Being back on tour with Imagine Dragons and most of the same crew from last year has been fantastic, but it has led to the inevitable questions…

“So,” asked the stage manager, “are you still with the Ukrainian?”

“Lithuanian,” I corrected him, “and no, it didn’t work out.”

“Ah, just a tour thing, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, “just a tour thing.”

And then security caught up with me. “How’s the girl?”

“Finished a while back,” I said.

“Ah, just a tour thing,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll find you another.”

I told him, “trying to cut back at the minute, man,” and he laughed.

And one night I was up in a hotel with some of the crew in Croatia, a couple of real good guys. We help each other out when needed.

But still, the questions came.

“Oh man, it didn’t work out,” said one of them. “But you two looked so good together we thought it was the real thing.”

Me too.

“Just a tour thing,” I said.

“Well, if it helps,” he said as we smoked weed through an apple, “you are the truck heart throb to some of the crew.”

“Oh, that’s uh…” I paused. “I’m the what now?”

“Heart throb, man.”

“Well, I guess my competition isn’t exactly stiff,” I said and took a hit from the apple.

***

Last week back in Pula, I found a gym attached to a hotel. I asked for a day pass.

“Are you staying at the hotel,” the very young girl behind the counter asked.

“No,” I said. “Just passing through with work.”

She looked quickly at the Untold festival artist wristband I wore, then at the tattoo on my face. I knew what she was thinking:

Rock star.

“Are you…?”

“No, I’m not an artist,” I said. “But I’m working with Imagine Dragons.”

She tried not to gasp.

“They’re my favourite,” she whispered to me.

I leaned in close, smiled conspiratorilly to her. “So, can I get a day pass?””

“Of course,” she beamed.

“No!“

Now, I don’t speak Romanian, but I know a no in any language when I hear it.

An older, dark-haired woman emerged from an office near us. She had been listening in.

“You are not with the hotel so you cannot have day pass,” she said. “You must buy one month.”

“That’s OK,” I said, knowing how cheap everything was out this way anyway, “I’ll buy a month membership.”

“Sevy five euros,” she barked.

“Sweet lord,” I said. “I want to use your gym, not your bridal suite.”

“Seventy five euros.”

I stroked my chin, making sure my artist band was showing. She glanced at it.

“Seventy five euros.”

I gave her a flash of my tattooed cheek.

“Seventy five euros.”

I didn’t go to the gym.

Nice one, rock star.