The 2019 Boston Children’s Holiday Hour took place under the shadows of the missing. Alissa was no longer with us, and Kristen and Anu’s families weren’t able to make it. However, we welcomed Tommy and Janet and their kids for the first time, along with Suzie’s family and a late last-minute appearance by Chris. All in all, some of my favorite people for one of my favorite new traditions, perhaps the last of its kind. Change was in the air this year, for better and worse.
Suzie arrived extra-early, which was a bonus, as the twins were already antsy to begin the festivities and the preparatory exercises. Emi cut the cheese and everybody laughed. Noah did a few dishes. We all partook of the charcuterie board, and the mandarin oranges, and eventually the chocolate milk that Tommy put on, scalding hot water and all. (Cut to a bunch of kids putting ice on their tongues in dramatic, histrionic form.)
There were games in place of crafts, which worked out quite well. Thank God someone knows about kids because I truly don’t. And thank God for Janet, who saved a chair after hot chocolate spilled all over the antique table and ran onto the fabric of the chair. Much as I did when a candle went flying a few years ago, splashing wax all over the carpet and a curtain panel, I remained remarkably detached from the whole fiasco. It’s always a good lesson in easing up on my perfectionist nature. Kids have a knack of leading these lessons.
There were many happy moments, most of which revolved around Tommy and Janet, whom I haven’t been lucky enough to see in Boston in many, many years. This was a good reunion, and the next generation was already stepping up to the plate.
By the time we had finished an order of pizza and Thai food, Chris rolled into town for the night, joining in the bonhomie and bringing the Cornell Crew into the majority. The twins taught him a new card game that they had just learned from Suzie, and new friendships were made. It’s the best thing that can happen at a Children’s Holiday Hour.
The next morning came with the let-down of having to depart. I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted, as Chris and I had much to discuss when the twins went to bed. The last time we had been together in the condo, Alissa had been with us. A note she had left was still on the fireplace mantle, a ghostly whisper of raw loss, a searing jolt reminding us of her absence. There she had stood, there she had sat, there we had hugged, there we had said goodbye until the next time. A heaviness had set in, and we each felt a little lonelier.
Luckily there was little time to dwell, as twins will not sit still for long. I paused in the remembrance, still not quite ready to process anything, and allowed myself to get pulled into the mundane matters of the day, the only way to move forward. One tiny step of getting the twins into their winter hats, and going from there.
We headed to brunch at Boston Chops, where Noah bravely tried Eggs Benedict for the first time, and Emi had the fired chicken and biscuits. At nine years old, they knew how to behave at a restaurant, and had been pretty good for the whole weekend. I don’t know if this is a tradition we’ll get around to doing again – after five years most of the original children aren’t even children anymore – and that’s too far away to predict or think too much about. For the moment, we bounded back toward the condo, pausing in a few stores and stopping to pick up a piece of chocolate and a lollipop at the candy store.
We had a quick and uneventful ride home – the best possible thing to hope for at this late stage of the weekend, and they asked if we could have one more cup of hot chocolate with Uncle Andy, heavy on the whipped cream. I couldn’t refuse.
It began with this stern but friendly warning from me to the twins on how we would best get through our first weekend away together: “Ok, listen. I need you to behave and stay close. If I lose even one of you this weekend, I’ll get in trouble.”
Happily, they heeded the warning and we made for a more-or-less agreeable Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, one that took up the whole weekend and worked to heal some of the hurt from the previous month or so. Andy’s absence cast a pall over all the proceedings, lending shadow to my mood, but children have no need of moods, nor much care to be concerned. I took that lead and did my best to shirk it off. I’ve become quite adept at compartmentalizing the various pieces of emotional baggage I’ve been accruing these past few months. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
We traveled in the afternoon, once the twins got out of school. On the day before the shortest day of the year, we drove to the east, and by the time we arrived in Boston, the light had drained from the sky. Warmth was absent too. Still, Boston was lit from all the holiday cheer, and Christmas scenes led our way to dinner. The chocolate fantasy world of Max Brenner seemed the best choice for our entry meal, and it was listed on a kid-friendly dining guide for those of us in need of such guidance.
Following dinner we picked up a few supplies, and dessert, at Eataly, where we found a $2000 block of cheese that Noah just had to touch, after which he complained about the smell on his hands until we got back to the condo. After telling us ten times to remind him to wash his hands when he got back, he managed to remember himself.
That night, we cuddled on the bed and watched ‘Mary Poppins Returns‘ – who provided the inspiration I would use to guide us on our way. When in doubt, channel Mary Poppins: stern and a little blunt, cold but caring, stiff upper lip and all that sort of thing. When the movie was finally done it was almost midnight – a late night even by my standards, but I don’t get to see them much, and when at last I gave them their goodnight hugs, we were all fast asleep within minutes.
The chill remained in the air the next morning, but the condo was cozy and there were windows of sunlight in between the clouds. We stayed close, with a quick breakfast at the counter of Charlie’s, before venturing out again. In an attempt to stay warm, we walked through the Copley Mall into the Prudential Center, then across Boylston for some hot chocolate at Starbucks. Fortified by that, and a trio of mint mocha samples (wait, are children supposed to have coffee?) we went back out for a mini holiday stroll of sorts, pausing in the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental and sitting by the fire for a spirited few rounds of ‘I Spy’ then playing with their menagerie of stuffed animals. Emi gave us a math lesson on the little chalkboard, and both of the kids colored in a couple of Christmas tree magnets on hand.
We did a little shopping on Newbury Street, finding a couple of gifts for their Dad and Lola, then we stopped at one more fireside lobby – the Lenox Hotel, where they got to spin a couple of dreidels. Noah wanted to head back to the condo before the party, so we made our way from whence we came. It was time to prepare for the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour in proper.
“Strength shows not only in the ability to persist, but in the ability to start over.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald
During the night the winds arrived. Harsh, driving, window-shaking gusts seeped through the tiniest cracks in the brick and mortar of the condo’s outer shell, filled with such ferocity that it shifted the sheer curtains which did little to keep out the cold. I’d never worried about the condo’s ability to withstand the weather, but on that night the wind was the strongest I’d ever witnessed. I pulled the blankets up to my neck and burrowed deeper into the bed.
The winds continued as dawn arrived. Our Holiday stroll weekend was coming to a close, much to our great regret. It had been a lovely few days, but with more snow on the way it was time to return to upstate New York. Before that, however, we had a few quick morning errands, and a breakfast at Charlie’s right around the corner. Bundled up and battling the wind, we hurried down Braddock Park and sidled up to the counter in front of the grills and toasters. A lackluster order of huevos rancheros was disappointing, but the company was still good, and Kira and I plotted our trip to the market for provisions in anticipation of the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour. Better than that was talk of our next get-together in January. Since the red line to Cambridge was out of commission on weekends, we didn’t get to Porter or Harvard Square, something we will rectify after the New Year. There are Tibetan stores with warm scarves that need our attention, and a couple of cozy dinner spots that we have yet to try. On the day of departure, it’s a small comfort to think of our next meeting.
Finishing our tea and breakfast, we bundled back up and made a hurried shuffle to the market, where we selected a bunch of seltzers, some cookies, and a few other items that would last the week until the children convened for their holiday hour. As much as I love those gatherings, I’ve come to the realization that I’m better in smaller scenes, with one or two good friends, and the peaceful coexistence that Kira and I have perfected in the last two decades would be missed.
With bags weighing us both down, and the wind whipping all around, we waited at Huntington for the light to change. I leaned into Kira hoping for a wind break, falling into her enormous scarf/blanket, then let my head rest briefly on her shoulder. After everything that had happened over the past few weeks, I felt exhausted and wiped out. It all came over me at once, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or shout out of frustration or relief.
We crossed the street and ducked into a cafe for something warm. In a secluded seating area, we found two ridiculous chairs and waited for our coffee and hot chocolate to arrive. It had been a banner Holiday Stroll weekend, quieter but somehow more enjoyable than previous bombastic weekends in the distant past. We paused there, mostly silent, as the light of Sunday morning swept through the windows beside us. In that stillness we found something closer to the true meaning of Christmas, as two friends simply sat together, crossing life-paths, and it was enough.
We were due for a rainy Holiday Stroll after a few years of decent strolling weather, but the rain came almost as a blessing, slowing us down and insisting we stay in the condo a little longer. I made some breakfast burritos and we sipped some tea as the rain descended. Christmas music played in the background; on a guitar ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ sounded after ‘Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella’ and the morning felt tranquil, surrounding us with the softest blanket of gray, the quietest fall of rain.
This, then, was how the Holiday Stroll began.
Like our wedding anniversary in May, or the BroSox Adventures with Skip, or my Broadway weekend with Mom, the Holiday Stroll with Kira is one of my favorite events of the year. While some events wax and wane with luster and sheen as certain years are shaded with sorrow or excitement, our Holiday Stroll has remained a sparkling jewel, thanks to Kira and a seasonal glow that dispels any darkness that might try to creep into the weekend.
This year we kept things light on planning, with a tentative idea of stopping in at the Boston Craft Fair to visit Meredith and Gloria. Meredith was selling her gorgeous handmade boxes – gifts unto themselves, and perfect for the holiday season. As we wound our way through the fair, we stumbled on a magnificent hat booth – Meshugenah Hats – run by a fabulous pair of twins. They were as colorful and intriguing as their fantastic millinery, and we will be revisiting their wonderful wares as soon as possible.
We found Meredith’s booth and said a quick hello before selecting a box made of gorgeous Japanese paper. It was so good to see both Gloria and Meredith, and how wonderful to have them as part of our Holiday Stroll in Boston. Nine years into our tradition, we still thrill at adding new elements and friends to our wanderings.
After our craft fair tour, we checked the weather and the rain had stopped. A happy circumstance as we walked along Boylston Street just a block or two, where we paused at Bar Boulud for some mussels and frites. As we sat looking out at the street, the Santa Speedo Sprint rushed by in a fortuitous bit of timing. Nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ like a bunch of guys in their Speedos. We walked a bit more, and then it was time to return to the condo for a siesta. And a holiday photo shoot in matching outfits. These zany things make the yuletide gay.
A silly siesta is just what this holiday season called for, and we certainly got silly. I will not torture you with the parade of selfies that resulted. I’ll hang onto them for when real life bogs us down again, as it surely will. But for those afternoon hours, we laughed and cracked each other up, two friends doing a whole lot of nothing and loving every minute of it.
The afternoon passed quickly, and soon it was time for our dinner out. Keeping with the casual vibe of the weekend, I’d made reservation at Southern Proper. One enjoys fried chicken for Christmas, right? We put on some street clothes and headed into the South End. Festive sights like this Christmas tree kept the darkness at bay, and as we turned onto Tremont Street, the magic of the season made the night bright.
On the way we stopped at the South End Buttery for some more sparkling water and a bemused bartender stood watch as Kira got a phone call that changed the trajectory of the night, and the whole Holiday Stroll weekend.
Since it is not my tale to tell, I won’t divulge the details. Kira handled it quite well, and after everything else that’s happened this year, it wasn’t a tragedy – just a shock. We spent dinner at Southern Proper talking it over, the way old friends tackle their lives together, sharing and commiserating, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, and doing our best to be supportive, to see each other through whatever might come.
Our Holiday Stroll may be intact, but our lives had irrevocably altered. Not just in that moment, but in the weeks and months leading up to it. We were the same people who had met each other in the fall of 1998 – and yet we weren’t. Life has a way of battering and blunting the very things you strive to protect the most. It spares nothing and no one.
Outside, the night had turned colder. The wind was picking up. I couldn’t get warm and we hurried back to the condo. It was warm there. A bouquet of eucalyptus stood sentry in the bathroom, against a brick wall. We were home for one last night before we returned to our regular lives.
Cheeseboards were on sale at Crate & Barrel, but I refrained from the extravagance of getting one for a single night, figuring I could use a large plate when it was just me and Kira. I did make a stop at Eataly to get some charcuterie items before the risotto dinner, and here are the results. A new book on ‘dry’ cocktails included a recipe for a Blood Orange Sunrise (more on that experience later, and it’s a good one). We paired that mocktail with meats and cheeses and pepper biscuits and Marcona almonds and cornichons. Next time we’ll just make a meal of these items and pig out right proper. Appetizers are always somehow better than dinner anyway. The beauty of being with someone as easygoing as Kira is that we no longer feel the need to impress one another. There is great comfort in that. Safety too. Two things I need more than ever this year. Such was the realization that struck as we finished up our dinner and Kira began the dishes. (I cook, she cleans, and we both prefer it that way.)
The best parts of these holiday get-togethers aren’t the fancy dinners out or the strolling about the city – it’s those little jewels of time where the world feels full and perfect and as close to cozy that this dark time of year can get. One of those moments happened after dinner. To set the scene, allow me to quickly describe what I have dubbed the ‘spa shower’. It’s an easy ritual that Kira and I developed during an especially cold winter a couple of years ago.
The bathroom and bedroom end of the condo is always the coldest, even when the heat is cranked up. The bay window – a boon and beautiful bonus for a bedroom – is a double-edged sword when it lets in the heat of summer and the cold winds of winter. Getting into the shower, especially in winter, is a chilly experience. To combat this, I decided to boil a kettle of water and pour it into the bathtub to raise the heat and humidity. Before this, I sprinkled a few drops of essential oils into the tub – some lavender and lemongrass and geranium and a bit of clove for holiday spice. When the hot water hits the oils and the tub, it gives off a glorious plume of steam, filling the small space with warmth and peaceful perfume. It’s an instant embrace that makes getting into the shower a pleasurable routine. We call it a spa shower, and it’s part of any proper winter weekend in the condo.
After this, clean and moisturized with some Beekman Boys goat’s milk lotion, I shuffled into the living room and snuggled into the couch while Kira finished the last of the dishes. This was it – the highlight of the Holiday Stroll weekend – coming the night before the stroll itself. And I realized it right then and there, which is not customarily the way it works. Unforced, unplanned, unexpected, I returned to a childhood feeling of warmth and safety, before everything became so dangerous, before everything turned so cold. In a pair of pajamas, my feet bare but brushing against the softness of our new blanket and pillow, and backed by another pillow against the cushion of the couch, I felt a coziness I’ve not felt in years, as if I was small enough to disappear into this little corner of cuddliness and look out at the whole of the immense world from a single lofty window.
Holding the moment as long as possible, I made a memory, something to grasp onto when the winter arrived with its bluster and boorish behavior. We moved into the bedroom and returned to a movie tradition, ‘The Man Who Came to Dinner.’ Sleep came before the end of the movie, as it usually does after a full day. The next morning was slated to be our loosely-plotted Holiday Stroll 2019, and steady rain was forecast until the afternoon. We would sleep in as long as possible, a rare luxury for both of us. After my jewel-box of a moment, everything else would be a bonus.
Kira wasn’t due at work until 11:30, so we had some of the morning to get a head-start on grocery items for dinner. I would make a risotto while she was at work, and an easy side vegetable, all of which would be ready when she came home at the end of the day. At the entrance to the nearby Whole Foods Market, I contemplated getting a little Christmas tree, so swept up in the season did I suddenly feel, but Kira wisely steered me back into reason.
We ambled our way along Massachusetts Ave and stopped at the hardware store for light bulbs. Apparently I’m the only one who knows how to change them in the condo. Not unlike the way I’m the only one who knows how to launder bath towels. Or clean out the refrigerator. Ahh, digression… not becoming for the holidays but I don’t really care.
Arriving at the Newbury Street TJ Maxx, it was time for Kira to head to work, while I worked on our matching holiday outfits for a fun photo opportunity later in the day. If you can’t be silly and stupid and carefree during the Christmas season, when can you do it? I’m hellbent on finding that out.
Kira had been cold the night before, and the small throw that had sustained us in the fall was but a trifle of a thing that was more for decorative purposes than real warmth. I examined similar throws in similar scant sizes before deciding to make the trek to HomeGoods in Downtown Crossing to find something more substantial. We needed a real blanket to see us through the winter.
I found a fuzzy one in muted shades of gray and white, with a mottled snowflake pattern, along with a big pillow in gray and white plaid, overlaid with embroidered snowflakes. After a few more shopping stops later, it was time to head back to the condo and begin dinner preparation. There is something gratifying and rewarding about cooking a dinner you are sure someone else will appreciate and enjoy.
Passing through Copley Square, I paused at every tree, and made a quick stop at the Lenox Hotel. It brought back happy memories, and the scent of the lobby reminded me of birthdays and joy and love. Sometimes the day provides enough warmth and light to last through the night.
Before I started the long stir-crazy stir-fest that was risotto, a cheeky photo shoot to send some blog traffic stats into overdrive. Modeling the latest in ridiculous holiday garb, I tried out this Ralph Lauren nightshirt, a smaller version of which I had on hand for Kira. Those pics yet to come… As for these, here’s some wisdom I mentioned earlier in the day to Kira, “Christmas is not about being sexy.”
I stand as testament to this.
In the words or sentiment of Jesus (the reason for the season), I turned the other cheek.
For our 9th Holiday Stroll (or thereabouts), Kira and I turned it into an extra-long weekend, and it still went by much too quickly. The Boston sky was deep blue when I touched down on a Thursday afternoon. The forecast was for a little bit of everything – the typical Northeastern challenge posed by our variable weather patterns. I made the most of the waning blue, as rain and wind were due nearer the end of the weekend.
Arriving with a batch of Mexican wedding cookies, but not much else in the way of culinary provisions, I made a last-minute decision to try out a grocery-shopping app which promised delivery in about an hour. This would be a super-casual weekend, both in activities and dining options. Neither Kira nor I were up for anything very fancy this year. What we yearned for more than anything was comfort and warmth, and I thought back to a simple dish of creamed chicken over toast and butter that my Grandma had made for us when we were kids. It was a basic roux of butter and flour which I punctuated with some fresh garlic and herbs, but otherwise stayed true to its rustic simplicity. Kira helped dissemble a rotisserie chicken and dinner was soon on the table as the temperature dropped outside.
The holidays candles were lit, emitting their pine fragrance and recalling winter forest scenes that could have been real or imagined, a trick of memory or wish. Christmas spirit slipped into the condo like Santa through the chimney. I kept one eye on the fireplace when I wasn’t peering outside.
On the street below, the fountain had been drained, but decorated in boughs of pine and Christmas lights. I’d never seen it done up like that, and it made for a much happier visage than the bare and waterless feature which will see us through most of the winter.
Inside, warmth and coziness spread out around us. The wet bar was lit up in holiday splendor, its wood illuminated unlike any other time of the year. We had a holiday mocktail of cranberry and seltzer to go along with dinner. Taking our time with it – the entire weekend was still ahead – we eased into the gentle pace of things. There was no need to rush. My shopping was already complete. All parties had been wiped from our social schedule. We had a few things to prepare for the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, but nothing too extreme, as that would also be a casual affair. All in all, it was a peaceful beginning to our Holiday Stroll weekend.
To cap the first night off, I presented Kira with her Christmas gift – which is the reason I told her in advance to bring a big-ass carrying bag. This slow-cooker was no small box, and she’s been talking about getting one for a few years now. It was time. I’ll bring some recipes when we get together next month. But I’m getting ahead of myself, which is easy to do when you rush to tell a happy story…
Before this website’s major revamping of 2012, most of the blog posts prior to that time were intentionally wiped out and destroyed. A few memorable ones I made the effort to salvage, mostly from 2010-2011, in which a number of Madonna Timelines played a part, and in order to preserve the continuity and completion of that series I brought them into the update. Other than that, however, the time period before that is a bit hazy, which is why the very first Holiday Stroll I did with Kira remains part myth, part magic, and part lost history.
The nearest I can tell is that it took place in 2011 or 2012, relatively soon after Kira had returned to the Boston area from Florida. That’s when we fortuitously reconnected and started hanging out again, as if her ten years away hadn’t even happened, as if my time in Chicago and Albany were but a daydream. Old friends, especially the good ones, are like that. We picked up exactly where we left off, instantly in sync and totally in tandem as we ventured through Boston and the calendar ticked toward its yearly end.
That first Holiday Stroll was nothing more than a whim, a catchphrase I casually threw out half-jokingly as we scampered through the Boston Public Garden beneath a gray sky spitting snow. We linked arms as we passed by the walking bridge, carrying ourselves in ridiculously haughty fashion as if it were a century ago, then crossed to Beacon Hill where we did some window-shopping. That was about it, and that was enough. Our Holiday Stroll tradition was born. The next year we repeated it when we found ourselves together at Christmastime again, incorporating a dim-sum lunch in Chinatown and a fireside highball in some hotel lobby. Again, it was nothing but our usual shenanigans, given heightened import thanks to the season and the festive air.
By our third year, it felt like it might become a tradition, and we expanded it into a Holiday Stroll weekend, beginning with a Friday night stop at the lobby of the Liberty Hotel, and finishing up with a Sunday brunch somewhere in the city. It was around this time that I started making an itinerary. That immediately sapped some of the joy from the impromptu nature of all previous proceedings, but I liked the sense of gravitas it attempted to conjure.
A year or two later the itinerary had grown so detailed it was down to the minute – I had plotted out the route in ten-minute increments, down to specific ‘casual’ops at hotels for five-minute rest breaks. It was too much, and the universe saw to it that we were saddled with rain and wind, throwing a wrench into my carefully-planned schedule, and rendering it all moot. The first store I had down for us to visit was closed, and we never quite recovered, hitting only four or five of the dozen or so listed stops. Since then I haven’t done a full itinerary in the hope of recapturing the original whim of the first few years. It’s far more enjoyable that way.
A Holiday Stroll should be flexible enough to allow for last-minute inspirations and spur-of-the-moment hairpin curves. Kira never allows herself to be bound to time, and it’s a lesson I’ve slowly learned after years of hanging out with her. For our Holiday Stroll 2019, I only have our annual showing of ‘The Man Who Came To Dinner’ planned as of this writing – the rest will unfurl as the spirits of Christmas intend.
Whether this is our 8thor 9thor 15thHoliday Stroll, it really doesn’t matter. I’ve tried holding onto traditions thinking there was some magic in that, when the real magic is not in doing the exact same thing over and over again, but in being with those who mean the most to us. As I learn to wrap my head around that, I hold those I love a little closer, and the world spins more wildly around us.
Here, to the best of my archival search abilities, is a list of our documented Holiday Strolls:
We made a few traditional stops during out time together – Copley and Downtown Crossing – and I’d done some walking and shopping on Newbury before Kira arrived. The weather was too nice to stay inside on that first day. There would be cold coming soon enough, and a cozy dinner of a chicken pasta casserole that I made for our first evening. (I also brought a bunch of these Mexican Wedding cookies, because nos casamos!)
Saturday morning dawned chilly and bright, and we headed downtown to make a dent on holiday shopping. Mostly we ended up with condo decorations for the upcoming Boston Children’s Holiday Hour (more on that later) and a few charcuterie items from Eataly for our siesta.
As the afternoon wore happily on, we assembled a few holiday additions, put on the first collection of holiday music to play this year, and kicked it all off officially. There was no going back.
In the strange and secluded little wet bar section of the condo, now cordoned off by a big-ass curtain, I put in a bunch of silver ornamentation to reflect candlelight and expand the space with some mirror-like surfaces. Some sparkle, especially in the darkest time of the year, is always welcome.
Our dinner out (because I can’t be expected to cook every single thing for a Friendsgiving) was at Ruth’s Chris Steak House. For years I’ve avoided the steakhouse chain, mostly for its awkward name, but also because, well, steakhouse chain. This time I gave in because I just wanted to see what the Old City Hall in Boston looked like from the inside. The meal was perfectly fine too, so ignore my prior snobbishness – everybody else does. Outside the weather had turned winter-like. Cutting winds and freezing temps made for a rushed walk home, where hot tea and cookies awaited assembly and serving.
Sunday morning was originally meant for some holiday shopping in Cambridge, but we’d heard that something was going on with the Red Line, and when I checked to confirm (because I was NOT doing a shuttle bus again) it proved true. A change of plans was discussed over a quick breakfast at Charlie’s. We would drive to the Wrentham Outlets, which was close to Kira’s house, and do some shopping there. I knocked out the majority of my list, and more than the majority of what my credit card budget allowed, and we closed out this opening holiday weekend in exhausted but happy style. We will see each other again next month for our 8thor 9thHoliday Stroll. Some traditions deserve to be kept.
A night alone in the condo carries its own sense of magic and healing. There, one can be silent and still. One can embrace the quiet and the solitude and, if it’s meant to be, come to terms with it, reconciling oneself to the wonders of the world. No matter the storms outside, inside there is tranquility. Such Boston brownstones have stood for centuries; humans will come and go, but Boston will remain.
When it comes to Boston, one of my earliest, and some of my happiest, memories involve the Red Sox, and on this morning I headed to their home to do some shopping and exploring. Much has been made of the area in the last ten years or so, and it’s very much worth a look now.
I woke early to try out the new Time Out food court in Fenway, as well as find some drapes at West Elm. The former was fabulous, the latter was lackluster, though I did settle for some clearance curtains that will work until a better alternative can be found.
My previous day’s bout with loneliness had mostly been quelled, but as I made my way past Fenway Park the streets were disconcertingly empty. For the last few years, I’ve only ever seen those streets bustling and busy with hordes of people: hot-dog vendors screaming about their wares, ticket-sellers shouting in Gahhhd-awful accents, and baseball paraphernalia hawkers squawking about their merchandise. On this Saturday morning, the place was a ghost-town, eerily bereft of excitement and celebration, and I felt the sad sense of missing my pal Skip. I almost texted him to see if he wanted me to pick up a baseball hat for him, but didn’t want to interrupt whatever weekend plan he was enjoying.
Walking on to Time Out, the day brightened and I shook off the unfamiliar remnants of vulnerability. Mamaleh’s was offering an incredible bagel sandwich with lox and capers and some wickedly delicious spread that brought it all together. I sat by a window looking out at the grassy court and the people wandering outside. I was feeling more like myself, ok with being alone again. The spell had been broken. Besides, JoAnn was arriving in a few hours, so I had to get back and prepare.
There wasn’t much time for dawdling, however, as I needed to change and put up the curtains before JoAnn came in from the Cape. We were going to walk through Cambridge – all the way from Porter Square to Central Square, culminating with a dinner at Cuchi Cuchi, which JoAnn has been wanting to try for years.
At the condo, the sun slanted in through the bedroom and I changed into some ridiculous lounge-wear. A velvet robe works wonders for the sullen soul. Moving to the front window, I opened it a bit more to allow the sound of the fountain to lend its calming music to the afternoon. This might very well be the last time we get to hear its sweet melody this year; soon it will be drained and winterized for its seasonal slumber. A sad thought indeed, and I sat down at the table and took it in while waiting for JoAnn’s arrival.
It turns out these in-between moments of waiting and stillness are just as important as the main events, and I thought back to previous times when I would wait for a friend to arrive. There has always been something joyful in that anticipation, in the full richness of something promised. The goal is to enjoy the before, during and after with equal fervor. I’m working on all of it, and so is JoAnn. She arrived and we immediately picked up where we left off, practically mid-conversation, before heading off to Cambridge, and the endless escalator of Porter Square.
Bopping from shop to shop, we made our way along Massachusetts Ave, picking up a silk scarf at a Tibetan store before arriving at two hat purchases in Harvard Square. Nobody wears a hat better than JoAnn, so when she found one at Anthropologie, we were helpless to say no. While it’s still not quite the magnificent off-set piece of millinery magic we found at Galvanized all those years ago, it’s spectacular in its own right. We’ve both come to make peace with compromise and loss, and in the magnificent waning afternoon sunlight, we arrived at our dining destination.
There’s nothing as soul-sustaining as sharing a meal with a long-time friend, especially if that friend has become a part of your family. JoAnn and I have known each other since 1998 – and we’ve been through a lot in the ensuing two decades. War buddies in a way, we’ve survived and held onto our friendship like it was some golden thread keeping us alive. We laughed at our hapless server, we ate well, and we stopped for dessert at another place in Central Square. It was the perfect evening between friends. Classic us in the best possible way.
The next morning was just as beautiful as the entire weekend had been, and we reluctantly headed back to our respective lives, promising to see each other in the coming holiday months. We both need to look forward to something – we run better that way. A bright and magnificent October weekend had come to a close, yet we did not mourn it. We celebrated that it happened, that after all these years we could still find love and laughter amid the debris of so many fall days.
SHADOWS ARE FALLING AND I’M RUNNING OUT OF BREATH
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
IF I LEAVE YOU IT DOESN’T MEAN I LOVE YOU ANY LESS
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
Firmly embedded within the heart of fall, the October weekend unleashed a torrent of sunshine, cool breezes, autumnal beauty, laughter and healing, and it all happened with two of my favorite friends – the very best kind of fall weekend to have. It’s been ages since I’ve last seen Kira in Boston. That’s happened before, when snow or scheduling prevents our seeing each other for months at a time. It always feels a little lonelier when those stretches happen; Kira connects me to a time and a place when things were simpler and more innocent, when our main concerns weren’t aging parents or health issues, but where we would eat lunch during our break at John Hancock, or who we would invite to a work holiday party. We long for such concerns now.
It was June when we last met – before the official start of summer – and while I tend to spend more of my summer days at home by the pool, I was willing to make the trip to Boston if she was able to hang out, but we never got around to it. Then her sister passed away unexpectedly and she was called back to Panama for the services. Suddenly, life threw its seriousness in the way of get-togethers, in the way of summer, and I stepped back in requesting any frivolous weekend gatherings. Knowing when to say nothing is as important as knowing what exactly to say. And Kira has always been on the quiet side, keeping things within and not bothering others with messy emotional mayhem. I can relate to and respect that.
WHEN YOU GET UP IN THE MORNING AND YOU SEE THAT CRAZY SUN
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
THERE’S A TRAIN LEAVING NIGHTLY CALLED, “WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE”
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
To honor our reunion, I looked up some classic Panamanian dishes she might enjoy and chose a sancocho. (I kept texting her that I made a ‘sancecho’ and she thought I lost my mind.) It was all about the culantro (not cilantro!) and it turned out to be the perfect meal for a fall evening. Patches of rain hovered and moved on throughout the afternoon, the windows were open just a bit to let in the sound of the fountain, and the coziness of fall descended amid the flickering of candles. Those quiet moments before her arrival, as the soup heated up and Shirley Horn cooed her world-weary wisdom, were where I found peace in anticipation.
We had dinner then watched a bit of ‘The Witches of Eastwick’ and ‘Hocus Pocus‘ then slumbered until the early morning. Kira had to work, but we had the first part of the day to explore Boston a bit. The day was beautiful – all bright blue skies and sun-drenched flowers not yet felled by frost – and we meandered through the Southwest Corridor Park up to Copley, where the Farmer’s Market was assembling its shady stands. Vegetables and gourds and flowers spilled out of buckets – there were warnings on the bouquets that this was likely the last weekend for dahlias given the likelihood of a hard frost the next week. Baked goods sat in neat little rows, pots of herbs swayed gently in the breeze, and the very best part of fall was upon us.
SOMETIMES WHEN YOU’RE DOING SIMPLE THINGS AROUND THE HOUSE
MAYBE YOU’LL THINK OF ME AND SMILE
YOU KNOW I’M TIED TO YOU LIKE THE BUTTONS ON YOUR BLOUSE
We passed by the bench where I met the first man I ever kissed. Kira already knew the story and I didn’t feel like telling it so we walked on without remarking. The mark of real friendship is being ok to walk together in silence and quiet. Maybe we both needed that this weekend.
Even with its beauty, fall can be emotionally tricky. After the sorrow of her summer, Kira’s smiles were slightly slower in coming, but we managed a few laughs. I gave her a belated birthday gift of some Vera Bradley bags and a photo of her in this yellow dress from our last time together. Too soon, it was time for her to go to work, so I joined her on the journey to the Charles/MGH T-stop. An old stomping ground that has come to have new meaning over the years, it held memories for both of us. We hugged goodbye and she crossed the street to the hospital. I walked on further, up past the street that held such secrets and confusing sadness. Pausing where such a pivotal time of my life happened, I felt the same wonder at being in this space in the middle of the day. People rushed by, a few construction guys seemed to be on their lunch break, and at the bottom of the street was the very apartment where I first got naked with a man. What part of me did I leave there? What did I really think I would find?
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
HOLD ME IN YOUR THOUGHTS, TAKE ME TO YOUR DREAMS
TOUCH ME AS I FALL INTO VIEW
AND WHEN THE WINTER COMES, KEEP THE FIRES LIT
Without fanfare or warning, the day turned gray, as if the vibrant color Kira and I enjoyed earlier had been drained by some instant bit of photoshop sorcery. Shades of black and white stilled the clock. Time paused and rewound. I saw myself back in that fall of 1994, some impossibly-thin and gangly man-child making his way down these streets, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder, head down and avoiding the world, simultaneously thrilled and dismayed with having just had his first sexual encounter with an older guy. I wasn’t even out yet, I wasn’t even sure I was gay, and not being able to tell anyone about what just happened left me incredibly – indelibly – isolated and alone. That’s the sad province of so many young gay people. I suppose I never thought about how lonely some of us were.
Suddenly I missed Kira, and then I realized that JoAnn wasn’t arriving until the next day. I had the rest of the day and all of the night to spend alone. It’s been ages since I’ve felt loneliness. At first, it was frightening. There’s such a primal terror in that first brush with feeling lonely, and it had been so long since I’d experienced it that I wasn’t sure what to do. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling. When I realized it – when I understood that I was, at that moment, lonely – I felt an unlikely exhilaration. I’m not sure how to fully describe it. It was almost relief that I could still be frightened by this world, that I could still access the pangs and aches of loneliness, that I could still feel that sense of loss, even if the loss isn’t apparent, even if you never had anything to lose in the first place.
AND I WILL BE RIGHT NEXT YOU
ENGINE DRIVERS HEADED NORTH TO PLEASANT STREET
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
THESE WHEELS KEEP TURNING BUT THEY’RE RUNNING OUT OF STEAM
I walked back to the condo, unsure of what to do with myself, almost paralyzed with the idea of empty hours and empty rooms. As the light waned and the day dimmed, I fired off texts inviting friends to this year’s Children’s Holiday Hour – not until December, but it was all I could do to quell the feeling of panic rising within.
Thankfully, the loneliness did not last. It had found me, like an old friend, and we nodded at each other in acknowledgement and admiration. Yes, we were both still here. Yes, we had both been around. Yes, we both remembered. Honoring what we had been to one another, we reconciled and went on our separate ways.
When loneliness departed this time, I didn’t miss it. This would not be our last meeting, and perhaps next time we will be more at ease. Old friends are like that.
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
SHA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LO
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
SHA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LO
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
Birthdays are often a meld of disappointment, relief, enthusiasm, ennui, and if you’re lucky a couple of unexpected but happy surprises. My 44thdawned without fanfare or let-down, on a beautiful sunny day in Boston, with blue skies and gentle breezes.
It began in simple and quiet form: a breakfast at Sonsie’s. Now, apart from a cocktail or two, I’ve never had a proper sit-down meal at Sonsie’s. I remember when it first opened so many years ago, and how popular and crowded it had been, and ever since then I’ve sort of avoided it. Not for any specific reason, it was one of those places that was always there. The older I get however, the more I realize how fleeting our time here can be. No day but today, and so we began with a mimosa, and a panhandler reaching into the cafe area for donated spare change. He was quickly chased off by a manager, and the live theater of Newbury Street resumed.
We made a few shopping stops before winding up at my favorite place in all of Boston, the Public Garden, where a fleet of geese and a few very sociable squirrels crossed our path. By this point. Andy was tired out and headed back to the condo, while I went on to Downtown Crossing for some solo shopping.
On every birthday, and every special day in my life really, I somehow manage to find a bit of alone time. Usually it’s not intentionally-planned, it just happens, and I am always a little grateful for it. I traipsed around the bustling stores downtown, then returned to the condo with enough time for some stoop gazing.
The Braddock Park fountain gurgled in the near distance and I watched the people and dogs walk by. It was a perfect afternoon – sunny but comfortable, and a beautiful breeze kept things cool. We had an early dinner at Explorateur, and though the Avery bar at the Ritz Carlton was closed, we found another place nearby that served a pre-theater cocktail.
The next morning was overcast and windy, the leaves of the oak trees lining Columbus Avenue were turned inside out, and when the host at Petit Robert asked if we would prefer to sit outside or in, we chose the latter, where we could watch the windy day safely ensconced behind a pane of glass. A post-birthday brunch made for an enjoyable Sunday morning, and after procuring cookies at Cafe Madeleine, we were back en route to Albany. Another trip around the sun had begun…
It began with a Thursday afternoon entrance to Boston, which was super-hot and sticky, and not at all conducive to walking, so we took an Uber around the corner to the new Four Seasons residential building which housed Zuma. Surrounded by construction, Dalton Street looked like it held promise, but it was still a bit far off. No matter. Once inside, it was a different world, and as we dramatically ascended a winding staircase that led from the lobby to the restaurant, I was a happy camper.
Andy was game and generous enough to try the signature omakase dinner of eight to ten chef-curated dishes (or so they told us) and the endless parade began. We ordered a pair of cocktails: the lychee and rose petal martini for me, and the burning history for him (Suntori Toki whiskey, honey, ginger, egg whites and barrel stave smoke).
Then more dishes came.
And still more dishes.
By the time the dessert boat of molten chocolate cake, raspberry meringue, and a couple of different ice creams arrived, we were beyond full. But you only live once, and this was worth it. (Even if it filled us up for the entire weekend.)
The next day we headed over to the Museum of Fine Arts to see the Gender Bending Fashion exhibit. They seem to be in step with the Met’s ‘Camp’ theme, and did their best with some memorable ensembles that I actually recalled from various red carpet moments.
We also got to try out the newly-refurbished restaurant (formerly Bravo and now 465), which had dishes that looked as gorgeous as they tasted. One would expect no less from the MFA.
Part of my birthday celebration included a visit to the Downton Abbey exhibition at the Castle at Park Plaza, and it was better than expected, as well as perfectly-timed for the release of the movie next month.
It’s my new favorite haunt, with a glorious cocktail menu, including the artfully-rendered ‘Sunset Over Instanbul’ – a perfectly-balanced concoction of gin, lemon, apricot liqueur, and orange bitters.
We ended the night across another street – at Strip by Strega – where a delicious steak dinner granted Andy his beef wish. We returned to the condo, where I spent my last night as a 43-year-old, peacefully convalescing until the clock ticked to #44…
A flash of feathers and a fluttering of brown and gray alerted me to the presence of a large creature right across the street from our brownstone in Boston. It was much too large to be a pigeon or squirrel (both regular denizens of the street) and soon enough a head popped up, then went down, then popped back up again behind a car, and as it traversed the sidewalk I saw it was a turkey. More incredible were the four or five baby turkeys waddling in its wake (turklings?) How this turkey family came to be living across the street from me in the middle of a metropolis is a mystery. There must have been a nest in the shaded little square of bushes, and since I’m told turkeys are highly territorial (kids have been attacked while straying into their supposed territory near school bus stops) I don’t see how one would make a nest on a relatively-well-tread street.
Yet there it was. There they all were. Against all odds and reason, they kept to their corner while curious and amused onlookers whipped out their phone cameras and aimed for the best shot. I watched from the safety of our second floor vantage point, puzzling out what circumstances could have brought them to Braddock Park.
In addition to listening about their rumored territoriality, I heard that they were dumb as rocks. Some are so stupid that they reportedly look up at the sky when it’s raining, open their beaks, and drown themselves. I suppose the validity of that is as suspect as their vicious territorial nature. One never knows quite what to believe these days. We watched them a little longer before leaving for a show; the neighborhood children were transfixed and every passer-by paused in befuddled delight. Turns out turkeys make the people come together.
The next morning we looked for them again. Some of the neighbors were looking too, but the turkeys had disappeared. I saw the nosier of them poking around in the little garden, trying to prod anything to come out, but there was no one there. Maybe something got them in the night – a raccoon or possum or dog. Or maybe they had decided they’d had enough of city life and took off to somewhere more rural. More likely it was the work of humans. We’ve always been the most destructive species.
An early summer night in Boston is often filled with the sweet fragrance of elderly linden trees, and on this late evening the perfume was prevalent as soon as we skirted Boston Common. Following the show, we walked over to the Four Seasons, where we each teetered on the edge of ordering that amazing multi-layer chocolate cake, but ultimately refrained. The server remembered us from last time, and insisted on a second pour of a sparkling rose. Who am I to say no? Across from the hotel the Boston Public Garden was shrouded in the shadows of more linden trees, while in the lobby the post-celebration vestiges of a wedding spilled out from the elevators. Everyone, it seemed, was having a happy night.
We took an Uber back to the condo, where I promptly crashed. We had brunch reservations back beside the Public Garden the next morning; it’s so much nicer in the sunlight. As the air conditioner hummed in the window, and the quiet Boston night settled around us, the next thing I knew Andy was waking me and asking what time it was. I looked at my phone and panicked: it was 10:30 and we had 11:00 reservations.
Luckily, in times of dire need and urgency, I can be ready in ten minutes, and with both of us rushing we walked into the restaurant a minute shy of 11 AM.
On almost every trip to Boston, I try to make a stop in the Public Garden. It holds a special place in my heart, and on this day it was doubly fun as Andy was along for the stroll. We passed the spot where we got married over nine years ago (our 10thwedding anniversary looms happily within the next year – yes, plans are already being made!) There were fleets of ducks landing in the pond, and the pair of white swans stood together on the island. Squirrels were about, dodging dogs and children, and the lingering bracts of the Chinese dogwood held their white starbursts brilliantly against the sky.
