December 5, 2005
It was a fun time—my nephew had just turned one, there was a seasonal snow on the ground and my sister and I, along with two of her friends, were headed for yet another U2 show.
Because the weather was so cold, we weren’t about to camp the night before, but we did wake early to head to the venue and get our Sharpie numbers (a very strict line-policing system that U2 fans developed to keep things fair).
After that, we went out for a leisurely breakfast in a warm café where we bumped into a major league baseball player (forgive me for not remembering his name, but my sister’s friend was very impressed), then headed back to the house to wait it out until it was time to drive back into Boston.
I played with the baby, took a ridiculous amount of time getting ready in case that was the night Bono would pull me on stage to dance (of course, it wasn’t) and soon enough, it was time to go back to the venue.
We lined up in the freezing cold, but the excitement was enough to keep us warm. Once inside, we shed two or three layers and took photos inside the coveted ellipse (a part of the stage you can get into only if your ticket scans a special way—my sister’s did, so she took all of us with her).
The show was fun, but many who were there on both nights said the night before was superior because the band performed an unprecedented 3rd encore.
I didn’t care. U2 on their worst night is better than any other form of entertainment in my book.