I've been to the States before, once, in the wake of a Leaving Cert full of unopened books and Pearl Jam-shaped distractions. New York and Boston, the former with family and the latter with friends on their J1 drinking visas.
I don't recall too much at a remove of thirteen years. Words like 'beer delivery,' 'Miller High Life,' 'Quincy Market' and 'a bar called Shenanigans' frame a foggy memory full of teenaged debauchery, faking our way past militant doorbodies.
I'm going back. Plans are nascent at this point but, following the arrival of my redundancy cheque after a slovenly seven months, it's looking like an early summer plane trip to the land of at least two of my readers.
A solo jaunt as soon as I finish lecturing is called for, I'll travel as light as the guide books and surplus charges will let me. All East Coast suggestions gratefully accepted and I'll promise to keep the head down, fitting in with ne'er a camera hanging below chest.