Zurich: El Locale Club.

Milan was too short. Would have like to have found something meaningful along the lines of a crisp white Dolce and Gabbana shirt (I lost my one good white shirt somewhere back there), or a blood orange cocktail before I had to split.

But it's up and at `em. Got a train to catch.

Milan's gig was cool. A chic crowd. The boys from the band who won the Italian version of American Idle or some such came out. The band AfterHours. They gave me a button. Or a "badge" as the teabags call it. I'm wearing it now.

I know it's hardly profound, but is there a simple pleasure that can compete with a three hour journey by train through the Alps, with the sun on my face and a ham and cheese toastie snack?

The wheels humming along turning over my internal dialogue like a record. Better times, and worse times....

Anyway, let me know if you find one.

Zurich: El Locale Club. It's so close to the train station, the cabs that queue up for the big fares won't take you. Act like they never heard of it. I climb in and show the driver the address, he puts on his specs and looks, throws the glasses on the dash in disgust.

I'd walk but I've got all this shit to carry. It's murder.

Soundcheck.

The owner Viktor is big on gifts. (Swiss army knives, chocolate bars). He wants to give me a t-shirt as a kind of gift. I won't accept; especially not since I heard that he gave Howe Gelb an ipod. I was thinking something along the lines of a Volvo station wagon would be an appropriate gesture. I won't settle for anything less. I make a point of saying this on stage.

I took a shot. Ended up taking the t-shirt. I might need it. I'm headed to Serbia next.