There's a Lee Evans gag in which he questions the existence of low-numbered gates at airports. In his reconstruction he is told to make his way to Gate 97, which is, as the high number suggests, a long walk from the check-in desk. His point is that it seems like you're rarely sent to a gate that's close by, i.e. Gate 1 or 2. I'm always reminded of a whole host of Lee Evans' jokes when at an airport - the security questions and the make-up for example - and this time was no different. So when I was told my plane would be departing from Gate 4 I considered myself lucky. But, as it happened, the gates at this particular airport were in reverse. So Gate 4 was in fact one of the furthest away from the check in desks. I considered this to be quite ironic. There were none of those pedestrian conveyor belts either - you know the ones that make you walk really fast, and then make it seem like you're walking really slow when you step off - so was forced to use all my own energy to move. Imagine that. In the queue for airport security I made a toddler cry. Allow me to explain: He was holding onto my jeans with a grip so gentle I hardly felt it. He thought I was his Dad, you see, and when he looked up and saw me he burst into tears and ran for cover behind his Mummy. The strangest thing was his Dad wasn't even there and the same kid had done exactly the same thing in the queue for passports five minutes earlier, but had got distracted and didn't even realise his error. He was adorable, but the fear in his eyes when they made contact with mine made me feel uneasy. I hoped my face wasn't replicated in any future nightmares he may have.

When I arrived at the hostel the girl explained I would be staying in an apartment instead of a dorm due to an over-booking. Although being alone I had intended to socialise at the hostel I was happy to get my own space with private facilities for the same price. The apartment was a short walk away and located on a square in the Jewish quarter of Krakow. As I approached the square I heard the noise of a crowd and when I arrived there were people everywhere. Then I noticed a stage had been erected. It turned out there was a concert that evening, so I vowed to check it out once I had unpacked and showered. The sun was shining when I went into my apartment at about 4pm; a one-roomed affair, but with ample space for me and my rucksack. About an hour later I emerged and literally the second I stepped foot onto that square it began to rain. Within a minute the heavens had opened - I mean like a proper down-pour - and almost everyone literally ran for cover leaving those clever, organised soles who had thought to bring umbrellas standing before the stage. I didn't really mind getting wet, you only live once (apparently), so headed across the square regardless and stood under what I conceived to be suitable shelter, but was soon drenched through, so forgot about the concert and went back to my room. Later, when the rain stopped, I re-emerged and enjoyed an hour or two of the presumably Jewish music. The people in the crowd were of more interest to me than the happenings on stage as many had formed circles and were dancing in rings. It all looked quite easy to follow so when I was invited to join a circle I didn't pass on the opportunity. However as soon as I had linked hands with my two neighbours the tempo of the music increased dramatically and so did the speed of the rotating ring of people. I was a little scared, I almost wanted to scream for them to slow down. It got even worse when, at what seemed like random moments, everyone simultaneously changed direction. It was a miracle that I managed to stay on my feet. I assumed the celebrations were Jewish-related as they were taking place in the heart of the Jewish Quarter, but anyone I attempted to consult to clarify my suspicion didn't have an overly fantastic grasp of the English language; something that is fairly vital if wanting to communicate with my ashamedly mono-lingual self.

Once the circle had broken up I went and got myself a beer from a street-vendor and was minding my own business, sipping away, when a rather mean looking security-guard-come-police-officer tapped me on the shoulder, said something in Polish, pointed to my beer and pointed towards the edge of the square. I translated this into no beer on the square and proceeded to make my way to the edge without argument. After all, he was bigger than me and had a gun. However, I did notice many other people in the vicinity drinking beer out of plastic cups, just like mine, and I felt somewhat hard done by. Picked on, even. A little while later the same guy approaches me, speaks more Polish, faster and louder this time - as if that's going to help me understand - and points again, to my beer and this time down a side-street. "Hang on" I protested, "what about everybody else with beer?!". I don't think he understood me, but must have interpreted my innocent questioning as refusing police orders, or something, as at that point he snatched the beer from my hand, tipped the precious contents into the gutter and handed me back the empty cup with a smirk on his ugly fat face. I stood in astonishment as he walked away and waited almost a full minute, making sure he was well out of ear-shot, before muttering the word 'tosser' under my breath. That showed him. I relocated myself - in other words, walked - to a different bit of the square where people were drinking beer and wine quite merrily and brought myself another.

Just to my right was a woman with an old rusty pram parked beside her and a baby - wrapped in what can only be described as rags - in her arms. Her hair was un-tidy, her clothes were torn and her shoes may have been a thousand years old. She stood out in the crowd of mostly well-dressed Krakowians and I admired her for not wanting to hide away. She swayed gently to the music as her child slept peacefully. I could feel the love between them and we exchanged warm smiles. A few moments later an over-weight American tourist (you can just tell) got within ten foot of this woman and began taking photos of her. He then retreated, only slightly, and got some more snaps at varying angles; perhaps this time ensuring the pram was in view, in all it's rusty glory. I'm all for travel photography and I wouldn't dream of going anywhere without my own camera to capture those special moments. However, when you pick somebody of a crowd because they look poor and take photos of them without any consideration for their privacy or feelings, you are a cretin and should stay at home (i.e. America). I could just imagine him showing his family and friends the holiday snaps: "…and here's one of some poor gypsy woman in the Jewish Quarter" he would say. Actually, I wouldn't mind betting he's too ignorant to realise he was in the Jewish Quarter; perhaps even to realise he was in Poland. I watched this man in disgust as he circled the woman, going about his business as if he was a professional. Professional Tosser, I decided. Then he approached me. I was standing in a spot from where he would be able to photograph the baby's face and capture a side profile of the woman. "Excuse me" he said, "f*** you" I replied. Satisfied, I headed to the Old Town: the more touristy bit, oozing with charm, but tragically brimming with Brits.

In a bar I got chatting to a French backpacker. Krakow was his fifth stop after Riga, Tallinn, Gdansk and Warsaw. There was a nightclub banging out tunes just next-door, so we went in. We acquired drinks and he challenged to me to a game of 'who can pull the hottest chick', at least I think that's how he phrased it. For the most part I was happy to observe his failing attempts, but then I saw some rather attractive twins dancing together and thought if I can at least hold a conversation with them for about ten minutes I would win the game for sure. He soon lowered his standards and became focussed on a less than attractive short-skirted girl slouching at the bar who I had already labelled as a hooker. It seemed he was taking the easy approach, but I kept my eyes on the twins who were gold-dust, in the sense of this game, you understand. I soon established that they were alone but as I observed I witnessed an argument and one of the twins stormed off in the direction of another section of the club. The remaining twin, I shall call her Twin B, didn't look happy but danced on regardless. I had a cunning plan that would win me the game; and we did have 50 Zloty riding on it after all, so it seemed fairly important to me at the time. I had a brief consultation with the French chap (His name escapes me, as names usually do) in which I told him I was confident of victory, regardless of the fact this tart was blatantly leaving with him that night. Then I made my move. I went and found Twin A in the other room, who, just as I had predicted, was sitting alone looking a rather upset. "Your sister asked me to come and see if you're ok" I lied. It worked a treat; girls love the English accent in Poland and she motioned for me to sit next her.

The twins were 18 year-old 'rock-chicks' with jet-black hair and from the depths of Eastern Poland. They were in Krakow for the weekend and sharing a double bed in their hotel room. It was almost too good to be true. I acted as the perfect peace-maker and successfully re-united them. Then spent the rest of the night with them and also briefly with an Irish guy called Michael. It was obvious he wanted me out of the way so he could have both twins to himself - a dream scenario for any straight male, or indeed lesbian, I would imagine - but every time he tried to out-do me in a conversation I did one better and he eventually got so pissed off he gave up and left. I saw that Pierre (well, it'll do!) was getting on just fine with the slouchy girl but the envious green glow emanating from his face every time he glanced over in my direction was more prominent than the green lights of the on-going laser show. When he got up to leave the club with this hideous girl hanging from his arm I approached him and said a rather smug 'au revoir', in reply to which he grunted something in French and stuffed a 50 Zloty note into my hand. My hard work had earned me £9.

The next day I got up surprisingly early. I decided to hire a bicycle and peddle a cycle path that apparently followed the river bank. I fell in love with my sexy little bike that day and best of all it was only costing me about 80p an hour. I cycled from the hire shop to the castle overlooking the river and sat on the grass bank with hoards of others enjoying the sunshine and started to read. Before I knew it three hours had passed, but I didn't care, I had the whole day to myself with my bike. It was a great feeling. I set off down the river bank and soon left the city behind. A few miles into my journey I got predictably lost. I was cycling down a road, there was no cycle path and certainly no river, I had certainly gone wrong somewhere. Eventually I reached a small town and noticed a contrast in living conditions when compared with the relative luxury of Krakow. I passed a pub with no windows, a house with a cardboard door and rag-clothed children were walking the shoddily stoned streets bare-footed. My bike was less than suitable for the rough road conditions and the constant vibrations were making me feel quite sick. So I was quite pleased then when I turned a corner and saw the river down a hill in the distance. A long bumpy track awaited me, but eventually I rejoined the cycle-path I had somehow previously left, and continued onwards.

About an hour later I reached an old monastery located atop a rocky hill, beside which was a pretty little village. It was a hive of activity with an inviting café and rows of market stalls. I decided this was to be the purpose of my trip, so locked my bike to worryingly flimsy looking railings and spent some time just pottering about. I wandered off into the countryside a short distance and noticed a huge paw-print in the mud. I compared it with my hand and it was not much smaller; a bear print? At the time I thought that would be pretty awesome, but at that point I heard some rustling in the bushes and began to run back towards the village, just in case. It was probably just a rabbit or something, but the prints were definitely from something much bigger. A dinosaur, I considered, or perhaps just a very large dog. Who knows, but I wasn't keen on hanging around to instigate further investigation. I walked up to the monastery, nosed around, ate some chips in the village then cycled back to Krakow; this time sticking to the cycle path all the way.

On Monday I went to the beach. Krakow is miles from any sea-side but I had read about a lake a little way outside of the city with some apparently pleasant beaches. I decided to go and check it out as it was such a beautiful day. I packed my book, sun-cream and a bottle of water and set off with little clue on how to actually get there. I knew the town began with V, or was it W? Anyway, that's irrelevant now; all I knew is that I had to get a certain tram to the end of its line and then board a bus. It took me 3 hours. Getting on the correct bus was not too much hassle, even though I was getting increasingly frustrated with the fact that nobody I spoke to could speak a word of English. But in hindsight, why the hell should they? So I was on this bus, but then it occurred to me that I had no idea how long I should be on it for. I fixed my gaze out of the window and gave the surroundings my full attention as if I would somehow know when we were there. I was less than encouraged with the lack of informative road signs. After about 40 minutes I saw the town name I wanted but it had a big red line through it, which obviously meant we were just leaving. Not a big deal I thought as hurried up to the driver and asked him politely to stop. I had of course hoped, even assumed, that he'd let me off and I'd walk the short distance back down the road. No such luck; all he could do was grunt at me. So I pressed the 'stop' button and hoped he'd get the message, but he cancelled my request and grunted at me once more. I sat down and waited five minutes before pressing the stop button a second time, but the driver cancelled it once again. There was nothing else I could do short off jumping from the moving bus out of the emergency exit; but then I realised I was in Poland, the bus was about forty years old, and true to my suspicion there was no such way out. I decided to wait until the next town or village, or whatever was forthcoming, before attempting to press the button again.

The next town or village didn't come. Instead, about an hour into the journey the bus stopped at a small brick shelter in the middle of nowhere and the driver motioned for me to get the hell off. I tried to explain that I wanted to stay on the bus and go back the way we had just came, but the driver was busy changing the route number in the window and it was obvious that if I remained seated I would probably get driven even further away from my desired destination. I got off, watched the bus pull away, leaving behind a cloud of fumes, and attempted to decipher the scrappy timetable pinned to a notice board inside the shelter. There was nothing but fields in every direction so was somewhat relieved to discover I would only have to wait half an hour. I was actually waiting for a whole hour, during which time I passed the minutes by throwing stones at an oil-drum across the road, but the bus did finally come. Obviously, otherwise I'd probably still be there! Naturally, as soon as I recognised the target town I pressed the stop button several times, went and stood right by the door and practically prised it door open with my finger-nails and bundled out before it could hiss shut.

So I was there, apparently. Could I see any hint of a lake? Could I hell. I tried asking a shop assistant, a builder, a random dog-walker and then tried my luck asking the dog itself. It's no word of a lie that I think the dog actually understood me more than anyone. I found the lake by chance in the end after wandering down a random road. Soon I approached a car-park surrounded by tall trees and I knew I was there. I'm telling you, it was paradise. My opinion of the place had probably been sweetened a great deal due to the effort I had gone to in finding it, but I was extremely satisfied and pleased with myself for going. As far as I was concerned it was the most beautiful lake in the world. There were a few sandy beaches popular with people of all ages and I was more than content with settling down with my book, watching people splash around in the water and soaking up the rays. It was heaven, and there were even a few bars.

Later on, back in Krakow, I saw a couple of people walking around wearing Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirts. Although, as one of the biggest bands in the world they have a massive fan-base, when I spot another Chilis shirt a rush of adrenalin runs through me as if they are the only other people in the world who share my love, and here they are, in the very same city as me. I simply couldn't let them walk by, and at the time I happened to be reading Anthony Kiedis' autobiography, so I pointed to the cover and smiled enthusiastically. They eventually spotted me - for long seconds I thought they were going to walk straight passed - and approached me. Apparently I was the third person in as many hours to notice them. It seemed I was not the only one spending some time in Krakow before heading West. They were boyfriend and girlfriend from German and I was kindly invited to have dinner with them. They took me to a delightfully rustic restaurant 'off the beaten track' serving healthy portions of Polish cuisine; it was somewhere I would never have gone by myself. They told me they recognised me from somewhere and it turned out they had been to the Stockholm gig back in December, which I was at, so we decided it must be from there. After dinner I left them to it as not to impose.

That night I met Aldona; a pretty little Polish girl studying in Krakow, originally from Katowice, my destination the next day. We talked about all sorts of things. She was one of those people who'd never let a conversation run dry for fear that silence might implode causing the world to end, or, at least, that's how it seemed. But one of the most striking things we discussed was Polish politics. When I say 'we discussed', I mean of course 'I listened' as she vented her frustrations of the Polish government in her cute pigeon - but very Americanised - English. "f***ing s***e" were her exact words. She told me she was saving up money relentlessly for a body piecing and that's when the cavernous gap between our disposable incomes became apparent. She had recently applied for a job in Zara, the clothes shop. They were offering 10 zloty an hour. That's about £1.80, and that was considered a good wage! Yes, the cost of living is cheaper in Poland, but not that much cheaper. She became more and more flirtatious with me as the evening went on, and would get me to repeat things slowly as she loved the sound of my voice so much. Naturally, I obliged. When I told her I was travelling to Katowice the next day and would be at the train station late at night she seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being. That is however after she trained me to pronounce the place name properly (turns out its pronounced Ka-ta-vit-zer, by the way). She told me how the train station had its own community of 'disease ridden freaks', as she put it. This made me feel less than at ease with the next day's adventure!

Later on, at a completely random moment she lent in to me and clamped my lower lip in between her teeth with a firm but painless grip. She began to suck gently and then whispered in my ear that she had just 'sucked my kiss'. This otherwise strange and random gesture was in reference to the Chili Peppers' song from the early 90's entitled 'Suck My Kiss' which turned out to be her favourite song of all time, or so she said. The perks of being a fan are there for all to see. Needless to say, it was an amusing moment. However, I began to feel uneasy about the whole situation as we had since been joined by a friend of Aldona and Aldona's ex-boyfriend, who, let's just say, would have much trouble hurting me. He was giving me filthy looks almost constantly. I got talking to Aldona's friend as if asserting my neutral position in the hope I would be able to avoid a kicking, but it turned out she was actually his Girlfriend so that didn't go down too well either. However, she did tell me her favourite song of all time was 'Under The Bridge', even though she insisted on calling it 'City of Angels', so that was one plus point. One thing I had learnt at least was the Chilis were popular amongst Polish students! Though I was saddened to learn that neither of these girls could afford tickets and would be missing out. At one point the Boyfriend told me he would do anything for a ticket; even if it meant murder. I made it quite clear to him that my ticket was absolutely no where to be found on my person.

In the morning I slept for a little longer than I had intended, but I still had plenty of time to get myself to Katowice and then onto Chorzow. On my way out of the hostel I was reminded of the damage I had inflicted the night before. A huge Red Hot Chili Peppers asterisk carved into the wall of the corridor. I would have felt bad about it had it not looked so awesome. As I walked to Krakow railway station I was amazed at the amount of people I saw donning Chili Peppers attire, some had even dressed themselves up as band members including one guy with trousers upon which were pinned a selection of small teddy bears, ala Flea, mid-1990's. It was buzzing and I was still 100km away from the venue. I boarded the train, found myself a seat, noticed I was sat opposite the most ugly woman imaginable and listened to the Live in Hyde Park album as if warming up for the show to come. My mission in Katowice was, first and foremost, to leave my luggage somewhere, anywhere; preferably safe-looking. I had previously been given directions to the apparently well-hidden left luggage facility; my memory of which just about equated to: 'downstairs and downstairs again'. I came across a flank of lockers which I assumed must be it but wasn't very encouraged to discover they were all full. I certainly didn't want to be taking this backpack with me to the gig so considered finding a decent enough looking hotel and trying my luck leaving it there. I asked someone important looking if they had any more lockers but as usual they spoke not a word of English. I queued to buy my ticket for the train that evening, deciding to leave the baggage problem just a little longer. I queued for an age and a half, and when it was eventually my turn and I received a blank look to my question 'Do you speak English?', I knew it wasn't going to be as easy as I had hoped. I gestured for a pen - in order, of course to request my ticket in the form of writing - and this worked a treat, but I found it harder than I perhaps should have requesting some paper to actually write on, in desperation I scribbled on the counter, but the dull looking woman still didn't get it. So I retrieved a receipt from my wallet and wrote: PRAHA 00:19 and drew a little Czech Republic flag (I considered attempting to ask for more pens in order to colour it in, but wisely decided against it). I also drew a little bed, as by this point I was feeling exhausted and knew I would regret it if I didn't get a bunk in the sleeper section. The woman on the other side of the glass seemed to understand my request but to my sheer horror was not looking like she was about to pursue with the transaction. Instead she waved her hands franticly whilst practically shouting at me through the glass. I had absolutely no idea what to do or say. I considered a combination of shouting back, jumping and crying. Shortly followed by running.

Luckily there was a girl behind me who spoke English and Polish who noticed my blank look and was willing to step in and act as translator. She was a student from Warsaw, I forget her name, but she proved vital in the process of buying my ticket and eventually leaving my luggage. It turned out I was in the wrong queue for International-bound train tickets and I was directed to another counter. Warsaw-girl came along and stayed with me while I queued behind a thankfully shorter line of people. I had told her exactly what I wanted and so when my turn came she took over and the process was rather painlessly completed in one minute flat. I also got her to ask about left luggage for me and wasn't pleased to hear that I would have to go back to the previous queue which, I will add, had grown in size. Warsaw-girl was clearly in no hurry to go anywhere as she stayed with me for a whole hour as I took to the queue again. Like before, she took over and then told me exactly what to do with this flimsy looking ticket we had just been issued. She directed me to where it was I would actually have part with my bag and explained that I would have to queue in the same queue later in order to pay. She told me how much it would be for different time-spans, what to do if my luggage is not where they say it is, she taught me the polish for potentially useful words like 'bag' and 'hurry', which I forgot in an instant… I can honestly say she was the most helpful person I have ever met. And I can't even remember her name. I followed her directions and left my bag without a hitch. The left-luggage facility was located in a basement room. I was confronted with a haggard old woman who snatched the ticket from my hand and pointed to a bit of cardboard on the floor where I was obviously supposed to place my bag. I tried asking questions like "when do you shut" but it was no use what so ever. I took anything valuable with me, like my passport, money and ipod as I wasn't entirely confident I would ever see the bag again.

Finally, I was able to escape the dingy interior of Katowice railway station in which I spent hours messing around, and emerge out into the, ahem, dingy exterior of Katowice railway station. However, it was gloriously sunny, and I felt warm inside and out. There was the buzz of over-excited people who were just several hours away from seeing the Red Hot Chili Peppers live, and for most, for the very first time as the Chilis had never been to Poland before. I joined the jostling bundle for the tram and didn't have to wait long before it came trundling down the street. I wasn't sure it was the right one at first, but when everyone within a thousand feet attempted to board the ancient two-carriage rust-bucket I knew it could be no other. It was one mighty squash, I can tell you. At one point my nose was briefly lodged into someone's arm-pit, which was less than pleasant. At a stop down the line the doors opened and six people literally fell out of the tram onto the pavement below. Only four made it back on before the doors swung shut causing near executions. It was hot and sweaty and smelly and cramped but no one gave a s***.

Arriving late as I did, about four hours until show time, I didn't make it into the 'gold circle', and the stadium was looking quite full. I tried and failed to blag my way into the front section but settled in the end for getting as close to the front of the back section as possible. During an awful support act called Mickey Avalon - a rapper whose performance involved two scantily dressed and rather ugly looking w****s dancing next to him - I got a phone call from a strange number. I didn't answer it as I wouldn't have been able to hear anyway. A few minutes later my Mum called, so I answered it. I could barely hear her due to the volume of boos and jeers from the Poles directed at Avalon, but could her some urgency in her voice so asked her to text me. Soon after the text arrived, it read something like: 'You've won a side-stage pass for Dresden tomorrow night! I'm so happy for you'. I vaguely remembered entering the competition months previous but had forgotten all about it. A side-stage pass! Naturally, I was thrilled. Needless to say I enjoyed that evening's performance a huge deal and it was made even sweeter with the knowledge that in 24 hours I would be at the side of the stage watching on: a whole new experience all together. The 'strange number' from before was obviously the competition organiser trying to contact me before giving my house phone a try. Apparently my mother almost didn't bother answering it either.

There was a beautiful moment soon into the set when Anthony stepped up to the microphone and said "Hello Poland… I don't believe we've met". The whole place went absolutely crazy - it will stick with me forever - and then they launched into Scar Tissue and if there was a roof, I swear it would have come right off. The passion of the Polish fans was striking. Everyone was there to have the time of their lives. I remembered when Aldona had told me how impossible it was for her to afford the £30 ticket price and I realised that a lot these people had probably had to save for months to be there. A few mosh pits had broken out around the crowd; in fact there was one just to my left. For the most part I stayed clear, deciding instead to pogo with the masses. However for Californication I let myself go launched myself in. I lost control of my body during John's guitar solo and let the music take over from inside of me. I was spinning and springing in complete euphoria, generally just going mental. I ended up on the floor at one point and was duly trampled on but I didn't care. Inevitably I emerged battered and bruised and I was sure I was going to have a black eye the next day from where I was elbowed, but at that point I didn't care, nor did I feel any pain.

Earlier Katowice train station had been a fairly normal place but now I looked around and saw people deformed in ways I didn't think was possible wandering aimlessly. It was surreal. I had beaten the crowds by leaving during the 15 minute long end-jam and was able to queue and pay for my luggage within minutes. It was then time to go and fetch my bag from the underground storage room. I showed them my ticket and was lead into a dark caged compartment. Bags were piled high on all sides and the attendant motioned to me to locate my bag myself which is black all but a small Chili Peppers patch on one side; not exactly distinguishable amidst the piles. I spent many frantic minutes searching and was getting more and more worried as time wore on. The attendant disappeared to deal with other customers and then I spotted my bag in a neighbouring compartment. I slipped inside the open door and hoisted the weighty pack onto my shoulders. Suddenly I heard fast-paced foot steps approaching and the bag was wrestled off my back. I was shouted at in Polish and received an angry waving finger towards my face. "This is my bag" I protested, but he didn't seem to understand, let alone believe me. He grabbed my arm and led me to the previous compartment. For a moment I thought he was going to lock me in as he called the police, but instead he snatched the ticket out of my hand and disappeared around the corner. I had no idea what he was doing and I was not prepared to hang around to find out. I slipped out of one cage, into the other, grabbed my bag and left. It was now mere minutes until my 00:19 train departed, but I found the platform just in time and happened upon Henrik, a German I knew of, doing the same trip as me. Coincidently we had been allocated bunks in the same compartment. I had the top bunk, Henrik had the bottom one. There was already a snoring man in the middle bunk who I had to climb over (no ladders here!) to reach my high vantage point. I wasn't tired so soon climbed back down and explored the train. I was certainly pleased I had paid the extra for a bunk as the seating areas were crammed with people, and it didn't look at all comfortable, certainly not for sleeping anyway. The train was to arrive in Prague at some time past 7am. I would get about 6 hours sleep, so retired to my rather comfortable bed and regardless of the fact I couldn't work out how to raise the side-barrier protecting me from an 8 foot fall, the motion of the train sent me to sleep instantly. It must have been a few minutes before I awoke to the sight of a uniformed official repeating the word "Passport" over and over. This was not a welcome sight as I had no idea where that all-important document was. In my sleepy state I mumbled something about doing it in the morning, but quickly realised this wasn't going to get rid of him. I fumbled around and eventually found it. My ribs were beginning to feel sore from the mosh-pit shenanigans, but I slept well and dreamed of side-stage passes. There would be no more interruptions until the tea/coffee lady came around half an hour before our arrival, which was no good to me and she didn't even have orange juice.