Following this problematic incident at the Newbury, we went on the hunt for a new hotel for our 15th anniversary weekend in Boston. A few years ago, while Sherri and Skip’s family were staying at the condo, Kira and I booked a room at the Fairmont Copley Plaza, and it was one of the best hotel stays I’ve had in Boston. On that windy April weekend, the Fairmont was a welcoming beacon of warmth, steeped in beautiful history, and bound to Boston tradition.
Rightly billed as ‘Boston’s Most Celebrated Address’, the Fairmont Copley Plaza has been the Grand Dame of Boston since opening in 1912. Whenever I’m in town I will take a stroll through the opulent lobby, checking out whatever magnificent floral arrangements they have on display, and catching a glimpse of the majestic golden lions that stand sentry at the main entrance.
While the scale and atmosphere of the Fairmont Copley Plaza is indeed grand, those working at guest services make every stay an intimate and individual experience. No matter how glorious the surroundings may be, the mark of a good hotel will always and only ever be found in the staff who make the stay feel like an extension of home.
This was also the site of my Easter bunny trauma resolution, so it holds a special space in my heart. Andy was there for that, and he’ll be by my side for the next set of events scheduled there.
When looking for accommodations for our upcoming anniversary celebration in Boston, we considered a few places that played a part in our original wedding weekend, but none checked all the boxes that the Fairmont Copley Plaza did, so I reserved a suite as my anniversary gift to Andy. It has all the markings of a new set of memories about to be made in these hallowed halls.
Dreams dissipate in daylight, but a dreamy quality pervaded the entirety of this return to Boston. After splurging on a dinner at La Padrona on Friday night, I kept things simple on Saturday, starting with a very early lunch at Pho Pasteur in Chinatown. Spring might have been in the air, but so was the remaining chill of the night and morning. A solitary adventure allows one to be more observant than if one was to be regaling a friend with stories. I miss alone time sometimes.
Play this record for a dreamy vibe.
After finding some possible anniversary shirts and collecting some food items from Eataly, I spent most of the day walking and planning – finalizing anniversary dining plans and texting them to Andy for his approval. There was magic in the air, and Boston held its usual allure.
I bought some food items at Eataly and had a dinner of nibbling various things at the condo, then headed out to try some cologne (my wished-for anniversary gift) and close the night with a lavender vanilla latte at Jaho. It reminded me of my early days in Boston, when walking around was its own reward and destination, when I thought I was trying to find someone to love but was really just trying to find myself.
The next morning I got up extra early to get back home – because Andy is home – and I had a quick breakfast at Charlie’s Diner. It was an easy and quick goodbye, because we will be back in May…
Whenever I’ve been away from Boston for any substantial stretch of time – which for me means a couple of months – I feel inexplicably shy when I return, like some innocent schoolboy who makes in-roads with potential friends by Friday, only to have them forgotten over a weekend. I also feel like I’ve lost track of the city with all the changes – new restaurants opening, old restaurants closing, new shows playing, old stores moving, and the latest alleged racial profiling incident at the Newbury Hotel. It’s a lot to process.
Somehow, I always feel more innocent in these moments, like I felt when I first moved into the condo way back in 1995 – yes, we are approaching thirty years of Boston life, and still I have moments of feeling like I don’t completely belong. There are benefits to being a novice, a sense of openness lacking from those of us who border on the jaded and wise. To think we already know a place, to think we have mastered anything on this earth, is the surest way to lose sight of seeing, and seeing so much when we think we’ve already seen it all. There is a thrill to taking in a city as if for the very first time.
There is also a thrill to revisiting places that once held significance and meaning, such as this sepia-shaded corner of Copley, where I once kissed a man – the man who was the first man I ever kissed – and it feels more like a dream than a memory, but maybe that’s just a protection device, a mind-trick to ease any residual hurt.
Boston has its memories and mysteries and dreams, all waiting to be discovered, then probed and solved, and sometimes resolved. It just takes a day or two of adjustment, and the discomfort of being an outsider fades away. This trip felt more like a dream anyway, tinged with the romantic notion of finding anniversary places to celebrate – places that appeared only in the night, and only in the spring. Maybe only in my imagination, which lends a danger and a freedom all at once.
Spring was just beginning, and only these snowdrops and some witch hazel bushes were in bloom. It was enough – hope comes from the tiniest places and spaces, while its existence signals something far more powerful and soon-to-be-pervasive at work.
When I arrived at the condo, I was greeted with all the Christas decorations still up, and there is something terribly sad about seeing Christmas decorations in spring. My first act, before even unpacking my bags, was to take all of that down. As I did so I cursed myself for putting it all up in the first place. Such a silly thing to do when so many other things after so much more. It’s how I usually feel, and the summer erases the annoyance so that when. late fall comes I’m ready to do it all over again. How foolish we humans can be.
With the holiday decor put away, and the holiday curtains taken down, the condo opened up, feeling lighter and brighter and ready for spring, along with all the happy things that can happen in the season. My favorite hour was at hand, and sunlight began pouring into the bedroom bay window. Winter already felt far away.
My friend Chris is one of those enviable people who try to make the most of every moment, packing in action and events into every single hour of living. He’s the guy who books his flights at the last hour possible in order to extend the weekend for its full duration. I’m the opposite – I prefer to hear out early to get home and get back in the head-space of the daily grind so as to allow some decompression time. There are merits to both, but on this Sunday following our Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, I decided to give Chris’s way half a chance. When he mentioned he had never been to the Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum, I went against all my Virgo grain and decided to join him on an impromptu Sunday morning jaunt to one of my favorite places in Boston.
My usual time to visit the Gardner is deeper into the winter, when I’m starting to feel the despondency of the season really start to drag us down. Maybe we’re already in such despondent waters, as I felt the pull of needing to be around beauty and warmth and greenery. Orchids against a snowy backdrop will always remind me of the magic that is humanity.
This is the original birthplace of my love-affair with tree ferns, where a quartet of them anchors the central garden courtyard. Scarlet accents of poinsettias, amaryllis, and flowering maples provided a new view for me (I don’t recall ever visiting during the holidays – shame on me for such negligence).
Something was producing an exquisite perfume, but I never could determine its origin – one of those beautiful mysteries that will have to remain unsolved for now.
With the chaotic conundrum that is Christmas buzzing in the city around us, this sacred bit of tranquility and calm, charm and verdant beauty, provided a respite and relief. Shared with a friend, it came with a solemnity that hinted at the real meaning of Christmas.
Chris and I, both approaching our mid-century mark next year, found ourselves contemplative and still able to laugh at life. Our concerns are wildly different from what they were a quarter of a century ago, when a weekend in Boston meant drinking, partying, and losing mornings and often days – absolutely no regrets, for then or for now.
When our time at the Gardner was done, Chris went on to Harvard, I was back on the dreaded Mass Turnpike, and somehow Christmas was back in my heart.
One of my favorite Christmas traditions for the past seven or eight (?) years has been the cumbersomely-named Boston Children’s Holiday Hour. It was originally scheduled as a quick one-off gathering when a few of us found ourselves in Boston on the weekend or two before Christmas. I opened up the condo for an afternoon “hour” of hot cocoa as people were winding around the city on their holiday touring. That original hour turned into several, and we ended up ordering dinner in and making night of it.
Since then, we’ve managed to make some assemblage of friends and family throughout the years, and now that we’ve reached 2024, most of these ‘children’ are teenagers and young adults. That doesn’t mean they aren’t still someone’s child, or that we need to change the premise at all. Some years simply make us work harder for it, such as this one, which found me stuck on the Mass Turnpike as a poorly-predicted snowstorm made driving hazardous.
A major accident involving trucks and multiple vehicles occurred just before I reached Worcester, shutting down that section of the Mass Turnpike. In all these years of driving to Boston, I’ve never once driven there any other way than on that turnpike, but suddenly we were all being re-routed off I-90. A holiday stranglehold of traffic ensued, which found us standing still for about an hour as snow piled up around the cars. I contemplated the empty bottle of Vitamin Water as a urinal should things come to that point. Eventually, things moved a bit, and after a five-and-a-half hour drive (which normally takes me two-and-a-half) I arrived in Boston, where the snowy scene was almost enough to make up for the ordeal. Almost.
Braddock Park is magical after a snowfall, and this was one of the first holiday gatherings that had a backdrop perfectly designed for the cozy theme at hand. Chris was arriving that first night by train, and he sent me a picture of an iced-out train door straight out of the Polar Express. I looked out at the street below and watched as the light changed from hour to hour. The wind passed over us, allowing the snow to settle and stay on the tree branches.
The next morning dawned with skies of blue and sunlight to show off nature’s wonder. The day of our children’s holiday hour had arrived again, with family contingents from Suzie and Kristen due to arrive that afternoon.
Chris and I headed out for a brunch at Metropolis and some last-minute shopping, and an impromptu holiday stroll of our own, where we happened upon some free Levain cookies at a luggage store – that alone made the chilly walk worth it.
I headed back to the condo while Chris finished up his shopping excursion, pausing to take in this glorious sunny scene from the Southwest Corridor Park. Winter has its enchantments.
Our cozy Christmas gathering was at hand, and I got to meet George and Ruby, enlarging our happy circle. Just a few days before Christmas, I finally felt a twinge of Christmas spirit – or maybe it was just the love of lifelong friends, and is there all that much of a difference? Both are healing, both are soul-enriching, both fill the heart with warmth powerful enough to see us through the rest of the winter.
This little family of friends, ensconced in a little pied-à-terre in one of my favorite cities, has become the saving grace of my Christmas season, always managing to turn around whatever bah-humbug mood or real family strife that may be waiting for me in my hometown. The night closed around us, but the festivities were not quite finished for the weekend…
Somewhere along our Holiday Stroll last weekend, both Kira and I remarked that this year didn’t feel very Christmas-like, so it was reassuring to know that I’m not alone in not feeling the holiday spirit. We’re not very upset or sad about it, and we had a fun weekend together – it simply didn’t feel very much like the festive celebration our holiday strolls have taken on in previous years. Some strolls are like that – maybe we need an itinerary again… or maybe not.
To be honest, I don’t even recall what our stroll actually consisted of – often I’ll have an idea and we’ll proclaim it as we’re walking – this year we just did our usual routine like any other weekend visit. Friday night we ate in, while an emerging full moon swelled in the sky. Dinner was a pomegranate rosemary mocktail paired with a tamarind fish curry.
The next day we started with some shopping and walking downtown, including our customary winter treat of a bowl of pho in Chinatown. Pho Pasteur opens early, so a little after 11 we had a hearty lunch, fueling ourselves for the shopping madness.
The weather was clear, if a bit windy. We agreed that we’d take a bit of wind if the sky remained blue, and after a several rainy holiday strolls, this one at least had the weather on our side.
An unfortunate incident at the Newbury Boston put a damper on our spirits, but only for a moment. Kira and I are resilient to many of the ills of the world because we’ve had to be. Still no word from the hotel on any sort of amends for an episode that reeked of racial profiling.
On our way back to the condo for our afternoon siesta, we paused for fries at Saltie Girl, because a batch of French fries is always a welcome bit of sustenance to see us through to dinner.
Back at the condo, the afternoon light was just beginning to dim, but there was still some sun being reflected through the front windows from the former John Hancock Tower. It’s a magical time of day when sunlight pours in from the front and back windows at the same time.
The evening before a full moon found the heavenly body herself preparing for full splendor, seen here on the right, peering over the row of houses across the street. Instead of some fancy, dress-up holiday dinner at an elegant restaurant, Kira and I went out for a few slices of pizza just around the corner. It was delightful.
On Sunday morning, we were walking back from breakfast and about to say our goodbyes when I asked Kira what the most fun part of this year’s holiday stroll weekend had been. She immediately returned her answer: “Your craziness, I guess.”
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.
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, and according to my retired police officer husband a blatant act of racial profiling, 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.
UPDATE: The hotel contacted me and offered a lunch credit at their Street Bar. That seems a paltry recompense, so I’ll keep this post up alerting the public to their practices.
Our Boston condo is the ideal place for a holiday gathering – despite, or perhaps because of, its small space (consider it cozy, not cramped) it feels intimate and warm. Back in my Boston days, I would fill it with people for parties – jamming upwards of forty friends and their hangers-on in the little one-bedroom expanse. They would fill the kitchen and living room, a few finding quieter respite in the bedroom, and some even spilling out onto the fire escape and front steps. It marvels me to think that I once did that – and it feels far away – another lifetime ago. I can think of two attendees who have died since then.
While I look back at those days with fondness, I can’t imagine doing something like that today, simply because I wouldn’t want to. The world has changed, and my life has evolved into something very different. In so many ways, those days were about scrambling to find out who I was, trying on different guises, meeting different people, and ransacking all the possibilities at hand. In a proverbial nutshell, it was about being young and free and having fun while we could. Somewhere inside I knew that there would be time to worry about the important things later.
We have reached later, and I’m not mad about it. There are greater glow-ups to be found within later than I could have ever found in my youth. This year, as of recent years, I’ll be in Boston for a couple of smaller get-togethers, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
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.
Once upon a time I thought that growing up and becoming an adult was about learning how not to get excited about things that haven’t yet come to pass. For many years I fought that – many years into my actual adulthood – and I was always susceptible to living in my head during the planning process, finding joy in the anticipatory delights that led up to any happy event. It wasn’t adulthood that killed my excitement in the planning and preparation process – it was COVID. Since then, and all the canceled plans and events that resulted, I let that exuberant part of me die, or at least sleep for now, and I haven’t quite decided whether or not to resurrect or wake it.
So when things happen to turn out well after whatever planning I manage to muster, I find the joy in them as they unfold rather than in the weeks and months leading up to them. Is that a reduction in overall joy in any given year? Yes, sadly, it is, and I’m learning how to navigate that – maybe that’s the real secret of becoming an adult, or growing up, just a little.
It was in this subdued vein of thought that Kira and I reunited for a Friendsgiving weekend in Boston, and smiling upon our reunion, the weather was brilliant for the extent of our celebration. The Friday that I arrived was a full Beaver moon, and my guard was as up as my countenance was open to harness whatever lunar energy might be bestowed upon us. In our efforts to avoid any possibility of trouble, we stayed in for the night – Andy had sent along a lasagna dinner for us and aside from a quick post-dinner trip to the market for a sweet treat, we hunkered down in the cozy condo to officially kick off the Holiday Season 2024.
The next morning dawned with brilliant sunshine, manageable temperatures, and only a breeze by the tallest buildings. We ambled along Newbury Street, taking our time and doing some Christmas shopping (by far my least favorite kind of shopping to do) and by the time we needed a break it was time for lunch – hence the burger above, served in the lovely Bistro du Midi looking over the Boston Public Garden.
Our Friendsgiving dinner, scheduled for 75 Chestnut in Beacon Hill, wasn’t happening until 8 PM, so I finished the burger and we slowly made our way back to the condo for a siesta. The Southwest Corridor Park was still largely in bloom – lots of purple beautyberry and pink roses – along with the more seasonal holly accented by its bright scarlet fruit.
Before Kira had arrived, I’d conjured the will and energy to decorate the condo for Christmas. I hadn’t quite made up my mind to do it this year until that moment, and I’m glad I forced myself. Sometimes going through the motions that once brought happiness inspire the emotional and muscle memory that elicits joy through the back way.
Many happy holiday memories happened here, going all the way back to the 90’s, when I first lived here. Pulling a green sequin shirt out of the closet – a fun outfit from a dinner party long ago – I snapped a selfie behind the curtain while Kira took a two-hour nap.
Our Friendsgiving dinner at 75 Chestnut is worthy of a separate post, so that will come later. For now, the stage has been set for the holidays. Let it glow, let it glow, let it glow…
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…
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.
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.
Pick me up on your way down When you’re blue and all alone When the glamor starts to bore you Come on back where you belong…
Some songs become emblematic of our BroSox Adventures for obvious reasons – ‘Shipping Up to Boston’ has been a mainstay, and our early theme song of ‘Something New’ was perfect because our trajectory was, quite simply, still new. This marks the ninth year since we made our first joint trip to the Cathedral of Boston way back in 2015, so it’s not exactly new, but there are always new things to see and do. Starting with this ridiculous country song, which found its way into our trip at the tail-end of everything – arriving on the airwaves of our final rest-stop in Blandford. Pricking my ears up at the sound and the vibe and not giving a flying squirrel whether the lyrics were pertinent, I told Skip to get his phone out and work his song-detection app magic to find out who sang it. There were other musical moments that had accented the weekend (stay tuned for those), but this one gave the opening country-languid ease and relaxation that marked this fun BroSox Adventure…
It didn’t begin with such ease – while the company was true, the atmospheric conditions were such that the bands of rain from a passing hurricane made the drive into Boston a sketchy/scary one. We would tempt such wet fate for the first day and a half, bringing along the hoodies and umbrellas should the worst decide to hit. Before going anywhere, however, Skip was good enough to assemble this desk, which I originally thought was a simple job. Luckily it was simple for him, and his tool bag – I would never have been able to figure out how to make working drawers, so he was a godsend in the same way he was for the installation of the air conditioning unit that was still keeping us cool on this hot and humid weekend.
You may be their pride and joy But they’ll find another toy And they’ll take away your crown Pick me up on your way down
After last year’s Sunday game-day mishap/mix-up, we were starting the weekend off with the Red Sox game – they were playing the Houston Astros and we headed over to Fenway early to grab food at Hojoku, and a matcha ice cream at a Matcha Cafe I’d just read about. Boston had thus far remained rain-free, but the air was sticky and hot, and felt ripe for rain as we made our way to Fenway.
Our seats were great – though we both noticed they were right on the very edge of where an overhang ended right above our heads. Should it start raining, we would either be barely protected, not protected at all, or right in the spot where the torrential run-off would tumble down like Niagara Falls. Sliding my very bad back into the very rigid seats, I braced for the worst.
The game began and the weather held for the start – we had our Fenway franks, and the Red Sox volleyed with the Astros for a run here and there. I looked up at the sky and saw the clouds begin to move in dramatically. The visage was stunning – the prospect of what those clouds may have been portending was more bothersome. But I was comforted by the fact that the clouds were moving up and away from our overhang – if rain was to come there was a good chance we were in the right location for it to blow just over us and hit the seats a few rows below.
It was tight for most of the game, but then Houston opened it up at the top of the 7th.
When I asked Skip to write that assessment I sent it out to all my friends. Here are a few choice responses:
“Who is this?”
“Did you even have a clue what the hell was going on?”
“Dude. You’ve been hacked.”
“Excuse me, who is this?”
My friends’ complete lack of faith in my baseball lingo notwithstanding, the Red Sox blew it, and by the time ‘Sweet Caroline’ was sung the rain had already begun, but by the sweet grace of God it was blowing just beyond our row of eats. Two rows ahead was getting soaked but we remained for the most part perfectly dry, except for the walk home, but it had been so hot and humid all day it was more refreshing than annoying, and the company of Skip and the relaxed ease of another BroSox Adventure once again at hand lent it a charm that last year’s rainy proceedings could barely muster. The boys were back in Boston, and life was good…
Yes, they’ll take away your crown Pick me up on your way down…
