Monthly Archives:

March 2011

When Alissa and I both lived in the South End (way back in the 90’s… yikes) one of our favorite places to share dinner was Geoffrey’s Cafe. It epitomized the South End to us – charming, whimsical, and filled with affable locals – with just the right amount of comfort food, cocktails, and delectable offerings to quiet the rumbling tummy.

When they left the original South End location, it was a sad day for those of us who enjoyed the neighborhood feel of the restaurant, as well as the consistent food. One of my last dinners there was actually with Alissa and her Mom.

Now, they have returned to the Back Bay, occupying what used to be Laurel, but in a much more funky and fun way. Gone are the dull beige trappings of neutral doldrums, replaced with walls steeped in the deepest red and dotted with a band of circular mirrors that undulates and ripples along the room. Crystal lamp shades dangle and sparkle throughout the space, while rich dark wood grounds it all. The space has also been opened up, and with a 1500 square foot kitchen in the back, there can be no complaints of claustrophobia.

The best part is that all the charm, camaraderie, and culinary craftiness of its former South End location (and subsequent Roslindale incarnation) remains intact. Original founder Michael Aplin was kind enough to greet me while I waited at the bar, shaking my hand and treating me like a long lost friend. He related his latest canine adventures, including a trip to Scranton, PA to rescue a dog. It’s a joy to talk to him and listen to his stories, and the easy-going kindness he exudes extends to all patrons.

I often wonder how those who have lost their partners manage to bounce back and still treat the world so well, when by all appearances it has not returned the favor. Michael seems to have done so, and it was a pleasure being in such good company. That pleasure is certainly enhanced by a cocktail, and Geoffrey’s is still a champion in that department as well.

I tried the ‘Ginger, Not Mary Ann’ – and it’s a delightful doozy. Anything that incorporates gin and ginger beer in it is a grand thing in my book. More than a couple of these later, I was feeling rather wonderful, and when Alissa showed up, all smiles and splendor, it felt like we had gone back in time to a happier place. That’s the way it is with old friends.

We had each come a long way from those days of the gay 90’s, but our friendship, and ability to laugh at ourselves, had not changed in the least. Even in catching up on the sadder parts of life, it was good to be together again in the city where we first met so many years ago.

I don’t have that many really close friends that I can trust no matter what – I can probably count them on both hands – but the ones I do have have been with me through the good and the bad, and they’re the people that have become family. I know I can rely on them regardless of what position we’re in, how far apart we are, and how much time has passed. Alissa is one of those friends.

Before we departed, Michael came back out and brought us each a bag of homemade granola for breakfast the next morning. A gracious gift, from a gracious man – and it would prove to be badly-needed. Had I not had a bowl of it when I got home – and a couple glasses of water – I would have been a sorry case the next day. As it was, I slept in and felt only slightly the worse for wear. The perfect set-up for a dinner in Quincy with Josie and the Pussycats…)

This guy has been asking me for change since 1994. That’s almost seventeen years of panhandling dedication. He can usually be found early in the day around Boylston Street, near Finagle-A-Bagel (best bagels in Boston) and across the street at Five Hundred Boylston. The first time I saw him was in May of 1994. I was just finishing up my Freshman year at Brandeis and was elated that the summer was still ahead of me. It was a glorious sunny day in Boston – actually, it was hot – one of those freak May days in the 80’s, when you try to order an Air Conditioner at midnight because you can’t take it anymore at such an early date. I digress…

The last time I was in Boston he was back in front of the bagel place, sitting as you see him here. I had my camera with me and said I’d give him a dollar if he would let me take a picture. He gave a slightly quizzical smile and said, “A dollar for a picture? Sure.” I explained that I had taken his photo many years ago, and he just nodded, clearly not remembering. His life was no doubt filled with more interesting and adventurous moments than mine, and there’s no way I would expect him to remember a college kid snapping a quick pic.

There’s something both sad and reassuring about his “work”, and the difference at what I captured then versus now. Back in 1994 it was spring, the world was sunny, and we each had a long life ahead of us. Now, it is winter, the world is windy, and we’ve each spent a good portion of our lives living in what I’m guessing are wildly disparate ways. I don’t dare venture a guess as to who’s had it tougher, or who has found the most meaning in existence, or even who is better off now than then. Those types of answers can never be completely answered. And to be honest, there are many May days when I’d like nothing better than slumming around blissfully on Boylston Street, taking in the height of a Boston Spring, and living off the kindness and generosity of strangers.

On my last morning in Boston, the sun had started to come out. The cost? About twenty degrees, leaving the walk decidedly chilly, and the lanes icy. My quest was for a vial of patchouli oil for an upcoming project, as well as a stop at a Tibetan store. I can’t help where the muses lead, and I’m an utter failure at refusal. To their credit, they have yet to let me down, and that’s not something you can say about many people who happen to be so disappointingly real.

That morning they led me over the Charles River and into Cambridge. During my years at Brandeis I spent a great deal of time in Cambridge – scouring Harvard Square for music and books, making regular trips to Pearl Art Supplies at Central Square, and scoping out the paper and pagan stores in Porter. All three locations have changed immensely since those mid 90’s days – some for the better, some for the worse.

It’s always reassuring to see a bevy of bookstores – especially with the decline of so many other individual establishments – and even Borders. A bookstore is one of the happiest places on earth – filled with the hopes and dreams of possibility. My yearning for other lands and new adventures can almost always be quelled, or at least subdued, by a few hours in a bookstore.

My reasons for seeking out a Tibetan store are less clear. I only know that it is the path I’m currently on – and the signposts, like the one above, are leading me where I’m supposed to go. This particular store is one I had visited a few times before – and the gentleman who runs it has always been kind.

He’s one of those calm and centered people that I often assume knows the secret to life, but keeps it hidden happily inside his head – and I’ve always been afraid to blurt out such a silly, all-encompassing question. Instead, I observe, secretly hoping to suss out some little kernel of wisdom to take with me, furtively gaining some access to a higher plane. As I arrive, he is hanging a few items of clothing outside, despite the brutal cold. Somehow, within the store and immediately without, the chill has dissipated.

The colors are riotous, but instead of inspiring restlessness and collision, they come together and work to calm the nerves with a sweetness of vision and incongruent harmony. I thumb through a few racks of clothing, beaded and embroidered with metallic thread, shot through with jewel-like tones, both wispy of silk and heavy of wool. Various Buddhas and sun gods watch over the store, a thousand eyes upon me, yet I do not feel my customary discomfort at being watched.

The owner does not hover like most storekeepers. He continues in his task of hanging clothing, once in a great while coming in to ask if I am finding everything all right. “It’s a lot to see,” he says with a smile. I agree.

The objects are enchanting – there are rows of jewelry, shelves of scarves and blankets, piles of bags and pouches, bowls of felt flowers and woolen crafts, boxes of incense, and elaborate deities scattered throughout. At one point he returns, lighting a stick of incense, and as the smoke fills the small space, I am transported to another place. A scarf that I had passed by at least twice suddenly opened up to me, its colors perfectly complementing the Jack Spade bag I just got. A pair of flowing pants in light purple and beige – a color combination I had long admired – peeked out from one of the racks. All the treasures to which I had previously been blind suddenly appeared before me. Simple stuff, superficial stuff to be sure, but something clicked in a deeper way. And all the while the shopkeeper smiled. When I was ready to go, he handed me my bag, and asked me to wait while he came around from behind the counter.

Eyeing the limp scarf hanging lifelessly around my neck, he said, “Let me teach you how to tie it – may I?”

The Best-Dressed-Man in me wanted to scoff and laugh, but the polite gentleman my parents raised kept me silent. I expected him to go through some elaborate motion just to show me how to slip a simple European knot into it, and that’s how it began. But then he injected a twist – literally and figuratively – and it made all the difference.

“This is better – it keeps your chest warmer,” he said, patting himself right above his heart. It was the best kind of secret, one that I hadn’t even thought to ask, and one that I needed most to know.