Monday. Four Days in Austin and I'm already a cowboy. Although some may have pegged me for that long ago. A quick recap before I digress. We arrived last friday along with about 99,999 other people, who seemed to be registering for
SXSW at precisely the moment we disembarked at the conference centre. I haven't queued so long for anything since the Pope's visit in '79 and on first look, the experience of Austin was equally bewildering. After a brief sojourn in a Tequila bar, we made our way to
Fado to hook up with the other exPaddriates attending this year's festival. The night ended amicably with no loss of motor function. Saturday started innocently, I presented to Austin's tech community along with Minister for Flack-Taking Sean Sherlock and a half dozen other companies, eager to impress upon the native Austinites that Ireland is the new black or something and they should all flock to our shores (as indeed some of them do) with European centres of excellence and offers of significantly improved export quotas. After bridging international trade relations with the U.S., the Irish contingent quickly repaired to a bar to gloat over our victory against Scotland in the
Six Nations. This was followed by a delicious lunch at the
Old Pecan Street Cafe. The rest of the day was a dizzying blur of meetings and socially lubricated networking, accompanied by whimsical sounds of the uileann pipe and tap-dancing schoolgirls. The Irish were beginning to feel confident, not only had we trounced Scotland, but we found ourselves in a continuous thundery downpour and near Baltic temperatures which the locals claimed was highly unseasonal and roundly blamed us for. We were, quite literally, in our element. After several parties, each more overrated than the last, we found ourselves tidying away the remains of Saturday, and once again, body and mind were still intact. Which brings us to Sunday. Sunday started off on a bad foot, and ended on a worse one. Firstly, somebody stole an hour of my repose by changing the bloody clocks back. To add insult to injury (more on the latter anon.) it was still raining. To be honest I have always been a glass-half-full kind of chap, but three days of solid rainfall in a city that boasts 300 days of sunshine a year was pushing it a bit far. Luckily, the weather changed, and I finally got to some of the heavily oversubscribed panels in the morning, followed by some healthy networking (and irresistible photo ops) at
ScreenBurn in the afternoon. A relaxed evening was had and a civil tongue was kept (despite the best efforts of an extremely stroppy New Zealander) at the
Meebo Film Fusion party, and despite our best efforts to take in a bit of the local colour music-wise, I still somehow ended up on a bucking bronco at a ridiculously early juncture in proceedings. I managed to stay on the bull for a respectable 45 seconds, although it felt much longer as I had just imbibed a diabetically sweet green cocktail called a Scooby Snack, which seemed keen on reemerging from whence it had come about 15 seconds in.
See for yourself. I managed to exit the arena with some dignity, unlike the poor unfortunate who got on this mechanical abomination after me ended up being thrown clear of the ring, cracked his head and was out cold for about thirty seconds in a small pool of blood. After an unsuccessful attempt to get into an 11.45 screening of
Iron Sky, I decided to take a rickshaw back to the hotel, but only as taxis are as scarce here during SXSW as sensible Irishmen. The rickshavian experience, however, bore out my worst fears. A hundred meters from the hotel, the unfortunate bicyclist hit a stretch of uneven sidewalk and a parked car and ended up taking an unscheduled flight over the handlebars, tipping myself, chassis and any remaining unruffledness I had thus retained down an asphalt gully. I hadn't the heart to ask him to complete the journey and despite his profuse apologies I insisted on walking the remaining distance to the Hyatt. It wasn't until later that I reflected the popping noise that emitted from my knee as I twisted it to right myself upon being rudely ejected from his cab might bear ill omens for my mobility. And so it was, at 3am I awoke with a knee resembling a prosthetic appendage from Pan's Labyrinth and have since been hobbling around the Austin Convention Center eliciting piteous glances from even the most self-absorbed hipsters. The medics on hand at least put my mind at rest regarding my fears that I might soon have a matching ACL scar on my 'good knee', suggesting instead that I have ruptured tendons, ligaments or possibly both. Neither this cold comfort nor the Advil have done much to lighten my mood, but I have managed to soldier on and network away, albeit under somewhat geographically constrained circumstances. As I write, I am taking a 'time out', ensconced on the sixth floor of the Hyatt with the recalcitrant knee in an ice pack and another four days of shenanigans ahead of me. Yee-hah, etc.
