Spherical Lyrical Life Lessons: Loving U2 in Las Vegas (Part 2 of 3) (2024)

After opening weekend of U2’s Sphere residency, Michele and I folded back into our work lives, thankfully free of the usual “concert hangover” knowing we’d be back in Vegas in, um, eighteen days.

This time, I added a piece of choreography to my mental scrapbook of concert lessons to apply to life: the way Bono danced in “Ultraviolet (Light My Way).” Arms lush, loose, lithe, lissome—like octopus legs or jellyfish arms. No tension. No resistance. No rigidity. No bracing for an imaginary attacker. A line from “Iris (Hold Me Close)” (from Songs of Innocence) echoed in my head. My parents taught me to fear the world. Bono reminds us—as his mom Iris reminded him—it isn’t there.

For eighteen days, each time I stepped into a boxing lesson, into my classroom to teach, into a speaking engagement, I told myself: Be billowy…Be like Bono.

En route to JFK Airport on October 19, my phone jiggled. Another Ticketmaster alert: Eleven more dates added to U2:UV Achtung Baby Live at Sphere in January and February!

I texted Michele a face-plant emoji.

Reuniting over dinner at Mercato della Pescheria in St. Mark’s Square in the Venetian, we cross-checked our January schedules, complied with all the rules, requested tickets for 2024 opening weekend, clinked our wine glasses together, and toasted, “Maybe Larry will be back by then!” After the original announcement of drummer Larry Mullen, Jr.’s absence from the Vegas residency to heal after multiple surgeries, fans bemoaned on Facebook, “It’s not U2 without Larry!” Some wailed, “Minus 25% of the band, tickets should be 25% off!” Others claimed they’d boycott the Sphere residency altogether. Seven months later, fans now proudly displayed hilarious posterboard signs declaring, “It’s not U2 without Bram!” and “Wham bam thank you Bram!”

For the October show, Michele and I had decided to share a room, testing our compatibility as bunkmates. If it worked out, we’d conserve a ton of money for the balance of our adventure. As we checked into Treasure Island, I expected the pirate-themed hotel to be dated, gaudy, and cheesy…an assault of cigarette smoke and despair. Rather, it emanated cheer…and a curiously uplifting signature scent—a composite of piped-in oxygen, polished metal, and patchouli.

Our suitcases popped open like cans of Pillsbury biscuit dough—concert gear blanketing the carpet of our room. Usually a terrible sleeper, I drifted off easily, wrapped in an oversized Zooropa t-shirt, happy to be back in Vegas with my friend.

Show day!

We flung open the blackout shades, peered at the Sphere, waited for it to whirl to U2:UV, then changed into walkabout clothes, “Atomic City” blasting from Michele’s portable speaker.

Winding our way through Treasure Island’s concourse, we glared in sync when a docent at a skin care shop thrust samples at us and said, “I don’t mean to be rude but…do you ladies use eye cream?”

We burst outside into sunshine, aiming toward the Venetian, the Sphere pulsating like a crystal ball. We found Zoo Station, ordered beverages called Mysterious Ways, and slid into front-row theater seats to watch a U2 documentary, “From the Sky Down.”

After the film, ambling along the Grand Canal, we discovered a gift shop named Sugarboo. Browsing candles, notecards, and pottery, I selected a travel votive in a metal canister bearing a message typed in Courier typewriter font: Travel light, live light, spread the light, be the light. Yogi Bhajan. (I’d worn the same credo on a t-shirt when I’d walked 160 miles of the Portuguese Route of the Camino de Santiago with my friends Kelly and Mary Beth in 2021.) An additional purchase: a muslin throw blanket with a quote: You are all together beautiful my love; there is no flaw in you. Song of Solomon 4:7. A good reminder that when I look in the mirror and immediately fixate on the wrinkle, the blemish, the scar—because that’s what I’ve been trained to do—I should look again…like reframing the spots under my left eye as my “Bono freckles.”

Seeing the reference to Song of Solomon—a book in the Bible—I remembered trying to persuade my parents to listen to the lyrics of “40,” a U2 song inspired by Psalm 40.

Show ready at 5 p.m., we left Treasure Island, weaving past showgirls in sequins and feathers wooing tourists to trade money for photographs. We traced the perimeter of half-constructed Formula One grandstands.

A reassuring beep of the ticket scanner and we were inside the Sphere. Section 307, Row 19, Seats 21 and 22—closer to mid-stage than opening night, like standing at the Sphere’s hypocenter. The excitability of shows #1 and #2 out of our system, the acoustics and artistry registered more acutely.

• The sound—like Bono whispering over our shoulders

• The visuals—cinders tumbling from the sky during “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses,” so true-to-life, we expected our skin to singe as they landed

• The bonds—Bono’s affectionate palm to Edge’s back as he walked away, Adam’s knowing smile, the four men arm-in-arm at show’s end

Meandering home, additional Sphere bottles in hand to add to our growing collection, we ranked ideal stage rail vantage points if we were lucky enough to score good GA line numbers on our return trip in December. “Let’s aim for Edge’s side on the first show, and Adam’s side for the second,” we agreed.

On my morning flight to New York, an Irish guy next to me played and replayed show videos on his phone, ignoring my not-so-subtle angling of my Sphere water bottle and folded-up Joshua tree hoodie toward him in a failed attempt to connect over our boys. I scribbled in my journal: “Let all this U2 stuff teach me what I’m supposed to be doing next.”

Thrilled at our roommate compatibility, Michele and I rebooked Treasure Island for the first December show. Deciding it made no sense for me to fly back east before our next show eight days later, we initiated two quests:

• Figure out a fun place outside Vegas to explore (and work remotely) between show weekends

• Check Ticketmaster every five seconds for show dates bookending the tickets we already had—to maximize the week

We scrolled maps considering options for an interim road trip. Grand Canyon? Zion? Sedona? I asked an Arizona friend for recommendations. Within minutes, he arranged for us to stay at his buddy’s bed-and-breakfast called Sedona Views. A plan solidified: Michele and I would hit our first December show on Friday, try to get GA for Saturday, drive to the Grand Canyon, head to Sedona for four or five nights, scurry back to Vegas, aim to obtain GA for the final Friday, and hit the Saturday show—tying a bow on our 2023 residency experience before the holidays.

Throughout November, I taught my classes on the East Coast while Michele handled campus emergencies on the West Coast. I celebrated Friendsgiving in New York with my BFF Clay.

December 4. Another Ticketmaster blast. Final four dates added to U2:UV Achtung Baby Live at Sphere—rounding out the residency to a total of 40 (like the song).

In one final push for tickets for closing weekend in March, Michele landed two GA for Friday and I scored two for Saturday.

A week after Thanksgiving, I packed my students’ final papers and enough survival gear to brave pre-dawn desert temperatures in the early morning GA check-in line outside the Sphere. Knit hat, thermal tights, flannel shirt, puffy coat, gloves, wool socks. Plus, my U2 wardrobe go-bag.

Michele picked me up from Vegas Airport with a serious look on her face.

“What is it?” I asked, bracing for the worst.

“It’s Rodeo Week. Vegas is a sea of cowboys.”

We laughed, cranked Achtung Baby on the stereo, and sped to the Sphere. Michele screeched the SUV to a stop, inches from a curb. Two GA line managers sat in beach chairs, holding the all-powerful spiral notebook and Sharpies. I flung open the passenger side door and hopped out.

“Hey!” The line managers eyed me. “My friend and I need numbers, please.” I scribbled my name in the notebook. Only 35 signatures ahead of us! Number 36 secured on my hand, I raced to the SUV to stand guard for traffic cops while Michele jumped out and got 37.

“These numbers rockkkk!” we cheered all the way to Treasure Island’s parking garage. With numbers in the thirties, we stood an excellent chance of ending up right on the stage rail—probably not right in front of Bono (we’d need numbers below twenty or a VIP pass for that), but definitely an awesome spot near Edge.

Mindful of our 4 a.m. wakeup call—enough time to rise, layer up, find coffee, and get to the Sphere by the mandatory 5 a.m. check-in—we fast-tracked comfort food and early bedtime. At our ritual first-night dinner at Mercato della Pescheria, we shared updates about work and Michele’s son Walker, and listed creative projects we envisioned nurturing in Sedona. After a quick detour to see the Wynn Hotel’s waterfalls, we set dueling alarm clocks, Michele choosing “So Cruel” as her ring tone, which, again, we found hysterically funny. Our U2 jokes never get old.

While a blaring 4 a.m. alarm at home would plunge me into an abyss of sleep-deprived depression, in Vegas we rocketed from bed, bundling in warm clothing we’d laid out before bedtime. Hats and gloves? Check. Yoga mats to sit on? Check. Gray blankets plucked from Michele’s disaster preparedness kit? Check. Sphere water bottles for hydration? Check.

Treasure Island’s hallways quiet, we rode the elevator to the ground floor. The casino ding-ding-dinged with slot machine sounds, cowboys corralled around card tables. We strode to the bar, lugging GA line gear, and caught the bartender’s attention. Eying my U2 tote bag, he asked, “You girls headed to the Sphere tonight?”

“Actually, we’re headed there right now. May we have two large coffees to go, please?”

He co*cked his head, perplexed, checked his watch, and said, “Right now? It’s 4:25 a.m.”

“It’s complicated,” we responded.

As we marched toward the exit, coffee cups in hand, Michele murmured, “No questions, sir.”

Pre-dawn, the Sphere screens (the exosphere) depicted the pitted surface of the moon. Several dozen fans huddled on the sidewalk in sleeping bags and fleece. We joined them. The plan: set up camp on our yoga mats, be present for the mandatory 5 a.m. roll call to keep our numbers intact, stay warm enough and occupied (with journals and my laptop) until 8 a.m. At that point, arena security would funnel us into the Sphere, verify our tickets, distribute official venue wristbands, then release us until 5 p.m. when we’d return, check in one last time, and line up in chronological order for the show.

The U2 GA line presents a fascinating anthropological and sociological study, starting off as a magnificent role disrupter. It doesn’t matter if—in your regular life—you’re a hedge fund manager, CEO of an internet startup, a best-selling author, a tenured professor, an Olympic athlete, an AI mastermind, a skydiver, a surgeon, a bouncer, a trust fund baby, a hairdresser, an art auctioneer, a garbage collector, a baker, a helicopter pilot, a paramedic, or underemployed. The “normal” outside-world success/coolness barometer doesn’t function in U2 GA land. The GA line is a powerful playing-field-leveler…that, ironically. ends up creating its own new playing field.

Even in our kum-bah-yah, we-are-the-world, let-there-be-peace-on-earth, we-carry-each-other U2 family, the GA line sifts into a hierarchy—or maybe an org chart. It’s human nature, I suppose.

The top echelon: the illuminati. Or as Michele and I affectionately refer to them—the GAlluminati. To qualify as GAlluminati, one must be able to answer some or all of the following questions in the affirmative: Have you ever been pulled on stage by Bono? Does he know your name? Does he actually say your name—out loud—when he notices you on the rail? Do you routinely have GA numbers between 1 and 20 Sharpied on your hand?

Now, to be clear, the GAlluminati are not line-skippers. They run the line. They do the hard work. They communicate with venue security. Set up and broadcast check-in times on social media. Slog through round-the-clock three-hour shifts holding the notebook and administering Sharpie numbers to the rest of us. Their final morning check-in is an hour earlier than ours. They earn their primo spots at center stage on the rail, Bono singing right at them, often climbing over the rail right into their arms, grasping their hands (which must, on occasion, give his security team heart attacks).

Many GAlluminati are friendly and effusively inclusive, chiming, “Have a great show!” after checking each name in the notebook, high-fiving happy number-holders. Some of these folks also serve as line moms and dads, distributing donuts or energy bars, urging everyone to stay nourished, collecting garbage in plastic bags so we maintain our reputation as fans respectful of host cities and venues.

A tiny cohort of GAlluminati have a habit of looking right through you, or pretending they’ve never met you in their lives, even when you remind them, “Hey, I haven’t seen you since we were hanging all over that sticky bust of Arthur Guinness singing ‘40’ at the after-show at The Church Café Bar in Dublin!” or “Oh my gosh, the last time I saw you was in Berlin at the tribute band gig when the AC wasn’t working and we all looked like wet socks!”

The next rung of the GA org chart: the excited one-uppers and the costumers. The excited one-uppers (usually extroverts) spend their time in the line comparing show-number milestones, flashing collections of selfies with the band and crew, and out-experting one another about band trivia. The costumers entertain the line, posing for photos, recording TikTok videos—dressed as Bono’s alter egos (MacPhisto, Shadow Man, the Fly, etc.), or in attention-garnering U2-themed outfits they’ve designed themselves.

My favorite though: the sleeper cells. The introverts. The quiet ones. The lone wolves you get to know through organic conversation once everyone has settled onto blankets, mats, or pillows; wrapped themselves in flannel; sipped through all their coffee, waiting for the sun to rise. Subtle details begin to emerge. “Oh, you were at the show in New Orleans in 2017? Me too.” “Yeah, I’ve had this sweatshirt since the Popmart tour in ‘97.” “You look really familiar. Were you by any chance at Bono’s book tour—the fans-only gig on his birthday—in Manhattan?” “This line is 8 million times more organized than the Rose Bowl in ‘09. That was a sh*tshow.” A U2 tattoo peeks from an inner wrist. Ultimately, you realize your new line buddy’s show tally nears three digits.

And, let’s not forget the gift-givers. Fans who spend months (and money) designing presents for the line: U2 poker chips, stickers, cards for us to memorialize our prized numbers.

Of course, there’s also the plus-ones. Über-tolerant spouses, significant others, BFFs, or children—along for the GA ride simply to support their beloved superfan.

As a footnote to the org chart, there are the line-deniers. The ones who assert—on social media or in person—“the venue doesn’t honor the fan-managed line!” As one GA veteran brilliantly noted in response, Bless their hearts.

Michele and I shuffled past the Top 20 who’d checked in an hour earlier at 4 a.m., many asleep under piles of blankets. Fans arriving for the 5 a.m. check-in bumped fists to compare Sharpie numbers and suss out where to squeeze chronologically into the rapidly lengthening line. At precisely 5 a.m., the line managers began proceeding one-by-one down the queue, checking off names and numbers. Any latecomers would sadly forfeit their spots—a rule enforced by line managers (and punctual fans). Once Michele and I re-secured our numbers, we set up camp. Yoga mat. Disaster preparedness blankets. My laptop connecting to the Sphere’s wi-fi. First order of business: check Ticketmaster for any available GA for the next day’s show. No luck.

Desert wind ripped around the Sphere. Dust stung our eyes and nostrils. We pulled scarves tighter around our shoulders.

For the first hour, our line neighbors stayed pretty quiet.

At 6:00 a.m., the Sphere transitioned from moon rock to yellow sleeping emoji face. Suddenly, sleeping emoji face opened one eye, looked around. Emoji face woke up. The Sphere began spinning. A big Vegas happy face, greeting the world.

As the Sphere yawned and stretched, the line roused a bit too. One of our neighbors—a lanky guy in a Patagonia jacket and baseball hat—asked in a Texas drawl, “Excuse me, hey. My son is here with me and I need to take him back to our room for a little bit. Would you two be okay watching our stuff for twenty or thirty minutes or so?” He introduced us to his very sleepy teenaged son.

“Of course!” we responded. Standard line etiquette. We learned the dad’s name: Brad.

A half hour later, Brad and son returned with a tray of hot coffee, chocolate donuts, and muffins for us.

Together, we watched the Sphere morph into pink, blue, and purple swirls. Desert dust whirled around us.

Close to 8 a.m., Sphere personnel unlocked doors. Line warriors gathered belongings, stuffed gear in bags, collected trash for discard. We moved en masse in sequential order into a roped-off paddock near the Sphere box office. The venue operations manager we’d met in the GA line opening weekend—Felipe—appeared, waggling jazz hands and shouting, “Good morning!”

Displeased with the lackadaisical crowd response, he repeated, “GOOD MORNING!” We replied in cheerier fashion.

Felipe recited a well-practiced (and funny) speech: “I know you all have these beautiful and amazing numbers written on your hands but guess what? I…DON’T…CARE!!!”

Everyone laughed. Felipe explained, “The only number that matters is the one on the Sphere wristband you’ll receive shortly. Please wait your turn in line. Go through that doorway,” he pointed. “My colleague will verify your ticket. Then, you’ll receive your numbered wristband, and you may leave. But make sure you are back here at 5 p.m. What time?” He cupped his hand around his ear. We shouted, “5 p.m.!” He retorted, “Enjoy U2!”

The crowd went wild.

Back at the Sphere (obediently) at 5 p.m.—clutching empty Sphere bottles to refill with water inside—pre-show jitters began to set in. A moment’s hesitation once inside the venue can mean ending up second or third off the rail, quite a different experience from being on the rail. Bomb sniffing dogs scouted the exterior of the Sphere. We conferred with Brad and his son and decided the four of us would aim for Edge’s front left corner of the stage once we cleared security and obtained our second wristband—this one, plastic, sturdier than the thick paper one from the morning.

Our strategy worked. A little after 6 p.m., Sphere staff funneled the line into the GA tunnel. We held fists in the air, flashing stacked wristbands. As we cleared the final awning, boots touching the tarmac of the Sphere floor, we cut left, veering toward the corner of the stage. Michele secured the point; I grabbed the spot to the right of her on the front rail; Brad and his son seized several feet of rail to Michele’s left. We exchanged wide-eyed looks. We did it! Fans already congregated five or six bodies deep at center stage but the front row on our corner was all ours.

With an hour-and-a-half to go before Pauli The PSM’s pre-show, we took turns visiting the restroom and filling our Sphere bottles as the GA area swelled behind us. To prevent interlopers from wriggling into our territory, we alternated standing guard in modified starfish pose, legs splayed, hands extended on the rail. Three ladies from Minnesota behind us helped stake our collective claim. I pulled neon orange and blue chalk pens from my bag and passed them around. Michele scrawled “Larry” inside a heart on my left bicep and “Bram” inside a heart on the right one. I sipped tequila; Michele sipped vodka soda, our Sphere bottles safely resting on the floor against the rail—another perk of our location…being able to set our drinks down whenever we felt like it.

Michele and I danced to Pauli’s soundtrack, watching stagehands make last-minute adjustments to equipment and instruments. Bono’s wraparound Fly glasses rested on a speaker. Dallas—Edge’s tech—waved at fans and handed out guitar picks.

The show sequence began. Michele and I hugged. Here we go…

From our vantage point, I focused mostly on Edge—his energy, his intensity, his epically cool wardrobe, his choreography, his concentration, his facial expressions, his bond with Bono. Brotherhood, friendship, partnership, affection, respect, creative teamwork they’ve forged since they were teenagers. Sometimes I get envious—not in an I-don’t-want-them-to-be-happy-way but in an admiring way—that the four guys found each other as adolescents. Larry and Bono also found their romantic life partners—Ann and Ali—then as well. Their whole lives, “sorted,” as Bono says.

I love watching Dallas switch out Edge’s guitars between songs—their secret communication code, having worked together for so long. Edge’s understated charisma. His awesome Achtung Baby leather jacket, bedazzled rips in his black jeans, his sneakers. He pogo-hopped right to our corner, looked us in the eye, played right to us. Likewise, Bono marched right to our nook, stopped, his blue eyes connecting with ours. Throughout every show, Bono’s face usually radiates joy, exuberance, thrill. But on the few occasions his eyes have landed on me…something seems to switch.

I once described a similar show moment in Australia like this:

At one point, Bono stood face-to-face with me, nothing but air between us, singing right at me with a look of such ferocity, his expression seemed to border on disgust. Irrationally, I felt like he was mad at me. My idol, disappointed in me. We locked eyes. Time halted. I studied every wrinkle in his beautiful craggy face. Watched the bones in his hand choke the microphone tighter. Noticed his free hand tightening and releasing in sync with each syllable he sang. Felt each ripple of raspy texture in his voice as he held a particular note an extra beat.

We blinked. He backed away.

As the show ended, Michele and I waded through the GA sea, clutching empty Sphere water bottles (“the ruse of saving seven whole dollars,” we joked). My throat felt scratchy. Probably just sang myself hoarse, I thought.

Before heading back to Treasure Island, we detoured to Saturday’s line managers’ perch, obtaining new numbers on our hands just in case we somehow landed GA tickets overnight.

Sliding into our beds, we checked Ticketmaster one more time. Nothing. We agreed, “If one of us happens to wake up in the middle of the night and nails two tickets, we can wake the other one up at 4 and we’ll go to the line. But if not, let’s just sleep in. When we get up, we can decide whether to stay in Vegas and keep trying for tickets all day, or hit the road for the Grand Canyon.”

My body cast the deciding vote. I woke up, head pounding, stuffed up, barely able to swallow.

We packed up, hit Walgreens for Dayquil and Nyquil (plus a COVID test—thankfully negative), and settled into the SUV. I leaned my throbbing temple against the passenger window as Michele tuned the stereo to Bono’s autobiography, Surrender, his voice guiding us out of Vegas, en route to Grand Canyon Junction.

We alternated listening to Bono’s memoir, Surrender; a book by Rick Rubin called The Creative Act: A Way of Being; and tracks from Songs of Surrender. Michele attacked Routes 93 and 40 like a Formula One racer, pulling into a motel cul-de-sac in Grand Canyon Junction before sundown, tucking me into bed, Nyquil softening the edges of my physical discomfort (and my mental distress I’d possibly ruin Michele’s week).

We awakened before dawn, intent on witnessing a Grand Canyon sunrise. Temperatures hovering in the mid-30s, we idled inside the SUV in a supermarket parking lot amid pickup truck drivers doing the same thing, scooted inside the minute the store opened, dispensed coffee into oversized cups, and hit the road.

Michele parked at a Grand Canyon lookout point. I pulled my knit cap lower on my head and wrapped a second scarf around my neck, chill penetrating my bones. I usually love being cold; I much prefer winter over summer. But I felt like I’d been run over by a tour bus.

Deer and rabbits scampered away from us as we approached the gorge. Sunbeams turned jagged rocks and deep chasms gold, auburn, rust, articulating lines of copper, bronze, amber. Total quiet. A few other tourists snuggled together, braving the wind to capture selfies against the majestic rugged crags.

Our plan for the day was simple: get to Sedona Views—our home for the next four nights—where I could soak in a hot tub, sit in front of a fireplace, and hopefully mend, and Michele could relax. Along Interstate 64, and continuing down Route 180, road signs weirdly invoked U2: Windmill Lane (the name of the band’s early Dublin recording studio), Temple Bar (a Dublin neighborhood), Elevation (a song), Canyon’s Edge, Walk on the Edge. Michele and I joked about an epic skill we should add to our résumés: inserting a U2 reference into any conversation. Even in dialogues about the most mundane or obscure subjects—pink Himalayan sea salt, bagel flavors, sunglass brands—we’re capable of seamlessly injecting, “That reminds me of the lyric in…” or “Remember that one time Bono said…” or “That’s similar to the imagery in the music video for…”

As we neared Route 89A, my friend who’d arranged our stay at Sedona Views called us:

“Kind of bummer news. A rockslide has completely blocked the road connecting the B&B to the village. The sheriffs aren’t allowing any vehicles or foot traffic on that half-mile pass until they clear it, which could take all week. You can still reach the B&B from the north access road, but to get into Sedona itself—usually only a five-minute drive from the inn—you’ll have to backtrack all the way to Flagstaff and take a detour route—a ninety-minute drive. Are you sure you still want to come? The B&B is empty. All the other guests have canceled due to the rockslide, although the caretaker is there.”

Michele replied, “I commute ninety minutes every day in L.A. No problem. We’re coming.”

She steered the SUV through serpentine twists and turns as we descended into a valley, Sedona’s red rocks coming into view. Rick Rubin’s voice murmured from the car speakers, “The best artists tend to be the ones with the most sensitive antennae to draw in the energy at a particular moment.”

Michele looked at me and said, “We are supposed to be here.”

We reached a roadblock as forewarned, a sheriff’s Jeep and construction workers’ pickup trucks barring egress. We rolled down our windows and explained to two officials we needed to proceed merely thirty more feet, hook a U-turn, and ascend a small hill to reach a cluster of cottages. We pointed uphill at a ridge occupied by Sedona Views. The guards moved the trucks and let us through.

We pulled into a parking spot shaded by lemon and orange trees, the caretaker, Ann, waiting for us and waving. She showed us to our individual rooms. King-sized beds—hand-carved wooden frames topped with plush comforters and quilts. Fireplaces. Private whirlpools on balconies. Bathrobes. Bookshelves. Candles. Animal-themed art.

The first evening, after some rest time alone, we reconvened in Michele’s hot tub, her side of the empty inn situated further away from streetlight, affording us unobscured views of Arizona’s night sky, constellations and galaxies of stars glimmering and sparkling. “Dars,” Michele called them, recalling her son’s pronunciation of “stars” when he was little. U2 lilting from our portable speaker, Ann brought us mugs of ginger tea with lemon, hoping it would help me recuperate quickly.

We slept late, free of any agenda or obligations—work or concert-related. Waking up in my velvety bed, I realized I already felt much less achy, just lingering congestion. I opened a sliding glass door and stepped onto a beamed balcony, burnt orange of the sun clashing with red rocks, topographic layers of pine and cypress trees descending toward a silvery gulley. I inhaled. Fresh air with twinges of spiciness that made me sneeze. The scent reminded me of a wildflower that grew on a fire trail near a bungalow I’d resided in during my “great West Coast experiment”—the five years I lived in California. The bloom had always made my eyes water. Suddenly, it hit me. Maybe I’m not actually sick! Maybe this is just allergies—my New York body viscerally reacting to inhaling three hours’ worth of desert dust in the early morning GA line!

After a lazy morning lounging in our respective jacuzzis watching chipmunks play chase and birds bathe in fountains, then journaling before the warmth of our fireplaces, Michele and I met in the breakfast room for a feast of sausages, eggs, homemade bread, and nectarine jam prepared by Ann. Replenished, we strolled downhill, waving hello to the rockslide workers, following a path marked by indigo blue bottles to a small creek, stained-glass impressions of butterflies and dragonflies the only evidence of human intervention. Purple cactus galore.

Unsuccessful at our attempt to flirt with the road crew to see if they might escort us through the rockslide, we hopped in the car and set off for Flagstaff to stock up on wine and provisions. As we refueled at a gas station, I noticed a Dollar General store. I raced into the shop and found generic allergy medication. Within a half hour of popping a single pill, my city-girl body settled down. I could breathe again.

On the ninety-minute scenic route to Sedona, we listened to Rick Rubin. I pulled a stack of flashcards from my bag, scribbling quotes we wanted to remember as potential creative projects germinated over the next few days:

• “Don’t stay safe or small.”

• “Art is far more powerful than our plans for it.”

• “Inspiration. The word comes from the Latin inspirare, meaning to breathe in or blow into.”

I thought about Bono whispering “Airrrrr” on stage during his book tour, reenacting the moment he’d awakened from heart surgery, struggling to breathe for the first time in his life.

Reaching Sedona, we stopped at Black Potion Coffeeshop, the “PUSH” sign on the door elaborating, “PUSH through your obstacles.” Sipping rosemary mochas, we realized, rather than the rockslide posing an insurmountable obstacle, it was pushing us to spend more quality time in the car together.

For three days, we embraced the daily ninety-minute commute to Sedona, using the hours in the SUV to reflect aloud on our jobs and our art, and how U2 stokes our dreams:

• mine—to become a “real” travel writer and publish my first travel memoir

• Michele’s—to start teaching, and to write a book with her son

We periodically checked Ticketmaster for Friday tickets, and plotted where we might get spots on the rail on Saturday—the last show of 2023.

We consulted maps and identified Sedona’s energy vortexes and peaks to visit: Cathedral Rock, Airport Mesa, Bell Rock, Boynton Canyon, Courthouse Butte, Chimney Rock, and my favorite—Snoopy.

In search of interesting crystals, we stopped in the Center for the New Age, but overwhelmed by abundant choices, we left emptyhanded. In a much smaller strip mall booth called the Twisted Alchemist, a salesperson named Derek with angelic eyes, hair, and aura helped me choose a raw celestite—a pale blue rock cluster. We moved onward, got midway down a sidewalk, only to find Derek at our heels; he’d chased Michele down the street to show her an amethyst necklace he thought she might like. In a different shop, a salesclerk lit a bundle of sage to smudge another amethyst for Michele because an earlier customer had made a joke about using it to stab someone. I bought white feathers at a Sedona outpost of our Vegas gift shop, Sugarboo. Thirsty, we ducked into Synergy Café, a cherubic barista imparting “I love you” to patrons coming and going. I ordered a drink called Aphrodite (rose, vanilla, and coconut cream); Michele ordered a Norwegian Wood (maca and mocha). We visited Kachina House where a tiny but formidable grandma gave us a tour of a vast collection of Native American arts and crafts. We bought two Chilean rain sticks and shook them the whole drive back to Sedona Views, reaching our inn in time for a pink-persimmon sunset, soaking in Michele’s hot tub, glasses of wine in hand, shaking our rain sticks in sync with Larry Mullen Jr.’s palms hitting drumheads in the Songs of Surrender version of “Get Out of Your Own Way,” a rendition that sounds more tribal than the original.

Nestled in quilts in front of Michele’s fireplace, we watched David Letterman’s interview of Bono and Edge, laughing at their good-natured squabble over whether they’d changed the chords or the key of a song they rewrote “in the present tense.” We memorialized quotes on flashcards, Bono referring to songwriting as “heart surgery” and how he often feels “sung by the song”—a sentiment exemplifying Rick Rubin’s insight that, as artists and writers, “we’re a conduit for the universe. Material is allowed through us.” Michele and I agreed to try to be open and listen to what the cosmos might be trying to stream through our bodies, voices, and pens.

Each night before sleep, we soaked in the whirlpools again, counting shooting stars. Dars.

On our last day, we journeyed the long way to Sedona once more. At Gateway Cottage Wellness Center, a medium named Faye gave Michele an Akashic Records reading while I got a massage. Then, we switched places; Faye conducted a Goddess Hypnosis reading for me, pulling a card for Chalchiuhtlicue, Aztec goddess of water, symbolizing fresh start. I don’t remember much imagery from my transcendent (or maybe subterranean) session other than visualizing hundreds of happy golden snakes wriggling and leading me along a river embankment. When Faye noted that my body and brain resisted going deeper than surface-level hypnosis, I felt frustrated. Why am I constantly steeling against potential threats?

Paying for my spa services, I noticed a book resting on a display stand: I Was Cursed in Connecticut, a memoir by Kirstyn Lazur. I picked up the book and read the first few paragraphs. “Is this for sale?” I asked a woman behind the desk. She responded, “Yes, and I wrote it.” I asked her to autograph it for me. I love meeting fellow writers, especially memoirists, those who know the vulnerability of writing about real life.

Nearing the roadblock one final time as we curved into Sedona Views at dusk, a trio of javelinas—wild pigs with tusks and bristly hair—filed past us.

Refueled via a sendoff breakfast of crispy bacon, eggs, avocado, cucumbers with salsa sour cream, and baked apples—cooked by Ann—we packed the SUV, raring to return to Vegas. We departed Sedona Views ironically just as the rockslide blockade opened to traffic again.

Somewhere along Route 93, our phones buzzed. A text from Brad, our GA line buddy from the prior weekend: Ladies, I have two GA tickets for tomorrow night I can’t use. Do you want them?

We got so excited, we missed our exit, adding twenty miles to our journey, a (minor) blip in our new short-term mission: get to the Sphere as fast as we can, sign the GA notebook, and get Friday night show numbers Sharpied on our hands.

We reached downtown Vegas mid-afternoon, Michele navigating traffic while we tried to tamp down our expectations about what numbers we’d get. Screeching to a stop curbside near the Sphere, we leapt from the car together.

Numbers 54 and 55! With those slots, we had a great shot at being one row off the rail on either Edge’s side or Adam’s side.

We checked into the Holiday Inn, rolled our eyes when a concierge pushing timeshares like pharmaceuticals said, “Take these pamphlets for your husbands,” and found our room. Our habitual dinner at the Mercato della Pescheria in the Venetian. Early bedtime. Outfits laid out so we could wriggle right into them at 4:30 a.m. and shuffle to the Sphere. I burrowed into a surprisingly comfortable pullout sofa bed, a flickering electronic fireplace soothing me to sleep.

Michele’s alarm chimed, blaring “So Cruel,” which again we found quite hilarious. Go-cups of coffee in hand (brewed by Michele due to Travel Buddy Declaration #1: Heidi is unfit to operate any coffee machine), we traversed the dark Holiday Inn parking lot and set up shop in the mid-fifties of the GA line. As winds whipped our cheeks, I popped an allergy pill, determined to avoid a repeat of the prior weekend.

Red-pink sunrise. Felipe’s well-rehearsed speech: I know you have these special numbers on your hands and guess what? I…DON’T…CARE!

We laughed with new line buddies and energetically joined the call-and-refrain as he reminded us of the protocol: Enter the box office door in order, verify your tickets, obtain official numbered wristbands, enjoy your day, be back at 5 p.m.

We complied.

In line at 5 p.m., we decided to aim for Adam’s side. Released from the pens, we speed-walked to the right side of the stage, ten feet from the corner, getting jostled a bit by fans beating us to the rail by seconds. One off the rail, surrounded by loud men and one very drunk woman wearing mirrored sunglasses and trying to worm between us toward the rail, Michele and I took a moment to assess. We acknowledged the unusually rowdy crowd in our vicinity might not be ideal, but we’d get such a great perspective of Bono’s transmutation into the Fly, the location might be worth staying put.

Sure enough, the guys on both sides of us attempted to give us U2 tutorials, and we had to fend off persistent attempts by the inebriated encroacher to reach the rail. But once we heard the helicopter overhead…the Brian Eno instrumental…we knew we’d made the right call. Taking the stage, finishing his counterclockwise loop of the turntable, Bono halted right in front of us, so close we could count his freckles again, his earring catching the light. He clutched his microphone and incanted the four lines of the sean-nós. He bent down to lift the wraparound glasses from the edge of a speaker. He pressed the shades onto the bridge of his nose and began peering through them, holding the frames like binoculars. He moved side to side, the tails of his leather jacket flapping as if he were flying. Edge riffed the first bar of “Zoo Station.” Bono shimmied, folded over, right arm shooting into the air, left arm dangling as if disembodied. Another guitar riff. Bono straightened, mouth in a smirk. He jerked his knee up, hands curled like insect appendages. Another guitar riff. The music seemed to ripple through Bono’s body as he raised both elbows, causing his jacket to fly open and his red and silver rosaries to sway. Mouth agape, tongue lolling, legs splaying in a cowboy swagger. Adam’s bass and Bram’s drums joined Edge’s guitar. Bono gyrated at us, then turned, strutting across the front of the stage, hooking a right turn, aiming toward Bram’s drum kit. He stepped onto a ledge, grasped a stationary microphone stand, and began high-stepping as a disc beneath him started to turn.

Adam smiled at our side of the stage throughout the show, engaging with individual audience members, making constant eye contact. We watched his guitar tech Bernie jog up and down a flight of stairs, switching out equipment. The most poignant moment of the show for me: Bono’s vulnerability, bare-chested except for his vest, kneeling on one knee, wiping emotion from his eyes, a snapshot of intimacy as he transitioned from “Moment of Surrender” to reembody his rock god persona in “Where the Streets Have No Name.”

By the end of the night, even the burly guys next to us were weeping.

After the show, we stopped at the Saturday GA line, not expecting good numbers for the last show of 2023, but somehow landing 132 and 133, our hands starting to look like brawlers, bruised with black, blue, and red Sharpie smudges. Straight to bed. Up at 4 a.m. again. And miraculously, we ended up in the exact same spot inside the Sphere…Adam’s side, one off the rail, this time surrounded by a lovely couple from Mexico, sweet brothers from Portugal, and hilarious tiara-clad ladies on a girls’ trip.

Flying home, I ran my fingers along my wristbands, the jagged edges of the celestite stone, and the quills of the white feather from Sedona, feeling grateful for my U2 sister Michele, our generous GA buddy Brad, all our Vegas and Sedona guardian angels, and…especially the four guys who’d met in a Dublin kitchen forty-seven years ago, began messing around with instruments, and pieced syllables into songs.