So This Is Where the Wild Stuff Happens!

In my first real trip since leaving Ireland a year ago, I made the trek to Boston this past weekend with Bridget and Liz. Many of the events that ensued will haunt me for years to come. All will provide me with endless joy.

I took a ten hour train from Boston to DC on Thursday night, which was unfortunately quite uneventful. No one massaged my leg or told me I was gorgeous.

When I arrived at Boston South Station, I had some time to kill before Bridget was coming and was looking a bit worse for wear. It seemed appropriate at the time to relocate to the train station bathroom, where I proceeded to shampoo and condition my hair in the tiny sink. Many patrons seemed disturbed, but I continued about my business, wrapping my hair in a long-sleeved shirt when the washing was complete, turban style. Moving my backpack and purse and hoodie to the corner, I pulled out my make-up and put on a fresh face. I'm fairly certain several people thought I had cancer, others a mental illness.

After I freshened up, I searched the train station for an electrical outlet. I wasn't about to leave the station with wet hair.

I finally came across a seemingly 100 year old socket in the middle of the station directly across from a Dunkin Donuts, where I pulled out my hair dryer and sculpted my clean locks. I made the decision to keep my head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone else, while simultaneously keeping a look out for the po po. This was hardly the time to get arrested.

After getting my physical appearance in order, I sat down to finish reading A Prayer for Owen Meany. This was a huge mistake, as the end was horribly sad and I suddenly burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably before excusing myself from a crowd of people and moving my things to another part of the station. Once again, I was next to the Dunkin Donuts.

I plopped down next to two lesbians as a man came around asking for money to buy a coffee. “Honest to God, I’d give you money, but I’m homeless, too,” the lesbian said.

“I’m not homeless!” the man said. “I just want a cup of coffee. "

Bridget arrived just in time, as it was getting awkward and I was pretty sure I would no longer be welcome at South Station.

I had booked a hostel for us near Back Bay, within the Boston metro area. Liz and Bridget were very skeptical of this from the very start, as the reviews described the YWCA as more of a halfway house for elderly people. But the place was cheap and in a good location and I was confident I had seen worse.

Still, I became very nervous walking there for the first time. We were pleasantly surprised when we walked into the lobby, which looked like a college dorm. And then we were greeted by the smell. Reminiscent of a nursing home, it stung the nostrils.

It took us awhile to check-in and the man at the front desk seemed to be very confused by our multiple debit and credit cards. We finally made it to our room on the fifth floor. It was not what one would call "inviting" or "homey" or "fresh-smelling," and consisted of three cots, a desk, a lamp and a lovely set of drapes. Nevertheless, this was our home for the weekend.

Bridget went to the bathroom, and after nearly ten minutes, I stepped outside to see what was taking so long. Bridget was standing in the hallway speaking to an old lady, who had been complaining about the state of the restrooms. “They made this bathroom co-ed as of last week and I don’t like it! I was in there takin a tinkle and I saw feet on the other side and I said to myself, ‘hold on, that’s a man in there!’

Moments later Bridget escaped and we survived the evening unscathed. The next morning we went to Coolidge Corner, where we had an amazing brunch at Zaftig's, consisting of chocolate french toast with raspberry sauce. Bridget looked a dusting of powdered sugar away from puking but we managed to finish like champs and moved on to Fenway Park.

During our tour of the stadium, a lovely 80 year old man working there invited us out for tea and cookies. We politely declined before he launched into an inappropriate story involving a 30 year old woman with children who once propositioned him in exchange for the chance to wear his World Series rings. "I didn't say yes, but that night alone in my room I second guessed myself. I'm only human, girls! I'm only human." Enough said.

After a delightful hour or two spent relaxing in Boston Common and the Public Garden, Bridget and I met Liz, who had flown in that evening. We walked her back to the hostel, where she immediately berrated me for my decision to book this place and insisted there was smeared feces on the wall next to her pillow. We agreed to disagree.

It was in the bathroom that we first met an elderly woman who told us she had been living at the YWCA for 2o years. This revelation was incredibly disturbing to all of us, as was the amount of time she spent in the bathroom stall. The poor woman, God bless her, was not all there, and began making me feel very uncomfortable. I made a mental note to remind my parents to treat me well if they had any hope of avoiding an equally dismal future.

Waiting in the hostel room while Liz dropped off her things, we heard a pounding at our door, and were greeted by a rather large, older black woman in a housecoat and slippers. "I'm ya neighba! Ya don't need to slam ya doors!" The scary woman spent the next minute demonstrating how to properly close our door without disturbing her. We took that as our cue to hit the town.

That evening we went to Sissy's K's in Faneuil Hall for wings and beer. It was here, among all the glorious accents, that I came to the conclusion that I will one day wed a Boston firefighter. A Boston firefighter who gives up his dangerous line of work once we start a family, while still maintaining his firefighter physique.

The following morning we took advantage of the free breakfast at the hostel. I stood in line in the kitchen, watching in fear as an incredibly tough looking woman began to cause a scene.

"We're supposed to get french toast or pancakes everyday and this is the FOURTH day without any of it. I need to speak to a manager!"

I wondered if she had ever been in a female prison gang as I reached for my bagel. Bridget opted for a belgian waffle, proceeding to confuse the multiple condiment bottles and pouring what she thought was syrup all over her hot treat. In an unfortunate turn of events, it was vinegar.

After breakfast we took a train to Salem in search of witches past and present. The Loch Ness of the United States for me, I was very excited about our trip.

Our first stop was the Salem Witch Museum, which was equal parts cheesy and disturbing, the "disturbing" portions being those when our tour guide, a legit Wicken, showed us the ceremonial Wicken robes and explained that they were "just like everybody else." Except not really.

After the witch museum we toured the House of the Seven Gables, the inspiration for Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel of the same name. This was of particular interest to me, as Hawthorne has been my homeboy since I read The Scarlet Letter in eleventh grade. After touring the gables house, including a sweet hidden staircase up through a chimney, we then entered Hawthorne's actual place of birth. There was one tour guide sitting at the door and she told us we were free to look around. Thus, we thought we were alone.

Entering the bedroom on the second floor, we debated Hawthorne's hotness while admiring a striking portrait of the author as a 20-something. Turning to the bed, I exclaimed, "So this is where the wild stuff happens!"

We walked through the doorway to see a second tour guide sitting in a chair. She looked less than pleased with my comments and we quickly made our way downstairs before we were asked to leave.

After indulging in some delicious witches brew ice cream, we walked the adorable streets of Salem before making a pit stop at the cemetery/Salem Witch trial memorial. Of particular note were the numerous open containers of cat food next to several graves. During our walk through the cemetery, I went over my funeral arrangements one more time with Bridget and Liz. Should I pass before them, I instructed them to have my lower half cremated, preserving my torso up for display at the funeral. This has always seemed like a win-win situation to me. Friends and family can pay their respects at get one last look at my mug in the casket, while my legs and feet, the instruments that allowed me to go so many places, can be scattered around the world. They both seemed upset by this and we left the cemetery shortly thereafter.

That night we returned to the hostel to a horrific smell. It was as if someone had collected 15 soiled diapers and placed them in various locations throughout the 5th floor. And then shit one last time on the walls for good measure. Liz was not amused and began holding her shirt above her mouth/nose region. On the bright side, our room suddenly smelled much better in comparison.

Entering the bathroom with my nose pinched shut, I immediately recognized the crazy lady's sandal-clad feet in the middle stall. Sitting in the stall to the right, I dropped approximately 8 coins out of my pants pocket. The crazy lady began kicking the coins back over with her sandal. "I can't reach the nickel yet," she explained. A minute later the final nickel sailed back over to me.

The following morning I got up early to take a shower. The soiled diaper smelled had disappeared, but the crazy lady had not. She was once again in the bathroom with her plastic CVS bag and a bucket. Putting on my make-up, I was certain she had exited the bathroom a few minutes later. About half an hour into my morning routine, a girl got into one of the showers and began struggling with the hot water.

"Counter clockwise," a voice from the middle stall muttered. Why / how was the crazy lady STILL in the bathroom stall 30 minutes later!? Upset and confused, I exited the bathroom and we left for the day.

On our way to a Duck Tour of the city, we stopped inside of a Scientology church. The vibe was very unsettling as a woman herded us into an elevator and closed the doors. It was one thing if Tom Cruise or John Travolta were in attendance, but otherwise I had places to be.

We escaped the Church of Scientology and boarded our Duck Tour bus, one of those vehicles that transforms, Ms. Frizzle style, into a boat. Our tour guide was a real dimepiece and took to barking at dogs and quacking at pedestrians. As is the case with any tour, we had the standard douche bag behind us who would not stop talking and felt the need to yell out answers to questions instead of allowing the tour guide to do so. This particular D-bag was a woman from Philadelphia and by the end of the tour I had the urge to physically assault her.

We were starving by the end of the tour and headed to the Union Oyster house, the oldest restaurant in America, for a bowl of clam chowder and some mussels. We then hit the Freedom Trail, during which time I posed for pictures on a Republican donkey while making inappropriate gestures and purchased a stuffed animal/beanie baby-esque baked bean named Poot, who is now sitting proudly in my cubicle.

In a decision I still question, we reached Bunker Hill and climbed all 294 steps to the top of the monument. By the time we turned around, walked the rest of the Freedom Trail and returned to Boston Common, the middle toe of my right foot felt very inflamed. Still, we pressed on and returned to the hostel. On our walk back, we noticed the large pile of trash that had been spread out on the sidewalk since our first day there. If the box of Wheat Thins was still there the next morning, I was going to claim them. Someone else could have the open bottle of honey mustard and the box of tampons.

We spent as little time in the hostel as possible before heading out for dinner in the North End, the Italian neighborhood in Boston famous for its delicious food. Our waitress was a real bitch, and felt the need to correct my pronuncation of 'gnocci.' She also lost server of the year by never refilling our water glasses, correcting Bridget's pronunciation of another dish, practically throwing my salad down onto the table and giving off a very unpleasant attitude. Luckily, my food was great. Liz, on the other hand, did not enjoy her ravioli. She insisted we leave no more that a 10% tip for the horrible service, instructing us to quickly gather our belongings before the waitress had the opportunity to confront us.

In a stroke of pure luck (and maybe a little fate), we stumbled upon the Black Rose. It was full of nothing but Irish men, and we suddenly felt like we were back in Galway. Our time was well spent at the Black Rose, as one of us most likely found her soulmate, a gentleman with a four bedroom house in Galway. Translation: a place for me to summer.

The guys began complaining about the women at home, explaining, "when Irish girls look at American girls, they think $&%, time to hit the gym."

I suddenly felt less guilty about the foot-long Italian sausage I had recently consumed.

After inappropriately telling said gentleman approximately 20 times that he needed to marry my friend, we went to a second bar in South Boston that was even more Irish than the first. We were all seconds away from peeing through our jeans and were forced to relieve ourselves in a public parking lot. Some of us were less discreet than others. You know who you are.

There was a huge line to get in to the bar and several Irish girls were shoving in front of us. Liz was not having it.

"Excuse me!" she yelled over the crowd. "We are in the United States, aren't we? And you all speak ENGLISH? Because in AMERICA, this is what we call a line."

One of the Irish girls moved slightly closer to Liz and gave her an excuse for her behavior.

"I understand," Liz replied. "And that would be a LINE CUT."

With that, we were in the door, only to leave ten minutes later when last call was announced.

Our last night in the hostel was uneventful, but we woke up to find a piece of paper under our door asking us to be quiet. I was sad to say goodbye to our room but it was time to move on. Giving my final respects to the bathroom, including the sign warning guests that "oily shower stalls could be slipper," I headed down to the lobby to check out with the girls.

"The guy who checked you girls in made a real mess of things!" the lady at the front desk announced. "You girls in a hurry?"

"Yes, kind of," Bridget said.

"Well let's have a seat and get comfortable."

The woman spent the next ten minutes pulling out about 15 sheets of paper with voided credit card statements, purchases and returns, all the while referring to each of us by the other one's name. Bridget politely nodded, Liz appeared to be five seconds away from a throw down and I began laughing uncontrollably in the woman's face. We finally got thing squared away and busted out of the YWCA. Boston, and our time in the nursing home, had come to an end.

My amazing weekend in Boston is now over, but I take comfort in the knowledge that I will one day return to the beantown YWCA, if only to say hello to the crazy lady. While there, I'll pull the shampoo and conditioner out of my very own CVS bag and begin washing in the sink. A new group of friends will enter the bathroom for the first time, and I will ceremoniously become the new crazy on the block.

Con: I doubt any Boston firefighters will want me.

Pro: At least it's a good story.