There, in front of us, was the peach and beige chain hotel common to the outskirts of the industrial parts of cities that always looked the same, the same mini strips of metal gates interrupting concrete balconies, the long windows that pushed out, the metal blocks of soda machines thrown at varying intervals, the cheap room service. But it didn’t move, and for the bunk people it didn’t have curtains, so they could have a wank and cry to their girlfriends back home if they hadn’t been lucky at cards or at pulling one of the fans who waited prayerfully in the back parking lots of all these places. I’d seen it before, but I’d never been one of the dawn patrols limping off the tour bus into the lobby with a bag full of laundry and an eye on the breakfast buffet. Now I was following close behind Tristan, who, true to form, had ignored the suggestion of the band that he try and call James, who was supposed to be the manager—even if it was tricky to catch him doing his job—who should have been there already, setting up.
