Category Archives: Boston

My very first brush with the building that now houses the Newbury Boston occurred in the 1990’s, when it was still the Ritz Carlton. Dad and Mom were staying there for a medical conference, and I’d just gotten over an infirmary-stay with mono so they allowed me to stay with them. My very first meal after being down and out for a week was the room service order of breakfast pancakes that solidified my love for the property. 

Andy and I would stay there again for our wedding when it was the Taj Hotel, occupying a suite overlooking the Boston Public Garden, where our ceremony took place in 2010. In the ensuing years, we’ve made many a pilgrimage there to the Street Bar (the site of pre-wedding-rehearsal cocktails and subsequent lunches) where we would celebrate our anniversaries with a walk through the lobby, examining the flowers and recalling our special times there. 

Even after the property became the Newbury Boston, it would be a regular haunt whenever I was in town, providing a respite and restroom on the second floor when I would need a break from shopping; I’d pause there and make use of their exquisite Willow soap, bags in tow, and always find a quiet haven just above Newbury Street, which makes my recent visit there so heartbreaking and troubling.

This past weekend, on an annual holiday stroll with my friend Kira, I suggested we stop at the Newbury. I had just passed our large shopping bag to her, as it was her turn to carry it for a moment (and my back was bothering me). We passed The Street Bar where we contemplated a snack, then headed upstairs to wash our hands before looking into whether there was a corner table somewhere. As I waited for Kira to finish in the ladies room, I fiddled on my phone until I heard her being questioned by a security guard outside the bathroom. She was arguing with him so I came over and asked what happened. 

Apparently he asked if she was a guest of the hotel, and when she said she wasn’t he told her he needed to search her bag and she was asking why. After all my years of stopping here I’d never once been questioned or asked to show what was in my bags (and I usually had a lot more than we did on that day). I asked him why he wanted to search her bag, and he said they had had things missing there. We were so taken aback neither of us thought to ask what might be missing from a hotel lobby that would warrant a search, and his attitude was not friendly in the least. He told us he had the right to search our bags no matter what, or he could call the police. At that point I calmly told him I’d like to speak with his manager. The only difference between all the times I frequented the hotel and this one was that my friend – a black female – was holding the bag. That seemed problematic at best, so at this point I was bothered and wanted someone else to explain to me why they were searching bags – especially hers. 

After directing us to the front desk, the security person went into the back. I explained the situation to the clerk at the front desk, who said that it sounded strange, and then the manager on duty came out. We explained the situation and I asked why they would want to search my friend’s bag. She said that was definitely not their normal practice and apologized quietly for what happened. I was more shaken by it than Kira was at this point, and I still hadn’t heard an explanation that would adequately justify why her bag got searched and why she was treated so gruffly, other than a quiet apology and an assurance that the manager would talk to her superiors. I left my name, phone number and e-mail, and asked that they contact me with any questions, also mentioning that this incident would probably find its way to my blog, which I also included in my contact info. I haven’t heard back yet. 

This is especially upsetting, as I was just about to book a suite at the Newbury for our upcoming 15th wedding anniversary next spring. If this is how they treat former and future guests, it’s not something I’m going to support. 

The energy of a full moon doesn’t simply dissipate the very next day. Some of it lingers, and when the moon rises that next night, it looks just as full, and exerts almost as much influence. Such was the status of the evening of our Friendsgiving festivities this year. The day had been beautifully sunny, and our reservation at 75 Chestnut wasn’t until 8 PM, so we took our time chilling at the condo before starting a leisurely trek on foot to Beacon Hill. 

It was already dark as we passed through Copley Square, and the moon hung between buildings where I once worked. The past peeked back at us – the building formerly known as the John Hancock Tower is the office where Kira and I first met a quarter of a century ago. We ate lunch on the steps of this church when spring was in the air. On this night, a warm one for November, I felt safe precisely between the past and the future. 

We reached the edge of the Boston Public Garden, and Kira hesitated, but I walked right in – it was early enough that others were still walking the paths. In many ways, this space is more magical at night, especially the night after a full moon. 

It hadn’t been cold or windy enough to remove the wardrobe of the trees; cloaked as they were, the trees acted like a maze in the dark, meandering beside the walkways, waving in the slightest breeze, tricking us into thinking there was something constant about this world. 

We traveled along the Arlington Street side, and emerged near Beacon Hill, walking toward the river and entering Chestnut Street from a place I’d never been before. It felt like we had gone very far back in time, aside from the cars lining the cobblestone streets. It was quiet here, eerily so, and somewhere above us but out of the sight the moon was reflecting sunlight. 75 Chestnut appeared and welcomed us in for a cozy Friendsgiving dinner. It was my first time there, and it was delicious: a neighborhood joint with amazing food and friendly staff, ideal for a warm and intimate, if lively, scene. Before the coziness could became cramped, we finished our meal and walked back into the night, taking the more crowded way through Beacon Hill before rejoining the Public Garden from the other end. 

This angel had seen us in and out of the Garden, and we crossed Arlington onto Commonwealth, where we took the middle mall walkway, covered by trees and enchantingly dark between rows of brownstones. History whispered to us, our own, and the history of Boston for centuries before us. The past was a guide, but we were forging a new way, having never taken this route at this tie of the year. Usually we are beneath the Commonwealth trees in summer, or after they are lit for the holidays. On this dark night, even with the not-quite-full moon glowing between the branches and buildings, the darkness enveloped us, but, linking arms, we made our own light, and it carried us safely back to the condo. 

Way back in 1994, there was blessedly no social media, no blogs, no TikTok or FaceBook or Instagram – and I kept in touch with friends the very old-fashioned way: writing letters by hand and sending them out through the postal service. The method of blogging then, at least the style of diary-like blogging I do here, was the journal, and I’d write in one by hand, then transpose it on a bulky Mac (in Grape!) ~ ahh, the good old days. Having rediscovered a journal from 1994 – the last time I kept one in such painstaking detail – I ran across this ridiculous passage from exactly thirty years ago. It’s from an evening in Boston when I was just embarking upon this romance with a guy I met on the street, the quaint way we used to meet people. It also offers a novice’s look at Boston back when things were very different – it’s almost impossible to find a decent adult theater these days… Have a chuckle at my 19-year-old expense, it’s ok. How were we ever so young?

October 1, 1994: I hadn’t heard from Tom in a few days. He had told me that he was going to Maine in order to get away from Boston for a while and collect his thoughts. I wondered if they would have anything to do with me… When I went into Boston one night I purposely walked by the Meridien Hotel, if only to get a feeling like I was closer to him. I decided to miss the 10:40 PM commuter rail which left me there until 12:20 AM, when the next one would leave. So with a few hours to spare, I walked to where we had eaten at the Moka Cafe. I remembered Tom pointing out to me that just down the street the area became very bad and dangerous. I walked a ways down it, not crying anymore. I turned towards Park Street, where I knew he might be working. He should have returned by the time, I thought. I made my way through Downtown Crossing, where all the department stores bustled during the day. It was deserted now, save for a few weekend stragglers.

I passed a man on top of a woman, who was whimpering. I waited beside the curb to see if he was hurting her, but she didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps she was too drunk. I passed an adult theater and an adult store, the owner of which was screaming obscenities at someone, who was shouting even more vehemently back. As I passed, the guy threw his bag down and challenged the own to a fight outside. I turned the corner into Chinatown. Two men wearing hoods walked by me, smelling like pot. As I came into the bright intersection where Filene’s met Jordan Marsh, a car going much too fast for the area slammed into the curb. I looked back to see that he had flattened his front tire. 

The man stopped his car. He was white-haired and he got out and made motions to repair the tire. I walked to him and asked if he needed my help. He looked at me. I was wearing a long black coat and a backpack, and must have seemed a little scary, and I knew what he must have been thinking. Of course I knew that I was nothing compared to what might happen to him, but he refused me nonetheless. He said he got everything all right. I reluctantly walked away. I didn’t want to leave him there like that, but what could I do? I watched him for a while. Another well-dressed couple offered to help, but they ended up walking away too. I really had to see if he din’t need anything, so I returned to him and offered to at least call a tow truck. Again, he merely went back to work beneath the car, so I left him for good. I walked some more. I went to the waterfront. I tried calling Kirsten but there was only the answering machine message. 

From these ghosts of my Boston past, we fast-forward to a much happier and more tranquil Boston present, as Kira and I had a fall-entry rendezvous in our favorite city last weekend. Friday’s weather was perfect for the penultimate day of summer, so we did a little strolling to make the most of it before the rain arrived. The typical accoutrements of fall were all around – unpins lines the storefronts, gourds spilled out from straw baskets and bales of hay, and corn stalks were tied up at various entrances, like soldiers of warning or protection; fall is cagey that way, playing both sides in infuriating fashion. 

We opted for a casual dinner nearby, at House of Siam, and returned to the condo just as summer began its teary goodbye. By the time we awoke the next day, there was the usual tapping on the air conditioner signaling that the rain had begun. It would last the entire day, but for this weekend I didn’t mind it; it felt like a fitting finale to summer’s last day. We slept in a bit – no one wants to rush a rainy weekend morning – and when we at last ventured forth for a few errands, we decided it was late enough for an early lunch, and this season’s first bowl of pho at Pho Pasteur. 

Meandering through Chinatown beneath umbrellas, and battling wind and rain through downtown, we picked up our necessities (a light bulb, a black shirt, some Vetiver Sage soap) and hurried along to have an early siesta.

Back in the condo, we lit candles, turned on a few lamps, and luxuriated in the warm illumination they afforded – such a simple but effective mood-lifter: light on a dim day. A quick cat nap later, it was time for dinner plans, and a cologne selection for a early night out. Rarely do I mix and match fragrances, but Tom Ford’s Private Blends lend themselves to various indulgent combinations, some more combustible than others. On this almost-fall rainy evening, I chose a bit of ‘Bois Marocain‘ and a sliver of ‘Arabian Wood‘. 

As the day darkened further, we decided to stay again in the South End, opting for a spicy dinner of Indian food at Mela – a spot that I hadn’t been to in years. My mind went back to a dinner I had with Alissa and her mother way back when it was her favorite restaurant, Geoffrey’s. Boston has more ghosts now than it did when I was young, but they are friendly. Mela was a lovely revelation, and I made a note to bring Andy here the next time we were in town. 

When dinner was done, we took our time walking back. The rain had mostly stopped. Summer had finished its crying fit, but as we neared the fountain at Braddock Park, it started up again, pelting us and suddenly coming down harder. It was suddenly impossible to tell where the fountain started and the water ended – we were all a part of the fountain now, all a part of the water, and there was something comforting in the way nature would level the day whenever she felt like it. 

Back inside, I gave Kira an early birthday present as I checked on whether my phone’s hotspot would fuel a website update to take place at, or as near as I could muster wakefulness to, midnight. It worked – and it turns out all this time I could have been blogging in Boston. Further proof I should just retire at Walden Pond and call an end to this technological nightmare in which we are so messily ensconced. 

Boston closed its arms around us on this final day of summer, and this blog went into its current dark mode, as you’ve seen over the last few days of posts. I wasn’t sad about it. Sometimes you need the fall to cool the riotous heart of summer. Kira and I made date plans for our Friendsgiving weekend and this year’s holiday stroll. Will they happen? No one can say. I am weakly hopeful, but a bit too preoccupied with other issues at the moment to dwell much on it. 

There are still colorful fall days to be found in Boston, and I hope to make it back before November. Here we are already knocking on October’s door, so that may not quite happen. We’ll see how long the leaves stay…

Some birthdays are quiet, as if biding their time until some more spectacular number. That was certainly the case with my 49th, which was sent just with Andy on a quiet late summer weekend in Boston. The weather was the greatest gift – sunny skies, but not too warm, with nights perfectly comfortable for walking home. We arrived on Friday night, and all of Southwest Corridor Park was in bloom to greet us – starting with this lovely red rose.

The park has been giving a gorgeous show all summer, and it shoed no sign of slowing down, unlike the gardens at home. It felt more like the height of summer rather than the start of the final month of festivities. There were just enough puffy clouds in the sky to make for a beautiful overhead. 

Oe the eve of my birthday, I’d gotten Andy tickets to see Kristin Chenoweth’s new star vehicle, ‘The Queen of Versailles’ at the Emerson Colonial Theatre, where it was making its pre-Broadway run. Ms. Chenoweth soared, and there was praise in the material – a few judicious cuts here, a little letting out there, and there may be magic headed to the Great White Way. 

My birthday itself was mostly a calm and quiet affair, with Andy providing the exquisite ‘Angeliques Sous La Pluie’ by Jean-Claude Ellena for Frederic Malle, which has been on my wish list for years. It was a fitting choice, as this one reminds me of summer evenings in Boston from long ago, when I would wear a sample of it when I needed something light for the heat. 

We took several strolls through the Boston Public Garden, which is always our favorite haunt, and ended up stopping for brunch at a place overlooking the garden. Without a plan, without fanfare, without a printed agenda, my birthday was mostly winging it with my husband, and I couldn’t have planned a happier day. 

We meandered through the garden, exiting near the duckling statues and walking through Beacon Hill. I found a birthday hat to greet the fall (more on that later…) and, more thrillingly, managed to find the elusive peach ice cream that Suzie and Chris had failed to procure time and time again. 

After dining at Wink & Nod later in the evening, Andy and I walked back to the condo through a gorgeous clear night, and if I have to face a 49th year on this wretched planet, at least I can do it where beauty is still a balm, and love is still in the air. 

Our BroSox Adventure 2024 really should be subtitled “Diarrhea Not Gonorrhea” for the musical moment that is about to be told, but that seemed a little off-putting if I wanted any of our friends to read this – instead, you get the rain or shine/win or lose title, and after a night of rain and loss, Saturday began with a hot and clear sky filled with sunshine and humidity. The gardens of the Southwest Corridor Park were in full bloom, but beginning their slow fade to autumn. These Japanese anemone blooms were telling signs that September’s coming soon…

The notion of fall and its ensuing holidays on my mind, I asked Skip to join me on a cologne expedition, which ended with the glorious discovery of Frederic Malle’s ‘Promise’ slated for Christmas delight. Skip’s take on it cemented the choice: “It’s a lot.” That bit of fragrance business done, we could relax.

As I approach the cusp to age 50, I’ve found that an afternoon siesta is one of life’s greatest indulgences, and when I’m lucky enough to be in Boston for a carefree weekend I will usually incorporate that into whatever loosely-scheduled program I’m on. Kira is always game for this, as is Skip, and so it was that we decided to do our customary pilgrimage along Newbury Street early in the day, allowing for an ample siesta by the time the wretched heat and humidity reached its highpoint a little after noon. It worked out well, and gave us time for a double siesta because one nap didn’t quite seem like enough. 

Our afternoon plans were equally non-committal, and ended up with a nostalgic return to Fanueil Hall, which is where I spent many a childhood vacation. We took the T to Government Center, and as we walked down the stairs to the entrance, a scene of musical performers had amassed a small crowd of listens and on-lookers.

This brings us to the musical portion of our adventure – beginning with what I can only assume and hope is an original composition by the street performers putting it on – the song was called ‘Diarrhea’ and was exactly that – a song straight-up about diarrhea – not gonorrhea, as they helpfully pointed out in front of all the families and kids in attendance at Fanueil Fucking Hall. I absolutely loved it – and Skip and I were cracking up as we stopped to hear it all play out. I was buckled over in laughter, the kind of hearty stomach-and-back-aching laughter that hints at extremely hilarious circumstances enjoined by a good friend. 

On this day, Skip and I got our dinner from the main food hall, convening beneath the rotunda and joining the masses of tourists for a stand-up dinner, the way my Mom and brother would do it, and with the same dinner of Pizzeria Regina slices. Finishing up with a bag of cookies from the Boston Chipyard, we began walking toward the harbor as the sun was going down in its golden hour. Exiting the crowds of Quincy Market, we approached the sunset sky happening at the harbor. A guy on a pan flute was playing a familiar melody – and we both stopped in our tracks, each singing a bit to figure it out. 

Fuck if that’s not a sweet melody. And fuck if I don’t love a pan flute! Where is Zamfir when you need him? In the way that flicks like ‘Deadpool’ incorporate a classic and occasionally cheesy 80’s track and make it into something more, tugging at the heartstrings of childhood nostalgia while moving forward on a current journey, this felt like a good soundtrack entry to our weekend. That it is so unabashedly romantic only added to the ridiculous irony of adding it to our decidedly unromantic bromance. 

Reaching the harbor, I also reached the realization that while this trip marks the ninth year since we first started these adventures, Skip and I have been friends for almost twenty years. He’s become one of those safe and cherished friends who feel more like family – better perhaps because he is part of my chosen family, the family we each create when we have a better idea of who we are. That lends an ease and relaxation to our trips at this point, and as we eye the advancing turn into our 50’s, that sort of ease and relaxation is a very good thing. 

Walking back to the condo as the evening began its descent, we came up with some ideas for the next BroSox Adventure – it will mark our tenth year of doing this, and as such we are honoring it with a big build-up and some classic touchstones. Hinting at the next one to come is the best sort of consolation for the Sunday let-down. 

Another Red Sox game in the books, another summer racing to its close, another year timing ahead… and always the friendship of a chosen few keeping us going when we need it most. 

Today marks our annual pilgrimage to a Red Sox game – officially monikered the BroSox Adventure – and come rain or hell or Mercury in retrograde, we’ll be there. We go into this one without much of a plan or theme, other than relaxing and having fun. The last few years have been tumultuous – these BroSox weekends have been points of peace and hilarity. Skip is easygoing that way, and I’m easygoing around him; it’s the ease of friendship.

This is our ninth year of BroSox Adventures, so we are keeping it low-key. We may go big and crazy for #10, or return to basics. We’ll probably decide when we get there. If you’d like a more comprehensive look-back at previous outings, check out this post for the early years, and this one for the later ones. Those were the adventures up until COVID hit. 

Then came the most recent ones:

Brosox Adventure 2021: Part One and Part Two

Brosox Adventure 2022

BroSox Adventure 2023

Summer is wily in its ways, and though the next day dawned in overcast fashion, the sky was light, with no rain forecast until later that afternoon. Acting strangely against knowing better, we headed out into the day without umbrellas, making vague promises and plans to be back for our afternoon siesta well before the rain returned. Famous last words…

The goal of our excursion was to find a ‘festive’ outfit for an upcoming graduation brunch for Suzie’s daughter Oona – when pressed for a more specific dress code, Suzie enlisted the help of her son Milo, who described it as “festive business casual summer night dress code”. In other words, I will wear whatever the fuck I want and everyone is going to like it. Still, it’s nice to have a little goal, especially in the summer, and it gave us purpose as we traipsed through our usual Downtown Crossing clothing haunts.

In truth, any loosely-assembled reason would have worked – the real goal has never been an outfit or an accessory, only a desire to spend time with a friend. We moved through Faneuil Hall then crossed into the North End for an Italian lunch as the clouds rolled in. Many a fun meal has been had in the North End, and I remembered dinners with Mom, Chris, Suzie, Kira, and the twins. Summer leans into nostalgia, even if it’s not my usual province. 

We finished lunch and managed to make it all the way back to Arlington, where we pushed our luck and browsed along Newbury Street as the clouds darkened. As we reached Mass Ave to turn around, the rain had arrived. We went store by store, starting with Muji, pausing at Uniqlo, and taking our make-do siesta at the Mandarin Oriental lobby. We wound our way through the Prudential Center and took one final break at a coffeehouse near the condo, before making a run for dryness and warmth. 

Kira promptly took a nap when we got back, and I did my daily meditation. Soon it was time for a later dinner, and we headed out into a calmer night. A lighter dinner of small plates from SRV right round the corner proved the perfect culinary ending to our weekend. On our way home, this rabbit posed for a picture. 

It had been a largely rainy weekend, and there was something healing in that. Without a bombastic and sunny reason to be out on an endless city stroll, we leaned into stillness and silence. It was enough just to be beside a friend who has also experienced loss, to sit together and breathe together and simply be together. 

There is beauty in the rain that only summer can elicit, and if this is how summer begins in Boston, it’s going to be all right. 

Beneath the full Strawberry Moon, a recent entry into Boston was a wild ride thanks to the lunar madness at hand, but Kira and I needed to kick off summer in whatever fashion possible. That meant dealing with a rollercoaster of weather – from the very finest sunny day that greeted my arrival, to several torrential downpours that did their best to fuck shit up, but summer is happening no matter what form it takes, and we were there to celebrate our friendship and find a bit of solace now since we both lost our fathers in the past year. It’s a different kind of club to which we now belong, and it shades summer differently because that sort of loss, once it begins, doesn’t really end.

Boston laid out its full-moon zaniness with a big-ass Celtics celebratory parade, which apparently was ending just as I was trying to find parking. A sea of people waiting to get onto the Orange Line spilled out onto Dartmouth Street, almost blocking traffic. Luckily there were visitor spots near enough to the condo, as the mass exodus of basketball fans were making their way back to where they began.

Opening the windows in the front of the condo, I let the stuffiness that had accumulated over a few days of 90 degree weather dissipate, then started the window air conditioner and set up a fan to cool things down in the bedroom. These were happy summer practices, and brought back memories of a heatwave during one my first summers living in Boston, as well as the installation of our current AC unit courtesy of Skip during an early BroSox Adventure. Summer memories are often the best memories.

When Kira texted that she was arriving at Back Bay Station, I rushed out to meet her halfway along the Southwest Corridor Park. It was resplendent in full, gorgeous bloom, and as I was bending down to take a few of these photos, Kira arrived and we picked up where we last left off, with perhaps a little more world-weariness to our steps. Kira’s had more than her share of loss over the past few years, and where I would have once filled the silence with my typical silliness and nonsense, this visit I let the quiet simply exist between us. True friendship has always proven itself in the comfort one can experience without filling the silence with words or distractions. We let the flowers speak for us, and they whispered secrets of beauty as a balm and calming background as we returned to the condo and settled in for some mocktail magnificence.

Our dinner plans were a loose hodge-podge of ideas – we started filling up with some cheese and crackers, and I brought the ingredients for a Mexican salad – but we needed a few more items, so we set out on a walk deeper into the South End to find the Whole Foods Market. As we neared it, the sky opened up and a torrential downpour quickly whipped itself into a frenzy of wind and water. The full Strawberry moon was in effect, and we were suddenly trapped as the heavy rain showed no sign of letting up, and we showed no sign of preparation being completely caught without our umbrellas. Consulting the weather report on our phones, it looked like the storms would continue until 8:30, which was much too long to wait it out at a Whole Foods, I donít care if they do have hot and fried food available for purchase. We did have some French fries to wait it out a bit, but when the rain refused to subside, I found a decent deal on an Uber and took it home. Even with that luxury, we were quite wet by the time we got back, and the summer day that had greeted our arrival had turned into a stormy evening. It felt fitting, and sleep is always more sound when rainfall is mumbling somewhere in the background…