The Chronicles

An epilogue, a few closing words, a look back at Crossing Border: that's what this is supposed to be. But what should I write about? About the musicians I heard perform? The people I met? The interviews I saw? I wouldn't know which ones to choose. Since I've been back in Amsterdam, all of the performances and conversations have gradually merged into one big memory. A particularly pleasant memory, for sure, but still just one single memory.

As a rule, details stick in my memory much better than the main events themselves. All the things I did on holiday in England three years ago, for example: not a clue. But the man sitting beside me on a boat trip with a pint of beer in his hand, turning to his son and saying, in deadly serious tones, ‘I'm a bit of an alcoholic' - I'm not going to forget that in a hurry. 

The same is true of virtually all of my excursions and Crossing Border is no exception. For hours, I did my best to note down the best performance, the most fascinating speaker, the most skilful interviewer and the most interesting quote, but I didn't manage to get any of them. I don't mean they weren't there, simply that they didn't stick with me. When I think of Crossing Border, I think of the pin-sharp picture on the television in my hotel room; the bus journey we all took together to Antwerp; the expression on the cleaner's face when she came into my room and found me still in bed; the gigantic dish of doughnuts smiling up at us at a lunch with the ‘international press' (although ‘international' turned out to be stretching it a bit); or the rock-hard croissants at the breakfast in Antwerp. Not to forget the DJ who suddenly started playing the Star Wars tune at the after-party, destroying what little atmosphere there was.

These are the kind of details that come to mind when I think of Crossing Border. I realised this even on the way back from Antwerp, when I tried and failed to jot down a few key words about my stay.

I looked around, in search of a central theme, a face that would give me an idea. But the bus was practically empty. Only the people from the Netherlands were still around: the rest had left Antwerp under their own steam. This meant I didn't get the chance to say goodbye to about half of the Chronicles group. I did get to say goodbye to the others though, in the form of an awkward handshake or even more awkward kisses.

Although ‘saying goodbye' actually sounds a little too final; I imagine I won't be forgetting this project any time soon. That's not to suggest that I carry it with me in my heart; I'm referring more to practical things, such as the printed version of the columns that's on the way, and, above all: the internet. The majority of my fellow Chroniclers were on my Facebook friend list the day after it was all over; these friends have put photos of the festival online, in which most of the participants are tagged; there are lots of photos, nice photos, photos that I'll save and look at often until the day my computer gives up the ghost. But as for the details I remember most vividly, I still haven't found them anywhere.

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