Ah Boston. Or Bwawston, to give its proper name. I remember it well: the Summer of 2002, walking down the boulevahd; grabbing a bowl of clam chowdah; passing by the fi-ah depahtment, on my way towards Hahvahd... Happy days.
My three-month stint in Boston was so rich in stories that the memories remain quite vivid to this day. I should however point out that this blog post will be relatively similar in content to my friend Murphy's starter-novel outlining his misadventures in New York in 2001, "Summer in the City" (which let's face it, is a better title; however, the title for this post is taken from a song by The Dropkick Murphys, so I guess there's some sort of tribute at work there). I should also point out that, given the amount of stories accumulated over the three months, I will be splitting the Boston story up into various segments to make it easier to read. Or ignore. Your choice.
Firstly, a quick note on most of the players (cunningly codenamed for anomonomonomonimity):
Col: Of 'Col and Brid' fame. Col and Brid were a couple I introduced to each other (hark, the twang of cupid's bow). Col had been a mate of mine since primary school, and taught me everything I know about slacking off in the classroom.
Brid: See Col, above. A feisty, typical young Irishwoman. She loves the craic and is highly suspicious of 'farr-en foo-ed'.
Andre: He's really tall (about 8ft), so pretty much a giant, hence the name. Main interests include literature and cagefighting.
Durno: Sound chap from Blanchardstown; bumped into him, Daisy and Pikeybag in Boston, and have had several pints with them since. Interesting footnote: his preferred weapon of choice is an axe.
Daisy: So called due to her love of wearing hotpants. And boy, did we love her wearing hotpants too. Also, Pikey's girlfriend.
Pikeybag: Loves calling people 'pikey', himself included. Also has a tendency to ask people 'whats the bag?' instead of 'whats the craic?' I used to think this was just a Blanchardstown thing, but since discovered that even people from there have never before heard this expression.
Nick the Greek: Not sure if he actually was Greek, but it's a cool name. Quite an amiable, warm and pretty mellow guy. Until he headbutts you.
Dawl: Along with Gooley, is (or at least was at the time) Dublin's answer to Cheech and Chong. The source of many anecdotes. Has a tendency to say things like 'Jean Claude Van DAMN you're hot' to beautiful women.
Gooley: Slightly more level-headed than Dawl, though this quality is invariably masked by copious amounts of weed.
Doc: Good friend of Col's and a major character at the start of the trip; returns for a cameo near the end.
Chuck, a minor character: Random stoner who lived down the road from us in Alston. For some reason we started a trend of habitually stealing all of his stuff. He didn't seem to mind.
So, after that lengthy preamble, let's cut straight to the..er, amble. It all started in a pub called Devitts. Devitts is a pub on Camden street in Dublin, where my mates and I would generally congregate on a Monday night. And a Tuesday night. And generally Wednesday to Saturday nights. As university students, we decreased Devitt's typical age demographic by about forty years.
On the night in question, Col, Brid and I were there, wondering what to do with the upcoming Summer. The three of us were vaguely kicking around the idea of heading to the States on a J1 (short-term working) Visa. We tossed around various potential transatlantic destinations: Miami (too violent), California (too fake), South Carolina (where the feck is that), et cetera. Finally, we settled on Boston. To tell the truth, other than militant tea parties and bar-room sitcoms, there wasn't a hell of a lot I knew about Boston. In fact, it was probably our lack of knowledge of Boston that propelled us there more than anything else. Destination decided, Col made a call to his good friend Andre, and the four of us were off.
We arrived in Boston some time in early June 2002, at the height of the World Cup, and post the infamous Saipan incident, whereby then-captain Roy Keane had left the Irish team after a fairly public spat with then-manager Mick McCarthy. Cue lots of good natured banter between Cork and non-Cork people during our first night in Boston. This was spent in a central hostel, where we were treated the next morning to a meagre breakfast and some rather meaningless tips about surviving in an American city for three months. Pshhaw, thought I: the bext way to learn to swim is by jumping in the pool. With that, we trooped out of the hostel and into the great unknown.
The first week was bleak. I mostly spent it sitting in a hostel randoming circling sperm donation ads in the newspaper, to supplement my dwindling bank balance. Col, Brid and Andre did the majority of the phonework, ringing various letting agencies for a summer-let. And all this before we even had jobs. On one frustrating occasion, we trekked all over Boston to visit three streets with the same name, only to find the right one on our fourth attempt. By that stage, it was already gone.
The only interesting thing to happen in those days was the disappearance of Doc. Doc was a friend of Col's since primary school. I vaguely knew him from my secondary school days; but hey, any friend of a friend of mine is well, a friend of mine. We met up with Doc on our first few days in Boston, and had decided that the four of us would find a place together. So Doc says, grand- meet me at my hotel tomorrow morning and we'll go flat-hunting. Tomorrow morning came, and after waiting in Doc's hotel lobby for about ten minutes, we decided to ask the Front Desk to ring up to his room. 'You're looking for Mr Doc?' they asked. 'Oh he left at 5am this morning, there was a problem with his bill...' Spooky. And that's all the information they could give us. Well feckit, we're not the marines: occasionally we do leave a man behind. To paraphrase Agatha Christie, and then there was three.
And so followed weeks of fruitless flat-hunting. Dejected, we returned to the hostel one of the days, close to the end of our collective tether, when we bumped into a similarily dejected trio from Blanchardstown: Durno, Daisy and Pikeybag. Immediately striking up good banter with these three, we decided to pool our resources. And, as it bizarrely transpired, it was a hell of a lot easier to get an apartment to accommodate six people, than it was for three. Within twenty four hours, we were sorted.
Our home to be was a ground-floor, 3-bed apartment in Alston, a neighbouring suburb of Boston University, and all-round student-only zone. All the necessities were within walking distance: McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Wendys, Subway, and the locals were friendly enough: there was a homeless dude called Mr Butch (we knew this because it was painted on his suitcase) who yelled at traffic as it passed by. He was however quite friendly to us though, so that was good. Even the neighbourhood rats were pretty friendly, scurrying up to our front door and happily scavenging any leftover food from our rubbish bins. The little darlings.
The estate agent showing us the apartment (I can't remember her name) was pretty attractive; so attractive in fact, that I didn't even notice that the place was completely devoid of furniture. 'We'll take it,' I proudly announced, staring at her legs and forgetting to consult my five other prospective flatmates. However, after a brief conflab we all agreed we would indeed take it.
'Great,' said the estate agent. She handed me a stack of forms. I handed them to someone else. 'You're free to move in tonight,' she said. 'I'll just need someone to come by tomorrow and change the locks.'
'Why, whats wrong with the legs..er, locks?' I asked, shifting my gaze.
'Oh you know, the last tenants...we kinda had to evict them. They never gave the key back. On the plus side, they never disconnected their electricity supply, so feel free to use.'
'Why did you have to evict them?' asked Durno cautiously.
'Oh the usual, dealing drugs.'
'They...they were...drug dealers?' said Col slowly.
'Just pot and crack, I think,' she replied. 'None of the heavy stuff.'
Wonderful. We got to spend our first night in a drug dealers flat, leeching his electricity, and completely at his mercy if he and his friends decided to pop by and try the key in the door. Pah, I wasn't too worried. We had the rats to protect us.
The only items in the apartment were two bottle of beer (one of which was named summer brew, the other's name escapes me) and assorted pots and pans in the cupboard. However, both beers were approximately two years out of date, and the pots and pans were stained with some white powdery residue. Given the previous flatmate's occupation, this trace of powder was either a good or a bad thing, depending on how liberal you were.
Our initial furniture purchases consisted of some inflatable mattresses, with which we acquired some complimentary air-pumps, thanks to Durno's negotiating skills. I remember lying back on my inflatable bed that first night- it immediately deflating beneath my weight- and thinking, Boston, we've arrived. I cracked open a bottle of out-of-date beer and sank slowly, and blissfully, to the hardwood floor.
CB
Next time: The introduction of Dawl, Gooley and Nick the Greek; some nest-building; and Ireland's sad departure from the 2002 World Cup.
igeons
s later. Holly Willoughby: 
