My favorite museum in the whole world (sorry, State Hermitage) is easy the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, famed as much for its founding lady as it now is for its infamous theft. Both proved of interest to the twins, so I spent the few days prior to our visit preparing them with the story of that heist, in the hopes that some of the beauty, art, and story of Gardner herself would come along with it. 

I still remember my first time at the museum. It was on a bitterly cold day in winter, and it would have been just a few short years after the crime. As her will decreed that nothing in the museum should be changed or moved, the empty frames remained empty – ghostly reminders of the robbery and the questionable avarice of human beings. I remember being more struck by them than my much of the painting that remained – a sad comment on humanity all around. 

Emi and Noah took it all in – Noah had researched where the rooms with the missing paintings were located, and we went through each with meticulous and careful examination; Noah took photos along the way, including the above one of Emi and myself by the courtyard. 

This remains my favorite place in the museum, no matter how obvious it might be. There is such a sense of peace and tranquility that steals over anyone caught in its spell – it is utterly transporting, especially on a January day in Boston that would sputter a mix of rain and snow for its entire duration, compelling us indoors and draining the joy of a walk in the city. The twins asked if we could visit the neighboring Museum of Fine Arts on some future visit and I said we absolutely could. 

After a lunch at Eataly and some shopping along Newbury, we found a respite in the early but already dim afternoon within the marble brilliance of the Fairmont Copley Plaza. During out pause there we discussed the day so far, along with plans for the remainder of the evening, which would find us seeking out a bowl of pho at a sub-par place that was disappointing for a first pho, so I promised to bring them to a more worthy spot before the winter ends. 

Back at the condo for the evening, we decided against a movie, and I taught them the game of chess, which they both picked up much more quickly than I remember picking it up. While my friend Billy first taught me how to play, it was my Uncle Roberto who honed my skills and made me into a fierce contender. It felt only right to carry on that tradition in the role of Uncle I now occupy, and I was happy to see their skills improve before my eyes as they held their own against my own arsenal of experience. They will make formidable chess foes in the very near future. 

All in all, it was a fun and surprisingly educational experience, and I realized that I may connect best to the pre-teen/early-teen age demographic, perhaps because that’s where my head still resides. They went to bed beneath a  rainbow of taffeta curtains I had just taken down from the holiday decorations, because that’s how Uncle Al rolls. 

The next morning we decided on brunch at Boston Chops, then made our reluctant return home. All winter weekends should be so lovely.

By the time we arrived in Boston on a Friday evening in January, it was already dark. Our playlists had all been played, and there was one last visitor’s spot left for parking on our street – a happy sign that we were right where we were meant to be. We grabbed our bags and hoofed it to the condo, where I adjusted the thermostat to something cozy, and we settled in to the warmth and the light of the space. 

This was our make-up weekend for having missed out on this holiday gathering, and as I switched on some Christmas lights and lit a few cinnamon-scented candles, I vowed to make this our official last holiday act of the year. The twins set about to opening their gift bags, which had a moviwe for later, and some silly treats for then. I sat down and took a deep breath, then looked for some dinner options. 

As with most decisions these days, dinner was a negotiation between the twins – with strict parameters and compromises, lines of demarcation and concessions, and the sort of trade-offs one would usually expect from countries who had been at war for centuries. I just wanted some warm food, and as soon as possible. They finally settled on the South End Buttery, to which we hustled in hurried and hungry form. The cozy little corner restaurant welcomed us in from the cold, and we soon enjoyed a dinner and went over the plans for the following day.

On the way home, and in search of a sweet treat, we took a detour to the Newbury Hotel, site of a glorious hot fudge brownie sundae the last few times I’d been in town, so I brought them there for our sugary night cap. The sundae was on the menu, so we each ordered one. It would be a weekend of splurging and indulgence, and it had only begun…