Oh, the madness, the absolute madness. As I write, I'm sitting on Fung Wah's Chinese special bus to New York (only $15 one-way from Boston!!) and gave up trying to sleep, so I decided to scribble the first instalment of my "crap diary" of the J1 Visa Summer Experience. Ho Hum. The fun started back in Dublin last week, when I slowly realised that the average week does NOT contain nine 36-hour days, and that I hadn't enough time to get properly organised before my trip. I sort of unwisely decided to work right up until the Thursday afternoon before my flight (which was at seven am Saturday), foolishly conning myself into thinking that a day and a half was LOADS of time to get fully packed, cart most of my belongings to Skerries/the Bubble/the DCU equipment room, sort out various random college related things, sort out my bike insurance/phone bill/etc, move out of the attractive rat-hole of a dorm that I had been living in since September and get my ass out to the airport. In addition to all of this, there was the small matter of my friend Shelly's birthday session to be attended on Friday night too. "Aaaaargh" is the best word I can think of to describe my situation, or possibly "eeeek." Oh, to those of you who are wondering what on earth I am talking about when I say "the Bubble," I am describing a playful lunatic asylum where many of my friends live. It's a marvellous experience, you should check it out… Anyhoo, our story begins on Friday afternoon, just as I am beginning to realise that I am running out of time. Yuck. I had driven the bike to Skerries for storage (*sniff*) that morning, which was an experience in itself, and made my way back down to the big smoke for about 1pm. Much frantic stuffing of various articles of clothing into my rucksack followed. Then I realised that I had to scrub the rat-hole before surrendering the keys to management, or my deposit would suffer. Ah crap. It's no fun whatsoever spending your last afternoon in Ireland cleaning your apartment. Trust me. I got that done and decided against my original plan of heading out to the airport to drop my bags in left luggage so that I could go out for the night and then straight to the airport. Again, the lack of 36 hours in a day prevented me from carrying out this plan. Plan B was to simply leave all of my things in the rat-hole, leave the pub early, go back and get them and head for the Bubble until it was time to head for the airport (about 3am). Although the flight wasn't 'til 7am, Dublin airport has developed a reputation for horrendously long queues at security, often leading to missed flights. Personally, I'd rather spend an hour twiddling my thumbs than miss the bloody plane. So off I went to Messrs. McGuire for pints at 6pm. I hooked up with my brother Glen, best mate Stu and assorted DCU-ites. The DCU-ites kindly gave me a going away card, which gently reminded me of my age (titled "Old Git"). Bastards. Shelly was looking well (doesn't she always?) and brought out the usual crew of maniacs with her. A few scoops in McGuire's were followed by a few more in Doyle's and then I had to bugger off just as things were getting frisky and interesting. Ah crap, again. What's even MORE fun than having to move out of your apartment at midnight, while ferrying loads of your belongings across the DCU campus? Doing it all while on a four-pint buzz, that's what. But, with a little help from Conor, Joe, Glenn and Dave we got it all done and headed for the aforementioned Bubble, where I promptly fell asleep until it was time to look for a cab to the airport. I arrived to a completely deserted Dublin airport and hooked up with Mark, my travelling companion and partner-in-crime for the summer. We spent an hour arsing about waiting for the check-in desk to open but managed to meet Noel "minker" Menehan (a friend from another life) while we were at it. He was off to Scotland for the cup final, the plonker, wearing (logically enough) his Sligo Rovers jersey. We got through check-in and breezed through security. Well, if you can call having to remove your shoes and every single piece of metal from your person "breezing." Our reward for arriving so early and organised to the airport was, once more, a completely deserted departure area with absolutely nothing open and nowhere to even get a bloody cuppa. Great. So I decided to catch a few zzz's on a couch in departures. Upon my waking, it became apparent that we had done the right thing by coming to the airport early, as by the time I woke up again at about 5.30am, the place was a f*cking ZOO. The departures lounge was jammed with irate travellers and queues were out the door of all the food establishments, bars and even the bleedin' newsagents. I'd hate to see what the line at security was like by that stage… The flight to London was uneventful, with the new-and-improved (read: cheapass) Aer Lingus. Although I think the captain had a little too much coffee (or uppers, who knows?) because the landing was a feckin' disaster. He bounced the bloody plane all the way down the runway, doing his best "Kangaroo Jack" impression and then had the gall to tell us to enjoy our day in London. There were more than a few queasy-looking victims shuffling off the plane that morning, I can tell ya. One overpriced vegetarian breakfast in a smoky Heathrow bar later (remember smoky bars?) and Mark and I were ready to jump on the British Airways jumbo to Boston. What a world of difference there is between Aer Lingus and British Airways. The two just don't compare. We had a nice shiny new Jumbo Jet, complete with pleasant and helpful (i.e. not surly) stewardesses, our own private TV with 18 movie channels and a quality vegetarian meal to boot – curried apricots with couscous. I know it sounds gross, but don't knock it 'til you've tried it. The result of all that malarkey was that we arrived early and refreshed to Boston. Damian hooked up with us at the airport and we were faced with a new dilemma. We were going to the U2 concert that night, but of course Mark and I were weighed down with all of our bags – there was no way we were taking them to the Fleet Center with us. We settled on looking for a cheap hotel where we could dump the bags and crash for the night after the gig. Our previous plan of leaving the bags in left luggage at the bus station was scuppered by the fact that left luggage was to close at the ludicrously early time of 5pm. Bugger. Complications arose when we realised that it was Memorial Weekend in the States, and it was gonna be a bitch to get accommodation. The last time I had been in Boston for Memorial Weekend I was asked to leave Fenway Park during a Red Sox-Yankees game by several burly security types. It's a long and funny story, and some of you have heard it before. Fond memories though… We lucked out and managed to locate a city centre hotel with a three-bed (and monster beds, as it turned out) suite for the bargain-bin price of just $240 for the night. Eighty bucks a head was a small price to pay to rid us of our luggage-based headaches. We got settled in and decided to head to "Cheers" for a swift jar or three before the gig. They've done their best to make the interior look like the set of the TV show, but it's just not the same (it's too fecking small for one thing). And you're almost expecting Norm to turn up at any moment too. Warning to J1-ers heading to Boston: Damian is 31, Mark 24 and I am 30. We got asked for ID in every single bar we went into that night (and there were a few, heh heh). So watch out. Other J1-related stuff: At immigration, I was NOT asked for proof of funds (i.e. how much cash I was carrying), even when I offered, I was told it wasn't necessary. The silly woman DID ask me what I did for a living back home before coming to the US on my student visa. "Um, I'm a full-time STUDENT," I answered, while keeping my best straight face and not sniggering. And you do get fingerprinted and photographed, it's all a bit scary... Mark is mates with Bono's niece (it's good to have connections) and she managed to hook us up with three tickets to a sold out concert, the final gig of the US leg of U2's Vertigo tour. Sweeeet. We got in and headed to the floor section, having gorged ourselves on overpriced draught Miller Lite (yuck) in the arena bar. The support was from Kings of Leon, a perfect mixture of The Strokes and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Bizarre bunch of guys but great tunes nonetheless. I cleverly managed to sneak my camera into the gig (by stuffing it into my underwear, the bouncers were "intimate" to say the least) and filled the entire memory chip with pictures and video of U2's performance. And what a performance! The boys were seriously on-form, lashing out reams of classic tunes to an overjoyed rabid audience. Perhaps it was because it was the last show of the tour, but they stayed onstage for much longer than they usually do, cracking jokes with the audience and playing a few songs they hadn't played live in years. We were treated to a flaking version of "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses," a song they had not played live in ten years! For "One," Bono implored the audience send texts to a number about Third World debt. Within seconds, every mobile phone in the arena was held aloft. I think it's possible that the phone may replace the cigarette lighter as a symbol of appreciation at concerts. It was a little disconcerting (and a little emotional) to see a veritable sea of cellphones being waved about, lighting up the audience like an ocean of undulating stars, casting a green-blue glow over the masses. You may not think that the sight of 20,000 phones lit up and waving about could bring a tear to the eye, but then again, you weren't there… Boston U2 fans are a lot like their baseball fans – knowledgeable and extremely passionate about their idols. They welcomed us into their fold and filled our heads with tales of previous gigs and their various struggles in getting tickets. We were surrounded by them and they made us feel very much at home, delighted to have some Irish kids to talk to. Finally we trooped out of the concert, happy and partly deafened, in search of a decent bar. We settled for a half decent one, having been asked for ID yet again at the door. A few quick Amstel Lights (ah, memories) and some seriously dodgy nachos later and we were set for bed. Our king sized hotel beds beckoned… …and here we are, on the bus to New York City. Woo Hoo! I will be scribbling updates as the summer progresses, although I'll try not to suffer from diahorrea of the keyboard TOO much. To both of you that read all the way to the end of this email, well done and thank you for your patience. As the great Homer Simpson once said: "That's it, I'm outta here." Love and Hugs to all, -- Roibeard O Mhurcu # 54144094 CS1 Class Rep. DCU Drama, Chairman (Chairperson/Chairthing, y'know like, whatever). www.dcudrama.ie "They have the Internet on computers now?" "Okay, brain. You don't like me, and I don't like you, but let's get through this thing and then I can continue killing you with beer." "Facts are meaningless. You could use facts to prove anything that's even remotely true!" "Do I know what rhetorical means?" - Homer Simpson, America's second biggest schmuck -