Hitting the road with the Rolling Stones
(the road hits back)

by Chris Radant

I suppose you could say that I overreacted to the onset of midlife crisis. Running off to Europe to work with the Rolling Stones is not standard procedure. Most of my contemporaries began their crises with an expression thatÍs straight out of the book. You know: phallic car; mid-life tattoo; a sleazy affair. I just happened to be in a funny place at a funny time.

The job title, "Travel Advance Person" meant nothing to me whatsoever. Beyond being a person, I was completely unqualified for the job. But IÍd gotten a whiff of adventure just at the moment of burnout and this minor detail about aptitude was not about to stop me from sniffing around a bit.

The next thing I knew, I was on a plane for Holland, where someone named GÙnter was going to pick me up and deliver me to the Rotterdam Hilton. I remember little more than muttering "Good Lord!" every few minutes during the flight. And removing the crumpled paper from my pocket to read GÙnterÍs name over and over again.

There is an awkwardness that takes over when you land alone, dazed, lagged and somewhat clammy, in a different country. Public doors donÍt push; pull or slide open the way they do at home. Telephones, toilets, traffic„everything works differently.

You feel as though youÍre wearing huge, flat clown shoes that say "American nincompoop" on them, in neon. ThereÍs nothing you can do but stumble about, spaced out, tripping over things and not knowing in which direction to look for oncoming traffic. The height of Dutch curbs and stair steps felt unnatural and weird according to my American sensibilities.

With dozens of these things throwing me off at any given moment, it became difficult to operate in the physical worldƒmuch less to perform a high profile job I didnÍt fully understand. I had to read my money. It was all very humiliating. At one point, I found myself sitting on the steps of something I had finally determined was a library, trying to establish a point at which it was yesterday. I have no clue exactly how many days I wandered aimlessly through public places, hoping I wasnÍt a bother to people who knew what they were doing and how things worked. I just loped through the scenery like an extra in their movie. A mysterious, fogged-in misfit, losing weight by the day.

My attention became fixed on avoiding the shopkeepers and restaurant workers who had dealt with me during those first days there. They would certainly remember the woman who did mime and made artistÍs renderings on napkins in order to communicate with them, despite the fact that they spoke English, it turned out.

I tried to warm up to the idea of starting my new job, but couldnÍt seem to get a grip on my confidence. I felt it was important to let as much time as possible pass before approaching the Rotterdam HiltonÍs hotel staff and announcing that I was the "Travel Advance Person" for the Rolling Stones. I was sure they would all fall down laughing. Especially since a number of them had seen me that awful first day when I tipped everyone in the hotel lobby, minced through the revolving doors in the same compartment as the doorman, and (ugh!) kissed GÙnter. Plus I thought it would be a good idea to stop muttering, "Good Lord!" before I presented them with my calling card.

All of this became microscopic compared to the arrival of the Pop Stars and their enormous crew.

( to see the full story, contact Chris Radant )

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