Une soirée avec CoverTramp

Ou comment Perpignan s’est transformée en 1979

Hier soir, chers lecteurs, nous avons fait quelque chose de merveilleusement téméraire : nous avons pris la route jusqu’à Perpignan pour assister au concert d’un groupe nommé CoverTramp.

Oui, vous l’avez deviné : ils reprennent Supertramp. Et laissez-moi vous dire qu’ils ne se contentent pas de les reprendre… ils enfilent les chansons comme un costume vintage parfaitement ajusté.

Dès les premières notes, on aurait juré qu’un portail temporel venait de s’ouvrir vers la fin des années 70. Trois heures — oui, trois heures magnifiques — de souvenirs, de magie Wurlitzer, de falsettos planants et de solos de saxophone qui vous donnent envie à la fois de danser et de réfléchir au sens de la vie.

Vous savez, certains groupes hommage se contentent de jouer les morceaux.

CoverTramp, eux, les habitent.

Ils offrent la pleine expérience Supertramp, sans les aéroports, sans les stades bondés, et sans les pantalons douteux de l’époque.

Et voici ce qui a réchauffé mon petit cœur occitan plus encore que le chauffage de la salle : ce sont des Français. Un véritable groupe français qui maintient vivantes les étoiles des années 70, les polit, les fait briller et les projette avec une énergie réjouissante. C’est plutôt rassurant de savoir que, pendant que le monde s’emballe avec l’IA, les qubits et autres modernités vertigineuses, quelque part en France des musiciens veillent à ce que The Logical Song vous frappe toujours en plein dans la nostalgie.

Le trajet jusqu’à Perpignan — qui, soyons honnêtes, ressemble parfois à une expédition — a largement valu la peine.

Nous sommes rentrés avec le cœur plein, les oreilles qui bourdonnent et cette petite lueur post-concert qui murmure :

Oui, les années 70 étaient vraiment quelque chose… et heureusement, elles ne sont pas tout à fait terminées.

Supertramp pour toujours.

Et pour l’heure : vive CoverTramp.

Supertramp

The band that put Wurlitzer on the map

(and in our hearts)

Long before streaming playlists and algorithm-approved earworms, there was a curious British band who managed to make progressive rock both philosophical and hummable — a rare feat, rather like finding a croissant in London that doesn’t taste like regret. Their name? Supertramp.

Born in London in 1969, Supertramp spent the 70s doing what all great bands do:

questioning society, selling millions of records, and making the saxophone sexy again.

At the heart of the group were two musical opposites united by genius and perhaps mild creative exasperation:

• Rick Davies, the grounded bluesy realist, whose voice suggested he’d seen things (probably accountants).

• Roger Hodgson, the dreamy falsetto philosopher who sounded as if he wrote songs while floating three metres above the studio floor.

Between them, they forged a sound built on Wurlitzer pianos, joyously wandering saxophones, and lyrics that made you ponder life’s great mysteries — like why school was awful, why logic was overrated, and whether taking the long way home was actually an early form of mindfulness.

Then came 1979 and Breakfast in America, an album so wildly successful it basically became a religion.

The Logical Song, Goodbye Stranger, Take the Long Way Home — tunes so catchy you could whistle them into a void and still echo back with perfect harmony.

Of course, as with all long marriages, the creative tension eventually snapped. Hodgson floated off to a solo career; Davies stayed and kept the Supertramp train rolling. Fans still debate which era is “better,” but honestly, when the music is this good, who cares? Just turn up the Wurlitzer and pour yourself something nostalgic.

Decades later, Supertramp remains one of those rare bands who can make you think deeply and dance awkwardly at exactly the same time. For that alone, they deserve a statue — ideally one you can climb, sax solo included.

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