Percussionist and weathered road warrior Don Heffington sits down with me for the hotel's complimentary breakfast. He studies the pictures hung on the walls around us as flawlessly complected young blonds swirl around us, pouring tea and coffee. "...you know, Vincent Van Gogh's paintings are all framed incorrectly." It's just about 9 am, after a quitting time last night about 2:30. Don isn't daunted. He goes on. "...he wrote exacting instructions in his letters. Wanted 'em all in simple pine or oak."

Still Don won't be stilled. Yeah, this is depressing. Look at all those old pictures. And not one fucking picture of American art from the nineteenth century. That was supposed to be our century, wasn't it?" I quote Grant Geissman, who on arriving in Ghent, got out of the musicians' van and observed: "...nothin' wrong with this place that a good ol' Wal Mart wouldn't fix."

Don pushes ahead: "...I mean, pull down these old things and get up a picture of a Campbell soup can or somethin'." We leave the table, to search out our bassist cum "road manager" Reyer Zwart, of New Amsterdam. A phone call to his room from the front desk finds him wrapped in a towel after showering. Whatever Reyer did last night after the show will forever stay in Rotterdam. But no doubt, he needed a good hosing down.

I pay the "incidentals". Nothing incidental about them, or this trip to Rotterdam. Somehow, for me, a Van Dyke bloodline streams from here, a very emotive return. They've registered me at the front desk as Parks van, family name Dyk. That must explain why my agent hasn't called and gotten through.

The closest museum is a block away: Boymans van Beuningen. We miss it.