On the relativity of time

Many many years ago, when I just started performing, an insecure teenager totally obsessed with music, one old musician once told me: “Traveling with a band is something you either love or hate, there is no in between.” For me it was clear from the get-go: I love it. I love the mere process of going somewhere far. I love being in a place where nobody knows me, yet with people that I know and who know me. I love sharing with them all those little experiences that make discovering a new town so exciting: finding a great coffee place, admiring a local cathedral or a park, watching the local crowd and smiling at something amusing in the shop window. I love taking in everything: history, customs, ways of thinking and living, all in one or two days, minus the time we prepare for the performance or actually perform: nothing exists when you are on stage. Nothing, not even time. Time flies so swiftly, cutting through our lives like falcons cut through the air, time doesn’t fly on stage, stage is a no-fly zone for it.

Luxembourg charmed us even before me met its better half: its public. Anna Kuleshova, one of the organizers of the concert, incredibly hospitable while perfectly organized, walked us the streets of this city-state, so utterly European, yet so unquestionably apart from the rest of Europe. And then the concert came. The last thing we expected from this incredibly proper and correct CPAs’ and lawyers’ paradise is that wave of enthusiasm that we felt from the very first song. That wave that tells you: this is “it”. Concert is a blind date. And just like a blind date, this is a game of hazard, this is a game of chance. You never know who is waiting for you on the other side of the stage’s edge. Will we have the same sense of humor? Desires, dreams? Will we understand each other? Will we like each other? Will we want to be together? In Luxembourg the answer to all these questions was “yes”. Instead of fifty minutes as planned, the concert went on for a whooping hour and a half and even then, when we announced the end, they made disappointed noises and it was as touching as when they gave us a stand up ovation or whistled.

We didn’t walk off the stage, I think we crawled off, exhausted, excited, full of that special gratitude that hits you like a wave after a concert, a sense of peace and contentment. And at the after the concert reception that amazing public was there, they were there, warm, excited, willing to tell us their stories – of course, we just spent hour and a half telling them ours, - and we talked, held hands, laughed and hugged each other. And I wanted it to last forever, but we were already off the stage, so the time was flying again. And they offered us flowers. When we came back to hotel, we had no strength to take care of them, they spent the night on the table. Next morning we boarded the train and the flowers travelled with us back to Paris. By the time I got home and arranged them in a vase, they were obviously beyond any resuscitation. They needed water like a hare needs windshield wipers. I am sorry I couldn’t take care of you properly, said I to them and went to bed. And the next morning, when I got up and made my way to the kitchen, the first things I saw were the flowers from Luxembourg. They were doing just fine, gone were the wilted petals and leaves, they were once again full of bloom, those Luxembourg flowers. Hm, I said to myself. Maybe, a stage is not the only no-fly zone for time, maybe the flowers from the concerts are, too.