Last summer, I learned three things:
1. The chaotic algorithm of life has chosen me as its favorite Pokémon, and it won’t put me down.
2. Sometimes, all it takes to change your night is a stranger with a walkie-talkie and a soft spot for “sad beautiful girls.”
3. Never underestimate the aura of Chris Martin.
—
It’s August. The days are molten, the nights still burning, and I am hyped for concert number 566 of the year. I’ve been blasting Coldplay for a week straight—because I like to transform into a mega-fan of whoever I’m about to headbump or bounce off to.
It’s my thing.
My friends think I’m a social experiment.
Unfortunately for them, I’m so for real.
—
Earlier in the year, Coldplay announced three shows at Munich’s Olympiastadion. I fought my way through the Ticketmaster countdown thrice to get tickets and I managed to snag two for the final night—a process that left permanent scars on my psyche.
I haven’t been the same since this and the Adele €35 ticket fiasco.
Instagram kept me updated on the first two nights:
- Day one? Epic.
- Day two? Another banger.
“Tomorrow will be legendary,” I told myself.
—
The day arrives.
I do my hair, makeup, and outfit. Then—havoc outside.
Rain. Not drizzle. Not “grab an umbrella” rain.
Heavy, thick, unforgiving drops bending in midair like they had a personal vendetta.
Oh—No. No. No. No.
—
This was personal. I am a spoiled house cat when it comes to weather—I’d spent five hours grooming my fur (hair, makeup, outfit) to scream-sing Yellow with 60,000 strangers, and the sky decided to spit directly in my face.
Within minutes, Munich looked like The Little Mermaid 3: Ariel Moves to Oktoberfest.
—
My friend and I still made our way to the stadium, soaked but committed. When we arrived, the entrance queues were absolute chaos—a soggy sea of ponchos, damp denim, and makeup melting into abstract art.
I chatted up the kiosk and bought fries with mayo-ketchup, eating them in the rain like the saddest turtle in a mid-2000s music video, while my friend—bless her soul—tried to stick bedazzled festival gems to my cheeks and eyes.
—
We finally get through the ticket control and make it into the arena. We pushed forward for a decent view. But it was all just wishful thinking.
Raincoat? Poncho? Umbrella? Useless.
We were growing scales.
Munich’s “summer” once again laughed in our faces.
—
Desperate, we went for a drink. Failed.
Tried the restroom.
On our return, we found the stairs buried under a rainbow avalanche of umbrellas. By now, fog was eating the stage, my mood was sinking, and my patience had drowned hours ago.
Against the west wing, I spotted a perfect wall waiting for me. I leaned against it, bummed a vape hit, and stared into the abyss—contemplating if this was worth it, and whether, for the first time ever, I should leave a concert before the opening act.
Sigh.
—
And then, it happened.
One of the female security staff—late 40s, small walkie-talkie in hand, security vest on and the expression of a woman who had already dealt with 500 drunk Coldplay superfans that week and had zero time for bullshit—looks at me.
Really looks at me.
Gulp.
She beelines to me while maintaining eye contact.
I glance at my friend, and she’s already doing that half-smile, half-panic thing, like either we’re about to get kicked out or banned due to “bad vibes”.
Plus, I was vaping and leaning against a protective wall meant for wheelchair users—something I only noticed once my brain started inventing all the possible reasons I could be banned for life from the Olympiapark.
I braced for her to kick me out, scold me, maybe ban me from future concerts.
Instead, she leaned in and whispered—and I swear on Chris Martin’s piano this is verbatim:
“I can’t stand seeing beautiful girls look this sad—it breaks my heart. Come with me.”
My brain black-screened for a second. She sweetly smiled at me and I felt my loins unravel and relax.
“Wait—for real?” I asked, worried I’d misheard and filled in the blanks myself.
She nodded yes and added; “Tell your friend to come too.”
I smiled—not out of politeness, but sincerely—and motioned for my friend to hurry up and follow us.
So, what I gather from this is that the universe basically said:
“If Nina decides not to get VIP tickets for once, we’ll make sure she still gets in there anyway.”
We both laughed at the absurdity of my life.
—
And just like that, we were ushered past the lines, past the crowd, and into a VIP section so close I could practically count the strings on Chris Martin’s guitar.
The rain stopped halfway through the set. We danced, sang, cried ourselves stupid.
I completely forgot about the water running in rivers from my neck down to my toes. And the fact that my camera was wet (that would have sent me into a coma under any other circumstances BTW.)
Sometimes, the universe takes a look at you — mascara running, hair half-curly, dress sticking to your thighs and awkwardly outlining your crooked kneecaps—and says:
Yeah. This one’s due for a win.
—
This was probably one of those rare times when my intense poet aura actually worked for me.
—
Writer’s Note:
To the security lady: thank you. Your kindness turned a night of misery into one of my favorite concert memories.
Also, considering what went down at a recent Coldplay concert (CEO and head of HR affairs was caught on the kiss-cam), I can confidently say my night was better.
And yes, lesson #2 proved itself that night.
Lesson #3 too—Chris Martin is definitely a witch.
