It was July, it was last year, it was the last day of the Paleo festival in Nyon. Since me and my motor-cycle-diaries friend (my party-crashing, NGO-inventing friend) were not in the possession of tickets for sheer lack of planning, we decided to have go on a hike instead. We took a train from Nyon, up into the Jura, and spent about six hours walking down from the mountain, like old wise hermits do. At the foot of the mountain, we painfully walked straight into the festival area.
Another year prior, I had also stood outside closed festival doors. My date had negotiated with traders, all the way down to a reasonable price for tickets thanks to bluffing and a free ticket from a friendly passer-by. We had staid for all the performances, even Indochine, and the after-parties, right untill my wallet got stolen.
Now, I failed to realize that luck had brought me far before, fearing we would have to spend fortunes on a ticket if we tried to trade our way inside.
Instead, we decided to simply climb over the fences. This genius plan seemed simple & highly effective, as we sneaked our way around the parking lot and I quickly ascended . Indecisively, I came down before succeeding in my bold attempt, as Eveline cried out to warn me security people were near.
Quickly, we drew out our most innocent looking facial expressions and although we clearly saw the security people talking into their walky-talkies and following us around as we circled the terrain, the strategy sufficed to keep us from being arrested.
Far from giving up, we were all the more intrigued by the noises blowing with the wind from the festival area. What to do, what to do?
Finally, the solution came to us, as a par pulled up and a man lowered the window, asking us if we had an interest in two tickets that he had left over from his set of entry tickets for the entire week? Suspiciously, I asked him for the price. He answered he really just wanted to give them away, handed me the tickets and drove away before we even had time to jump up and down shouting.
Here's the blue eyed Frenchman we both fell in love with that night, as he sang, his guitar a quintessential part of his attire, sang to the wanderers of the world:
He sang "y parait que la vie n'est jamais aussi belle que dans tes rêves que dans tes rêves" ... (it seems life is never as beautiful as when you dream, when you dream) and when I think of this unexpected evening, it makes me laugh, it makes cry, - " ...quand les poches sont vides alors allons rire." (when our pockets are empty, alors, let's go laugh).
Another year prior, I had also stood outside closed festival doors. My date had negotiated with traders, all the way down to a reasonable price for tickets thanks to bluffing and a free ticket from a friendly passer-by. We had staid for all the performances, even Indochine, and the after-parties, right untill my wallet got stolen.
Now, I failed to realize that luck had brought me far before, fearing we would have to spend fortunes on a ticket if we tried to trade our way inside.
Instead, we decided to simply climb over the fences. This genius plan seemed simple & highly effective, as we sneaked our way around the parking lot and I quickly ascended . Indecisively, I came down before succeeding in my bold attempt, as Eveline cried out to warn me security people were near.
Quickly, we drew out our most innocent looking facial expressions and although we clearly saw the security people talking into their walky-talkies and following us around as we circled the terrain, the strategy sufficed to keep us from being arrested.
Far from giving up, we were all the more intrigued by the noises blowing with the wind from the festival area. What to do, what to do?
Finally, the solution came to us, as a par pulled up and a man lowered the window, asking us if we had an interest in two tickets that he had left over from his set of entry tickets for the entire week? Suspiciously, I asked him for the price. He answered he really just wanted to give them away, handed me the tickets and drove away before we even had time to jump up and down shouting.
Here's the blue eyed Frenchman we both fell in love with that night, as he sang, his guitar a quintessential part of his attire, sang to the wanderers of the world:
He sang "y parait que la vie n'est jamais aussi belle que dans tes rêves que dans tes rêves" ... (it seems life is never as beautiful as when you dream, when you dream) and when I think of this unexpected evening, it makes me laugh, it makes cry, - " ...quand les poches sont vides alors allons rire." (when our pockets are empty, alors, let's go laugh).
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