Failing to get into events, getting caught up in physical altercations at seedy hotels, taking the longest route home humanly possible: Here’s how not to do ADE week.

I’m in a slumber. Visions swim around my mind, drowning me in a bottomless pool of missed deadlines and subconscious beer fear. All of a sudden, a harrowing squawk dilutes the sluggish malaise of sticky, striking panic. I pull my eyelids open. An unceasing droning sound is coming from the right-hand side of the king-sized double bed in a Warsaw hotel that I happen to be lying in. 

The phone is ringing. It’s a softly spoken man from the front desk. “Mr Tibbits?” he asks.

“Yeah?” 

“Your car to the airport is here.” 

Not again. I pull on some jeans, gargle mouthwash, and streamline for reception. The driver waited, thankfully. I’m only 15 minutes late.

It’s now 7:45am on Thursday in the Polish capital. The sun is shining a gleaming yellow. I squint, rub my eyes and follow my driver to the cab. He’s listening to classical music. I’m too tired to know if it’s calming or unsettling.

Coffee and a sit-down. Shoot off a few emails. Splash my face with water. Find my departure gate. I’m in seat 2A, which is very exciting. More coffee. A small breakfast that I can’t quite stomach. Close my eyes for a while; a long day ahead. 

From the sun of Warsaw to the rain of Amsterdam. As I leave the aeroplane, rain descends from above. The skies are a cantankerous grey. I must find spirit from somewhere deep within. 

I step out into Amsterdam. It’s such a great city. The train from the airport to the central station is smooth. I change to a tram and head to the apartment I’ll be crashing at with a few mates. They meet me at the nearest stop. It’s good to see familiar faces. 

Okay, so you’re probably wondering what’s going on with me. I’m not entirely sure either. Drifting around. From 48 hours of Polish vodka to now arriving in the Netherlands. For? Amsterdam Dance Event – aka ADE. Held every year in October since its inception in 1996, the conference and club festival has become the world’s leading event for electronic music. The scale of it is insane. There are over 1,300 events taking place all over the city across 6 days, with over 600,000 visitors per year, some music professionals and some music lovers, all coming together to network, discover and – most of all – party. 

And so there’s no choice for me but to shrug off the martinis, sling out a few emails, have a long hot shower, and get straight out into the action. A lot is going on. The streets are restless, the smell of weed lingers, events pop up everywhere, and there’s booming dance music coming from every venue and shop that we walk past.  It’s visceral, vivacious, infectious. The mood is buoyant, a festival of culture and collaboration set against stormy weather. 

We hit up a few events, dipping in and out, drinking small beers and getting to know some fellow punters. The crowd is bubbly, diverse, and very in love with dance music. Everyone’s a DJ or a producer, an event curator or a promoter. It’s a web of contacts. 

We end up at an RA mixer and stick around for quite a while. Zach Fox absolutely shells it. A few other DJs I don’t know spin who are also great. It’s a fun venue, although hot and busy. The toilets are a place to behold too – all sorts of bad behaviour going on in there. 

It’s now around 9pm and we’re hungry. Chinese down the street? Sounds good. Discussions about being a best man, marriage, homeownership. Getting old. Staying tired. 

We stop at pubs for expensive pints, having to walk through the red-light district from pub to pub. It makes me feel a bit itchy and sad. Maybe I’m too reserved and British to get it. Speaking of coffee, we end the night in one of Dam’s glorious establishments, enjoying some local delicacies. 

A foggy start to the day. Wonderlist to write. The boys are going ahead to meetings but I’m going to hide at the apartment for some time. At one point, the landlady of the rented apartment comes down. She’s so lovely. She gives us some socks. I could cry.

I need to get out of here. Evening approaches. I tram into the centre and meet the others at Soho House. It’s a vibe in here, but it’s loud, and there are no seats. We find a grottier pub down the street and get into some Heineken. Other acquaintances pass through, and it’s an amiable few hours. Need to see some music, though. 

Another set of friends at a hotel bar nearby. A drink and catching up after a long time. I go to the bathroom, and when I come back, we’ve been kicked out to the lobby along with everyone else. There’s a fistfight going on between an American and another man. It’s all very unsavoury. Time to leave. 

I go and find the boys I’m crashing with. They are out in the sticks at a venue called Tale of Bus. It takes me ages to get there – one aspect of ADE that is difficult: the sheer size of it means you really must pick your battles – but it’s worth it when we arrive. Held in a warehouse community space of an art gallery, music studios, tattoo parlours and more, the set-up is immense. The tunes are excellent too – Houghton founder Craig Richards’ is mind-blowingly effective as the headliner. 

It’s now the early hours, but we haven’t gone to the main event yet. One thing I haven’t yet mentioned is that I’m here as a journalist with a press pass. Usually that would mean I’m on the guest list. But I didn’t read the small print – here at ADE, some events are separately ticketed. 

We’ve got a cab to Lofi for VBX. The lineup is stacked – Christian AB, Francesco Del Garda, Dresden, etc. The weather all day has been grey and drizzly, but now the heavens open. As we join the back of a winding queue of hundreds of people, right beside a busy A-road, the rain starts lashing down. I have an umbrella, but the wind makes it impossible to use. Within minutes, everyone is soaked. It’s a bit miserable. I go and ask the bouncers if my wristband will get me into the venue. The answer is a resounding no. Ah. 

I leave the others to enjoy the night and make tracks back to the apartment. I am in bed at a semi-reasonable hour. Just as well, given what happens the following day. 

It’s a slow start. The others weren’t in bed until 7am. The event was apparently amazing. I’m too fatigued to have fomo though. 

My pre-booked flight is at 5pm. When I go to check in, I realised I’ve fucked up. I’ve been removed from the flight because I didn’t get on the first leg because of my late change of plans to go to Warsaw first. The next flight available isn’t until 10pm. I shell out most of my remaining bank balance to book myself on it. To Luton, of all places. The clouds above are darkening. The wind is picking up. Pathetic fallacy. 

I hide in Soho House all afternoon. There are a couple of new romancers on the couch next to me. They refuse to tell each other how old they are. I don’t know what they’re worried about. 

I head to the airport nice and early. No point hanging around. Easily through bag search, breeze through passport control. As I’m about to find a seat and wait impatiently for my flight, EasyJet texts me.

My flight has been cancelled. The weather. There are no more flights until tomorrow evening. Ah.

What follows is a mad, confused, panicked scramble. Eventually, I settle on a 12.5-hour bus/ferry trip from Amsterdam Central to London Victoria. Who knows why this seems like a good idea, but at that moment, all I want to do is mong out to Fin vs History. 

The next slice of bad luck comes as I attempt to leave the airport. A large plane from Asia has arrived. There are literally hundreds of people in front of me in the queue and only three border guards are checking passports. My coach is in two hours, and I still need to get a train back into the centre. I miss the EU.

What follows is an agonising 90 minutes or so. I ask several members of staff if I can just skip the queue given my situation. They refuse. I could weep with frustration. 

Finally, I’m through. I need to catch a train in five minutes if I’m going to make my bus. Maps says it’s a 12-minute walk. I sprint through the airport. 

I make it in a matter of seconds. I’m back at the central station and find the inconspicuous bus stop. Flix. It arrives 10 minutes late. I’ve only got 40%, and my portable charger is dead. I am scared of what is going to happen next. 

It’s hour six. The rain outside is torrential as we stop momentarily at a petrol station, presumably somewhere near the Belgium-France border. I go to the coach toilet – there’s no soap, and it smells like a dying rodent. This is what my life is now, I guess.

An hour or so later, we are told to get off the coach with our passport and hand luggage. I stumble through border security for what feels like the tenth time in four days. I barely even know where I am anymore.

I am back on the coach and sitting still, not moving. I didn’t really consider the fact that there’s a body of water between France and England. I’m shaken to life just as I’m about to fall asleep and told to get off the bus and onto the upper decks of the huge ferry. Kids are everywhere, screaming and running around even though it’s 5:30 in the morning. I find a quiet-ish, sofa-like area in the kitchen to lie on, my dreams lucid and confused. 

Eventually, after a choppy ferry ride, we dock at Dover. England has never felt so good. The sun is rising. I close my eyes for a few more hours. 

London I love you. Victoria, you are beautiful.

Eventually I arrive home in East London, a third of the man I was when I set out for Poland five days earlier. It has been a humbling week. My slice of ADE was fun, with great music when I actually did see it, but clouded by regular idiocy on my part. I shall definitely return with a better plan of action. 

And as for the coach? Never again. Sometimes, only sometimes, you should pay more for nicer things. Tomatoes, haircuts, and travelling to Amsterdam.

Words – Ben Tibbits