College Tribune | October 28th 2008
Features
15
Travel
The brotherhood of the travelling sofa Daring J-1 extraordinaire Jordan Daly used his summer wisely, among other things lugging furniture to the ghetto The angry and raspy bellows of a pimp bellows out as four sweating, pasty skinned lads push a sofa bed up the street of a ghetto in Brooklyn. In New York most J1 students expect the euro to go a long way, to be loved as a paddy and to save up to drive a mustang to the pacific coast. My experience was stifling heat, a times square district full of strip clubs, thousands of bums on the subway, huge pizza slices for a dollar, shootings, free concerts in parks and getting into clubs with a fake Irish driving license. The humidity was ninety percent and the midday heat pushed 100 degrees Fahrenheit. This makes an apartment without an air conditioning unit akin to a Turkish bath. Our living space is was a tip with no furniture and no gas to cook. And so for many, the J1 experience will start off with a big fat ‘super size me please’ challenge. First one must find accommodation. Forget about Manhattan, it just won’t happen on a student budget. We found a great three-bed brownstone in an all black area in Bedford-Stuyvescant in central Brooklyn. At 1650 dollars a month between six it was very cheap and located five minutes from the subway to Manhattan, one of the most interesting strips of land in the world. The area was nothing short of terrifying at the start. The first day we arrived we struggled up Throop Avenue, bags in hand with glares from openmouthed locals who obviously hadn’t seen an Irish person in their life. One portly elderly woman took one sideward glance at my friend who sports a shock of red hair and screamed vociferously, “This.... is..... Brooklyn”. So as we took it, welcome to the ghetto, watch your skinny white asses around here. We quickly realised we were on the front of a gang war between the Cripps, in blue headscarves and the Bloods, in red. We kept our heads down and tried to fit in by sharing a cold one on the roof top parties and cook outs every weekend but when it heated up we scurried for shelter like small red haired rabbits in our brownstone burrow. It was six o clock and dusk hadn’t even given the waning
light a faded glow when we left the apartment to go on our daily beer rounds. A raucous jumble of sinewy bodies came towards us and children instinctively fled the scene. One mutual look of fear and we turned tail back up into our apartment just metres away. The fear in our faces turned to horror then as teenagers with shotguns, ak47s and handguns passed us on the stairs. With hearts jumping out of our throats we slumped into the corners and under windows. Our roommates twitched the curtains with eyes rapt and hands visibly shaking. Then the shouts grew to screams as cries of ‘rat’ were followed by eight bone-chilling gunshots. With bated breath we sat, numb and silent as the first wave of sirens screeched down the street. A rap on the door sends us into convulsions. Finally one of us opens the door as far as the chain will allow. The girl from upstairs. We then have a lengthy discussion, with plenty of “I can’t believe that just happened”, with one side arguing for moving to a safer area, and the other arguing that we can’t afford to because all the paces are taken now. In the end we sleep on it. No of us go to sleep without the aid of alcohol. Back in the world of the furniture hunt, there are a lot of handy yard sales in New York where people put stuff on craigslist for free. You will have to get to these giveaways swiftly to claim your junk. So, on the hottest day of the year we ventured over to acquire a sofa or something softer than a floor to position our arses. Luckily, after ten minutes’ labour we got our hands on a fantastic goose down sofa bed. Four hundred pounds of comfort and utility. Transport being the key problem. After a pathetic attempt to carry it a hundred yards between three strapping students, we wangled a four by two on wheels to push it along. Chuffed with ourselves and our re-
“This.... is..... Brooklyn”. So as we took it, welcome to the ghetto, watch your skinny white asses around here. ally big sofa, we rallied on. Someone had even told us that we could get it the five miles home on the subway. Ignoring the stunned locals we lifted down into the labyrinth. Stung. Two perplexed cops stopped us in our tracks. “You can’t bring that thing on the train, you crazy Irish.” Then he asked us for ID. The others gave their real provisional Irish licenses. I proceeded to give the pink, full, forged license which says ‘breagach’ or fake in Irish on the back. The mistake only dawned on me as I caught the wide-eyed look of ‘Holy Jesus’ from my friend. I had handed a forged document to a police officer. How he didn’t cop it, beggars
belief. Sl d with a fi fifty dolla fine Slapped fty-dollar for “Obstructing movement in the subway with large article of furniture”, it now becomes clear a J1 will envisage so much more than you previously thought. The stocky officer chuckled as he wrote up the fine, and commented he wasn’t used to ticking the box for Caucasian. We told them we were staying in Bed-Stuy. “Man that’s a ghetto, what are you doing living there. I put a guys head through the McDonalds door there last week,” he brags. Then the Americans that passed gave their own, hilarious opinions and snide comments, “You got the sofa man, where’s the beers and the plasma TV.” It was mildly funny the first time, but after fifteen different people said the same thing and a few took photos of the ‘funny Irish guys who live in the subway’, it began to wear. It was a happy ending though as four backbreaking, soul-destroying and character-testing hours later we pushed and shoved the offending item into our empty apartment with the help of friendly neighborhood pot-dealing gang members. A free sofa never cost
so much and felt so good. An unexpe pected discovery wa that anyone was of the J1 age in NY smokes weed eve day, apparevery ent like an Irish ently per person drinks tea One day in tea. c a corner store a nice young black man approached us with a crack abou about his Irish ance ancestry. He introduce himself and duced then got down to busin business. “Smoke weee weeeed!?” We respo responded hesitantly Sometimes tantly. sa we said. Then with the smooth style Br of Brooklyn weed peddle peddler he gave p us a piece of cardbo d with a phone board number scrawled across and the name,”Tyson......aannnyyy taaaam”. So with a roof over our heads, a sofa under our arses, drugs on speed dial and a firm knowledge of the gangs and their activities we were on our way to the J1 dream or at least our ghettoised version of it. Not to bore with details of the actual holiday, but getting a job is a slog, the beer is so cheap you might come back seeking a nightcap every night and you will never cook so stop fooling yourself, the J1 tum is mandatory. Do go to six flags, it’s amazing, 45 stories in 1.28 seconds. Don’t queue for hours to go on top of the Empire State Building; it’s not worth it. Do hit the clubs in the Lower East Side, they are really easy to get into, but don’t go into Central Park or any bushed area at night. Don’t rely on Irish charm; if you are ugly or charmless here you are ditto across the water. This is called J1 humour. Finally don’t listen to what someone else says about America, everyone has a very different J1 experience, but for four Irish lads taking up space on a ghetto street, it meant trouble.