Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Boston in full spring bloom is an astonishing sight to behold. Even beneath an overcast sky, one that constantly hinted at rain and occasionally spit some out, the blossoms carried their beauty through the universe. As we closed out our 9th wedding anniversary in the city where it happened, we slowed our steps to savor every last moment.

The flowers seemed to join in the celebration as well, nodding their droopy Sunday morning sleepy-heads with the merest rustling of a breeze. The tulips here were at their peak ~ further along than their more exposed Public Garden counterparts. These isolated microclimates of little front yards warmed by the sun and buffered from the wind are often ahead of their brethren. They also sustain more delicate species, sometimes allowing for an extra Zone of hardiness.

Through the frame of a glossy black iron gate, portals of floral majesty deceptively hint at expansive meadows of wildflowers. An optical trick, it’s a nifty way of making a tiny space seem larger: a pocket of beauty held in a single gaze, multiplying into a thousand levels of memory.

Beneath the tulips and bleeding hearts was a groundcover of Vinca, in purple pinwheels of bloom. When the bulbs die back, this ground cover will sustain the space through the summer, its handsome dark green foliage backing the occasional re-bloom.

Still, nothing will compare with this stellar spring show, the first flush of the season when we need it the most.

My love of tulips has been constant since I was a little kid, yet I don’t plan them that often at my own home. Probably because they are so fleeting and unreliable when compared to more stalwart perennials and shrubs. Tulips are better admired in large public beds, or in the smaller private gardens of someone else, where they can decide whether to simply pull them up when the show is over or attempt to get another year or two out of the bulbs. I’m not emotionally ready to make such decisions if it’s at all possible to avoid them.

I have similar issues with pansies – I love to see them in these early cool days of the season, but I’d never plant them in my own garden, as happy and bright as their faces may be. Perhaps one day I will appreciate the temporary beauty they provide and embrace what we know will never last. There is charm in that, somewhere, and I will seek it out one day.

For now, I will lift my eyes to the cherries – we have a Kwanzan in our backyard that is also in full bloom, and it’s glorious. Bridging Boston and upstate New York with the beauty of their pink blossoms, these exquisite pom-poms are the perfect bookends for an anniversary weekend.

We made it to Braddock Park, where the fountain was running for another season. It trickled the soothing sound of water all the way up to the second floor window. As soon as it got just a little warmer, we would open it up and listen to the tranquil song – a song of spring, of summer, of love.

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Lions are all over Boston, something I never really noticed before and now notice everywhere. From the emblem and icon of the Lenox Hotel, to the guardians and entrance-greeters at the Capital Grille, to the grandiose pair lounging by the interior staircase of the Public Library, these felines regally pose around every corner of the city. (I think there’s also a prancing one atop the Old State House or some similarly historic building). Playing into that theme was our last culinary exercise of the anniversary weekend: brunch at the Lion’s Tail.

We arrived just as they were opening, passing a few smartly-planted pots of spring flowers spilling all their glory onto the sidewalk. (Andy tried to steer me clear of the dog pee that had just been sprayed near one of the pots because that’s what a good husband does.)

Located well into the South End, this is one of the relatively newer restaurants that is bringing the area further into gentrified popularity. While its menu was whimsically filled with a long list of cocktails (picture an adult fairy tale with fanciful drawings to match) they also serve food, including Sunday brunch.

Fresh roses filled small vases, while a large lion head roared from the back wall. The BLT Benedict I ordered came with thick slabs of bacon, while Andy’s French toast (somewhat lacking in batter and on the dry side) had an abundance of fresh berries. It felt like their specialty was cocktails, and no one should be faulted for that.

They were kind enough to bring out a plate of ice cream sandwiches for our anniversary, which was a sweet touch, and a sweet ending to our Boston meals. (Not that we needed any more sweetness ~ the bulk of a Chocolate Tower Cake was already boxed up for the ride home).

Our umbrellas must have acted to ward off the rain, as we began making a leisurely walk back with a couple of stops along the SoWa Market. Sad to see that Bobby’s is no longer in its original location, and the whole market isn’t what it used to be since moving into that basement area. Boston changes, as we all do ~ sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. A row of Kwanzan cherries was in magnificent full bloom, and beauty seemed to be following us, or vice versa. We took our time, winding our way through the South End, closer to Copley, and closer to the end of our trip…

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In almost every relationship that has lasted for nineteen years (while this is our 9^thwedding anniversary, we’ve been together for a decade more than that) there comes a point when routine overtakes everything and there seems to be nothing new under the sun. This doesn’t bother or frighten me anymore ~ it’s more of a comfort and source of contentment. That takes a while to grow into, and not everyone does. We reached that point a long time ago, and the companionship, friendship and love that we share has been more resonant and lasting than either of us might have expected.

However, there are moments when your husband still has the ability to surprise in wonderfully unexpected and unplanned ways, like when we were finishing up dinner at Nahita. Uninspired by the dessert listing and perhaps missing one key component of our very first wedding weekend, Andy mentioned the Chocolate Tower Cake at the Four Seasons. We recalled the lunch we had there (thank you Aunt Elaine) right after our ceremony, and how scrumptious that towering cake had been. At first it was just a nice memory, then we both looked at each other and sort of dared the other to suggest it without even speaking.

Realizing we were just around the corner from the Four Seasons, we got the check and made our way to the Bristol Lounge. One Chocolate Tower for two (actually listed as serving five, ahem) was about to arrive.

It was just as we remembered it ~ decadent, extravagant, and sky-high. For five it would be an overindulgence. For two it was utterly ridiculous, and just what we wanted. It arrived to the stunned onlooking of the table near us ~ a rowdily fun group of five who were at the tail-end of their meal and looking for something more. They asked what it was, so I showed them a slice and extolled its virtues. Hooting and hollering, they said they were going to order one, and a few minutes later they were digging in. (Andy jokingly asked the waiter for a cut of his tip since we’d added on such a big item.) We were there to spread the love ~ love of cake, and love of love.

Filled with both, we boxed up the remainder and tried our best to walk off everything we had eaten. There was still no rain. The walk was wonderful; the company was better…

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While waiting for the Uber, we stood on Braddock Park on a perfectly glorious evening and watched the world go by. Dog-walkers were strolling along Southwest Corridor Park, and one particularly friendly gentleman walked by and smiled. He looked us both up and down, then addressed Andy: “You need to up your game!” I thanked him and busted out laughing. (For the record, Andy looked quite dapper in his new Brooks Brothers jacket, and was far less amused than I was by the comment.)

It was a short drive to Nahita, which was as beautiful in real life as it looked in all the write-ups I’d seen. There was still some light in the sky when we sidled up to the handsome bar. Filled with tropical plants and high windows, it was an antidote to the gray weather and a lovely setting for a Saturday night dinner.

We carried on with our cocktail hour, having arrived earlier than our reservation for precisely this purpose. It’s the best way to make a dinner with a loved one last a little longer, and extending a wonderful time seemed to be one of the themes of the weekend. With the stresses of work and home-ownership, and the expanding difficulties of staying healthy and mobile, such breaks feel fewer and further between one another. We cherished our evening together, much as we held on to our recent Savannah adventures. Maybe we just need to take more vacations while we still can.

As different as we are (see wrist exhibits above) we get along surprisingly well, because for all our outward differences we share many underlying traits. I thought of this as our appetizer of octopus arrived. It was in Boston where we first tried it a number of years ago ~ at Cinquecento as Andy reminded me. That’s the beauty of a history together ~ it keeps building on itself, layers and layers of memories, shared moments, laughter and tears and all the best parts of life.

We also talked about what we might do for next year’s 10^thanniversary celebration, and that was worth a raised glass…

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WHEN THEY BEGIN THE BEGUINE

IT BRINGS BACK THE SOUND OF MUSIC SO TENDER,

IT BRINGS BACK A NIGHT OF TROPICAL SPLENDOR,

IT BRINGS BACK A MEMORY EVER-GREEN…

Cole Porter wrote the soundtrack to much of our anniversary weekend in Boston, as he has done on a number of previous excursions in this fine city. A CD of his standards played as we rose from our Saturday afternoon siesta. Somehow it was still bright out ~ we’d managed to dodge the rain for the most part. It surrounded us, ever encroaching, ever on the edge, yet kept its distance.

Into this pocket of overcast atmosphere, while Porter played in the background and the light from inside began to glow just slightly brighter than the light from outside, we decided to make it a proper cocktail hour. A throwback to a seemingly-simpler time, when there were no laptops or cel phones or texting, it came with quiet conversation, memories and laughter, and a new cocktail for Andy’s repertoire: the Brown Derby.

For my part, I had an early Cinco de Mayo celebration: a cross between a Margarita and a Paloma cooler.

The music lent the moment a certain sparkle and excitement: the anticipation to a dinner at a new restaurant. Is there anything more thrilling than sharing such a thing with your husband? I don’t think so.

I’M WITH YOU ONCE MORE UNDER THE STARS,

AND DOWN BY THE SHORE AN ORCHESTRA’S PLAYING

AND EVEN THE PALMS SEEM TO BE SWAYING

WHEN THEY BEGIN THE BEGUINE.

We got dolled up, and Andy looked magnificent in his new Brooks Brothers jacket. A soft, lightweight wool, it was traditional dark blue, jazzed up by a faint and elegant plaid. He’d picked it out on his own, proving once again that he has impeccable taste when he needs it. I opted for a simple pink tuxedo jacket. We posed for a series of silly selfies, but this is the only one you’ll get to see.

The music played on… and soon it was time to head to dinner at Nahita…

TO LIVE IT AGAIN IS PAST ALL ENDEAVOR,

EXCEPT WHEN THAT TUNE CLUTCHES MY HEART.

AND THERE WE ARE, SWEARING TO LOVE FOREVER

AND PROMISING NEVER, NEVER TO PART…

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One of the few good things about cool and somewhat wet weather is that the flowers currently in bloom have a much longer life, staying pert and full and perky for a greater duration than had it been hot and dry and windy. Most of the flowering fruit trees were at the height of their splendor ~ cherries and plums and apples and pears ~ and they joined the magnolias and azaleas for a brilliant display.

The exact location of our wedding ceremony was in front of three relatively-new cherry trees. A much larger and older redwood tree with a fantastically-gnarled root structure is close-by too, but it’s the cherries we look for to pinpoint where the happy event occurred. We strolled through it this time, and then were taken over by a roving band of squirrels.

They are extremely tame here, almost to the point of disconcerting fashion. If you are gentle enough, and stand still, they will approach then start climbing right up your leg if you allow them. We paused to watch them and soon enough a whole group bounded toward us, sensing friendly folks. I crouched down and one began climbing up my leg. Andy laughed and said it was trying to eat my floral coat.

People must feed them regularly. It’s a whimsical phenomenon quite in contrast to their skittish upstate New York relatives. (It’s never a good idea to feed wildlife, even in apparently tame situations like this, so we refrained.)

The tulips were just coming into their own. We could tell that everyone has had a late start to their spring since they’re usually much further along. This time there were more buds than blooms ~ the look of promise and good things to come ~ with only the earliest unfurling their colorful splendor.

It wasn’t part of the itinerary, but since the first few drops of rain had started to fall we ducked into the Bristol Lounge of the Four Seasons, where we celebrated out wedding lunch nine years ago. I’m always up for a lunch, and it was early enough in the day for a brunch item, like this order of Eggs Florentine Benedict. It was better than it looks or sounds, because the Bristol does not mess around.

Once we had finished our impromptu meal, the rain ceased. The blooms were back and there was a brightening of the sky. It wasn’t quite ready to turn blue or reveal the sun, but it was close enough for the walk back toward the condo.

Andy had been on his feet since morning, and as the years advance so too do our physical limitations. He was a game trooper thus far, but it’s better if we don’t push it. Besides, a siesta has become one of our favorite condo pastimes. A little nap in the middle of the day can work wonders on so many levels.

We had a dinner at Nahita scheduled for later that evening. Before that we would bring back another almost-lost tradition: the cocktail hour…

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“I am my own muse, I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to know better.” ~ Frida Kahlo

I was aware of the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts ~ a surprisingly moving affair, especially the photographs of her various medical accessories. Apparently they were taken in the intimate space of her bathroom after she had died~ a stark, sad, poignant reminder of where life had once been. The physical shell of an artist’s soul is rarely what we would like it to be ~ maybe that’s why some people make such great artists. Perhaps pain is a necessary albatross of artistic talent. That doesn’t make it any less sad.

There was also an Henri De Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit, celebrating the vibrant posters of the Moulin Rouge and Parisian nightlife. This too came tinged with a sorrowful undercurrent. Like Kahlo, he had been broken by his physical body. In a sense, both artists were trapped in their own cages, longing for nothing more than to break free from their respective chains.

“I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy to be alive as long as I can…” ~ Frida Kahlo

“Everywhere and always ugliness has its beautiful aspects; it is thrilling to discover them where nobody else has noticed them.” ~ Henri De Toulouse-Lautrec

“I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of ‘madness’. Then I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love, and tenderness. I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: ‘Poor thing, she’s crazy!’ (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s ~ my madness would not be an escape from ‘reality’.” ~ Frida Kahlo

On our way out we stopped in the gift store. There was one silk jacket that remained, and it looked just as I remembered it: a pale, powdery blue, with gray cranes embroidered onto the bottom third, accented by the exaggerated vibrant vermillion of their crests, like drops of blood… like drops of beauty. It wasn’t my size, but I did not mourn leaving such beauty behind.

The sky was still gray, but the water was holding off. We hopped in an Uber to the Boston Public Garden…

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This little street in the South End, a couple of blocks away from the condo, reminds me of Europe. That’s one of the charms of such an old city ~ the influences of the mother countries remain. The lion rests just nearby Cafe Madeleine, where I make an early morning run to get us some sustenance: croissant, pear crumble, and a fancy colorful fruit tart. Somehow, the rain continues to hold off. We are heading to the Museum of Fine Arts to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit, and perhaps find silk jacket I’d seen on my last visit but foolishly neglected to purchase at the time. (It has since haunted me, not unlike a certain Louis Vuitton ombre coat from 2002 that still occupies the otherwise-rather-empty room of regret in my mind.) A gray start to the day doesn’t necessarily spell doom but it is a warning of sorts.

Overcast days are better for photographs anyway, softening the harshness of direct sunlight. Not that food like this needs any help in the looks department.

And the cherry blossoms would look lovely in a raging snowstorm, which luckily did not arrive (though nothing would surprise us at this point). Two large Kwanzan trees framed the Museum of Fine Arts, in glorious full bloom, heavy with pink prettiness. They greeted us decked out in their seasonal finery, welcoming all with the embrace of spring. We ascended the stone steps and began our brush with art…

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