Category Archives: Boston

We woke to rain. A steady rainfall is not an unhappy environment in which to fall asleep, but waking to it on a day when you want to walk around is a different story. I went back to sleep for a bit, and when at last I rolled out of bed, the rain had subsided slightly. The sky was brighter, though there was no sign of the sun coming anytime soon. I let Andy sleep while I caught up on the shopping I’d originally intended to finish the night before.

The sky seemed undecided on what it wanted to do. I walked for stretches without an umbrella, and then the rain would fall with greater force, forcing me to open it up. Along Newbury Street, others seemed to be having the same indeterminate conversation with themselves ~ half of us held onto open umbrellas, the remainder hurried along intent on ignoring the situation entirely. I paused to admire a stand of tulips in full bloom and fettered with tiny water droplets. Bound with such beauty, they took on an aspect of freshness that might have been missing on a sunnier day.

A rainy Saturday in May can be a dreadfully dreary proposition, especially when one knows how good such a thing would be with just a little more sunlight. To combat this, I adorned myself in cheery colors (buttercup-yellow pants and a wedgewood-blue raincoat) along with a cheery fragrance (‘Vivaciously Bold’ by Diana Vreeland).

All the while, our peony opened up more and slowly lightened its petals. The deep rose of before was ripening into a coral that glowed with every bit of light it reflected. It was a globe of enchanting beauty, with a fragrance that was entirely new to my limited knowledge of the peony world.

Arriving in the rain (because there was no other way to arrive) we hustled into the Hawthorne Bar, just a few doors down from our dinner destination, Eastern Standard. The Hawthorne is one of my favorite spots in Boston, and the perfect cozy spot for a rainy evening. On hand is a unique list of specialty cocktails, along with recommendations for whatever spirits you favor. I continued the Eastside kick I’ve been on of late, and Andy tried out the Hemingway daiquiri once I assured him it did not come in a big-ass daiquiri glass with a rod of fruit sticking out of it. We were equally pleased with our choices.

After our cocktails, and the requisite Instagramming of said libations, we hurried down the street to Eastern Standard. Despite the years I’ve been in Boston, and the years that ES has been around, this was the first time I’ve made it into the place. It was worth the wait, with its handsome interior, and another list of glorious cocktails. My mind was more intent on the oysters you see here ~ roasted for a switch, and amended with breadcrumbs and good stuff to give it just the right slant for a cold night.

They also sent out a pair of glasses filled with sparkling rosé wine for our anniversary, the very best sort of surprise when one is visiting a restaurant for a special occasion. It was a lovely cap for our first dinner, and we piled back into a car despite the fact that the rain was letting up. (Alas, it was but a tease, and the rain would continue into the next day…)

Seven years ago, on a gorgeously sunny day in the Boston Public Garden, Andy and I had our wedding ceremony. It was an intimate event, filled with some of our favorite things, and it was done in a way that meant the most to us. As is custom, I’m posting the links to that wonderful weekend below, while we take a badly-needed trip to honor all the fun we had. Happy anniversary to us!

Part 1: The Arrival & Accommodations

Part 2: The Rehearsal Dinner

Part 3: The Last Call of a Bachelor

Part 4: The Dawn of the Wedding Day

Part 5: The Ceremony

Part 6: The Perfect Day in the Park

Part 7: The Wedding Lunch

Part 8: The Wedding Dinner

Bonus Post: The Residual Glow of Marriage

Two pink cherry trees in full bloom framed the entrance to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. The glorious double Kwanzan variety makes a dramatic specimen, especially when in the throes of its blooming passion. Here, I offer a look at the one on the left, in case you’re unable to witness their splendor in person. Tis the season of the sakura.

The story of Boston’s vanishing men continues, as I just read a report of another body found near the Charles River. Conspiracy theorists must be having a field day with this; I’m a bit more skeptical. Still, there are eerie threads to other similar disappearances and the dead men found soon thereafter.

There is much about this world that remains haunting, mysteries that remain unsolved, and an uneasiness in the night. Who knows whom the darkness will snatch next?

“I hope I’m in a safe place when it happens…” – Madonna ‘Truth or Dare’

It had been an idyllic morning in Boston. Kira and I had awakened to a day dotted with sunlight, and were assembling a breakfast of bagels and lox to go with our peppermint tea. Though the sun was shining and the sky was almost blue, there were clouds traveling overhead. Outside, the street was dirty and gray, the kind of thing you see more toward the end of winter rather than in these early stages. I picked up an apple and began to slice it.

I knew what was going to happen. As I held the new knife on the precarious apex of an apple slice, I saw that my thumb was dangerously below where I was about to cut, but I did it anyway. The knife caught on the apple, and I exerted more pressure, but it wasn’t budging. I pushed a little harder, and it finally sliced through the firm flesh – of the apple first, then of my thumb and thumbnail.

I’ve cut myself before, and with knives far sharper, but this was the deepest cut I’™ve ever had, and blood immediately started gushing out. As someone who grew up with regular nosebleeds, I’m also accustomed to a large amount of blood – in sinks, on tables, in tissues and on my hands – but this was bleeding more than a nose or scrape, and I had a brief, or not so brief, moment of panic.

As I wrapped my thumb in a wet paper towel (thank God I’d already gone out and replenished them), I dispatched Kira to the store for band-aids and alcohol, since the only kind we had on hand was gin. As she rushed out, I sat down at the table and held my thumb. The bleeding had not stopped, and I pulled the paper towel tighter around the soreness.

I suddenly felt, for one of the very few times in life, genuinely frightened. Alone, without Andy, in Boston, I wondered what I would have done had Kira not been there. How would I have managed to get to the store while bleeding like that? My mind conjured more extreme ideas of what might happen to me while I was alone. The stark gray scene of a scary future presented itself in the quiet aftermath of the wound. I saw myself standing there, an old man, looking out the window onto a desolate winter day, childless and terrified of the world and my solitude. It was disturbing, and very much unlike me. As someone who treasures his alone time, I was unaccustomed to this fear. I felt very small.

My thumb was throbbing, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing. I noticed the small clots of darker blood in the paper towel. There was a gaping slit in my thumb, when I could see it before the bleeding began again, but Kira soon returned, and I doused the cut with alcohol then bandaged it up. My hand was shaking, and when Kira asked why I couldn’t answer.

Something about the whole morning spooked me, but Kira was a reassuring comfort. Nagging thoughts that the black and blue tip of my thumb would never heal played across my mind, but people have suffered far worse than a knife cut, and I rebounded into my usual frivolity, even as I knew then that I had been changed forever.

One of the best parts of visiting our Boston condo is the fact that it’s kind of like a hotel. If all is as it should be, I can arrive to a perfectly-made bed, a pile of fluffy towels, and a pristine collection of rooms that is immaculate, save perhaps for some dust that can be easily cleaned with a quick pass of the Swiffer. There’s a peace and tranquility that appeals to my Virgo mind upon seeing a perfectly-kept room, and a clean and orderly setting. And yes, there’s something anal about it, but there’s something anal about my entire life. Upon departing Boston, I make sure to leave everything as it was found, if not cleaner, because I know someone, and not necessarily me, will get to have the same experience.

This doesn’t always happen when my brother has been in the condo. Last weekend I needed a peaceful entry more than anything, but I walked into a place that was missing its bath towels, missing all toilet paper, missing all tissues, and missing all paper towels. There was, however, a used band-aid on the floor, a bunch of beer in the fridge, a dirty dish in the sink, and crumbs and water glass stains all over our grandmother’s table. Typical stuff that I’ve asked my brother to be careful of, so many times that a recent text exchange found him exasperatingly stating, “It seems like every time I go there, there’s a problem!” Umm, yeah. That’s kind of the point. This time, I just gave up. It’s one of the many fundamental differences between my brother and myself. Most people assume I’m the spoiled and selfish one, but underneath it all that’s not the case. I may demand cologne and clothing and act the diva, but I would never think of leaving a house without towels or toilet paper for the next visitor. How hard is it to put a load of laundry in the washer that’s right outside our door? I do it every time I’m in Boston. But I suppose when you still live with your parents, you don’t have to take of yourself and you forget such simple acts of existence. (The deteriorating state of my parents’ house is ample proof of this, and there is no way I will allow that to spread to Boston.)

As much as it irked me, I felt myself giving up to the whole hopelessness of the situation. Such antics and carelessness are hallmarks of my brother’s life. In some ways it’s part of his charm; in most ways it’s infuriating and annoying, but the notion of anything changing after three decades of it is a foolish one, and I’m surprised I haven’t come to that realization before now. That doesn’t make it right, it just makes it something over which I have no control. A good friend gave me some excellent advice: the only thing we can control is how we act in our own lives and how we treat other people. What they do with that, and how they behave, is on them.

We live for the spring and the fall, and those first few weeks of summer. The rest we merely tolerate, but a winter is necessary in order for us to appreciate those beautiful days when they return. Such is the dreary state of a winter slumber in Boston. Even when the weather is not horrid, it’s still dull and brown and dirty until the freshness of spring comes back to paint the world green again.

For now, winter allows for a stark and barren landscape, which is better for revealing the architectural details of bare trees or buildings unobscured by leafy canopies. Things are more defined, and there is a different kind of beauty at work – a cold beauty, a hard beauty.

Two of my favorite worlds collided last year when the Beekman Boys started this little pop-up in the Lenox Hotel in Boston. I’d always been enamored of the delicious lemon verbena soaps they had on hand, but the Boys brought their Fresh Air line into the hotel and refreshed this elegant boutique hotel. It’s the perfect match, as the Lenox has become one of the most impressively environmentally-conscious hotels in the area, and the Beekman Boys are all about supporting local goods on a global level.

The collection of lions, named coincidentally after Boston’s own airport, is a whimsical touch. Say hello to Logan.

Turning down several holiday invitations and Victorian Strolls, I spent last weekend in Boston, taking a badly-needed pre-holiday mini-vacation in a last-ditch effort to prevent a complete loss of my mind due to work and holiday stress. I’d been saving a gift certificate to the Mandarin Oriental Spa for just such a weekend, and had scheduled a session on Friday afternoon. The thought of their vitality pool was enough to see me through the work-week, and as I walked through a chilly but sunny Boston afternoon, I began to drop my shoulders, to let go of the regular seasonal stress, and to finally relax.

Everything was as I remembered it, and the Mandarin doesn’t mess around when it comes to client care and the utmost in professional service. A warm cup of tea paired with an orchid and a hot washcloth greeted me at the spa, as I undid my shoes and slid into a pair of slippers.

Inside the spa, the light was soft. Soothing music blended into the peaceful environs, and the hush of the setting was exactly what I’d been craving. It was the hush of gratitude and peace. The antidote and the real reason for the season. The slow and deliberate cadence of meditative quiet took some adjustment, but soon I was back in the serene groove.

A quick shower in the deliciously-fragrant Quintessence body wash and shampoo was followed by a deep soak in the vitality pool, where hot water bubbled and pulsed away all the worries of the world. Across the expanse, a steam room glowed warmly, its immense corner crystal emitting whatever peace could possibly come from a crystal, while the steam pulled out toxins and poisons, eliciting a deeper sense of relaxation. By the time of my massage appointment, I was already enjoying the bliss of physical ease and contentment, and the windy chill of Boston was but a distant memory.

In the relaxation room I reclined in a fluffy robe. A selection of fruit and teas stood in the corner. Curtains surrounded each spot of repose, giving privacy and seclusion to the meditative mode on hand. When my massage time arrived, the stage of tranquility had been set.

I’m relatively new to getting massages, but they are now one of my most favorite things in the world (so if you’re looking for any last minute gift ideas, please take note). It’s like yoga without having to exert any effort whatsoever. (My favorite part of yoga is that last ten minutes of repose anyway.)

Many thanks to the wonderful staff at the Mandarin Oriental in Boston for a luxurious afternoon of bliss.