Category Archives: Boston

Every time I say anything remotely critical of parents and children, some Mom or Dad gets all riled up and defensive, as if I’m attacking their own kid. This time, I’m going to reserve my personal feelings on the matter at hand and simply leave this out for interpretation and private discussion: this double-wide stroller was parked in the middle of a T car the last time I was in Boston. As you can see, it was impossible for anyone wider than 18 inches to pass by it. I genuinely want to know if this is acceptable to others. (I’m not proffering an opinion one way or another, so there’s no need to go crazy on my ass.) What is the best way to travel with such a stroller on public transportation (it didn’t look like it could be folded into a more manageable size)?

The annoying, obnoxious little kid in me (who takes up far more space than I’d like to admit) just wants to yell ‘Ooooh! I’m so hurt by this!! WAH-WAH!!!’ but the adult in me would like to seriously address the fact that the Primark store in Boston has banned ALANILAGAN.com from its WiFi access.

This is not a pornographic site, despite what your research or online filters indicate. There is no full-frontal nudity and there are absolutely no depictions of sexual acts whatsoever. Sorry, I know you may be offended by hot guys in various states of shirtlessness and undress, and the naked butt might be racy and NSFW, but it’s not pornography, so get over your prurient nonsense.

I had the same issue with Amtrak, which eventually saw the light and unbanned ALANILAGAN.com from their train service, so I’m hopeful Primark may do the same. (Not that it matters much to anyone else, but if they want me to frequent their store I’d like to see what I’m up to online.)

A community garden is a thing of beauty. Its beauty is more than what you see – it’s the underlying notion of people working together that instills something greater. The stories behind each plot, the neighbors that strike up conversations with any passing stranger, and the sense of genuine community add to the overall enchantment of such spaces.

It certainly helps that along with the vegetables and vines there are flowers that exist solely to delight with their dress.

I’ve passed this way before, but whenever I need a respite from concrete sidewalks and skyscrapers, I take a turn and wander along the verdant path. To recharge and reconnect with the living.

Some of the plants along the way are grand and bold, while others require up-close examination to leave an impression. All are worth a look.

Like some charmed Harry Potter platform, this secret library at number 10 ½, is fronted by a pair of red doors. A red door is a lucky sign, warding off the evil eye and serving as a talisman of protection. I’ve always wanted one.

Sculptures glow before the backdrop of an overcast day.

An inspiring setting in which to read or write, or simply ward off the rain.

On a side-street off of Tremont, this little market offers fresh local goodies for those lucky enough to stumble into its charming, tiny space. Outside, buckets of sunflowers and lilies and sweet peas spill onto the brick, while yummier treats beckon inside. This is the relatively unseen side of Boston, at least for non-locals, and I always get a secret thrill when I happen upon such jewels.

The root vegetables here have been dusted off to reveal a rich rainbow of color. The bounty of summer reminds me that the season is not quite half over yet, and I’m glad there is still more time for sun.

These robust radishes are crying out for some sea salt, and a crusty baguette with butter. The greens want only for a thorough washing, or maybe a quick sauté. Summer calls for something simple.

From the rich dirt of the earth come various edible sundries. Some beneath the ground, some above it – all precious in their own way. Fungi and foliage, root and stalk.

And flowers – oh such glorious flowers – signifying summer, spreading happiness, and reminding me how beautiful this world can be.

A nocturnal animal meandering around at the noon hour is a thing of worry. Rabid or worse, they should be avoided at all costs. Of course, when you see a raccoon right outside Copley Place in the middle of the day, you can’t help but gawk a little and take some pics. Besides, there were two women between me and the animal, so if it charged they were my safety buffer. (I’m an equal opportunity scaredy-cat, and I’ll gladly hide behind man, woman, or child if it means saving my ass from rabies.)

Fortunately, this critter seemed less inclined to charge and more interested in escaping our prying eyes by climbing into a nearby tree. Of course, from here on out I’ll have to watch above me as I pass this particular stretch leading to Dartmouth. There’s always something.

Though small by some standards, the Boston Public Garden has secrets and scenes that open up anew every season. No matter how many times I have visited the Garden, I always manage to find something I’ve never seen before: a different tree at a different stage of development or bloom, a different set of ducks or geese, or a different group of squirrels. In addition, there are different angles and vistas that change with the seasons and the hour and the weather – and you could be standing in the same exact spot every day for a year and never see the same exact thing twice.

These views of the pond banks are proof of that. While everyone gets the classic footbridge shot, they often miss shifting to the left or the right of the centerpiece. That’s the magical frame that makes the bridge so glorious.

While I don’t believe in looking back very often, sometimes I get lost in looking unflinchingly ahead. It’s good to pause and look from side to side, to take in a larger picture, to broaden one’s perspective. Beauty is all around us.

Pizza was ordered, a submarine sandwich arrived, and either an American Express card or a tantrum was thrown on the kitchen floor, but that’s all in a night in Boston. A brief sleepwalking bout and a late-morning rise done, we made our way into the city to procure a treasure: Andy’s wedding ring, which was at Shreve, Crump & Low for resizing.

The city was in the early stages of Pride week, with rainbow flags billowing from the Public Library and events starting to shape up in celebratory fashion. The previous evening had been the Red Sox Gay Game, which, had we known in advance, would have been a great game to attend. But we were installing things at that time, so the Saturday game would suffice.

First, however, was an inaugural ride to the new Government Station T stop. What once was dark and dank and decidedly dreary was now flooded and filled with light. A troop of Filipino dancers, none older than twelve or thirteen, awkwardly moved in a circle formation, resplendent in traditional festival garb. The whole city, it seemed, was in the mood to dance.

I hadn’t been to Faneuil Hall in a while, but since it was a favorite stop for Skip we walked across its cobblestones and ate an early lunch beneath its historical dome. A tutorial run-down of the famous-in-certain-circles cute guy at the Chipyard, and the resulting bag of chocolate chip cookies, gave us impetus to walk back to the condo. The day was still early and bright, and the walk was brisk but easy.

There was even a bit of time left over for a quick nap. That’s what men on the verge of middle-age do.

The game itself was a grand one. The very first professional baseball game I’d ever seen, way back in 1986, had been the Boston Red Sox vs. the Toronto Blue Jays. Since that day, both teams have held a special place in my heart (with the Red Sox obviously trumping the Jays, which is exactly how the game played out after an early inning volley that saw both teams trading a run or two until the Sox pulled ahead and pulled it off). We left with a crowd in high spirits, walking back along Boylston before a sushi dinner.

Having spilled most of my fun-and-energy reservoir the night prior, I had no objection to returning to the condo for the night. Neither did Skip, who wanted me to try out his Oculus. This is what it looks like on him. Which means you’re never going to see how it looks on me. As ridiculous as I may have appeared, the thing was pretty cool, and Skip knows how to call the future, so get ready for this on everyone.

The next morning we woke to rain. It was light at first, and we managed to load the old air conditioner into the Mini Cooper without incident. The rain grew heavier as we traveled westward and into New York State. Skip recounted the high school prank that he and his friends had pulled off during their senior year. It was, in so many respects, the perfect sort of prank ~ harmless but funny, safe but entertaining, not the least bit irreparable, but wholly unforgettable. That’s all I’m going to say about it, as it’s his tale to tell. What I got out of it was a new insight into a friend I suddenly realized I’d known for over ten years.

There, at the tail-end of our Red Sox weekend, was the kernel of friendship that formed the heart of the trip for me. Not the excitement of a win against the Blue Jays, not the fun and laughter of a gay bar crawl, not the successful installation of a summer-saving air conditioner ~ but the deeper connection to a friend, and a better understanding of the boy he used to be.

It sat in the back of the car, padded like a delicate ticking bomb. One false step on the brake and we’d both be crushed. A heavy box of tools for the task at hand sat snugly beside the precious cargo. My partner in crime was calmer than me. I always worried more, happier to expect the worse and be granted a better outcome. Emotional insurance. You learn it after enough disappointments. We crawled along, the minutes growing tenser. Snarled in traffic at one point, we slowed to a stop. The weekend unfurled ahead. Lady Gaga was playing. My friend Skip was in the car and we talked about the plan.

He didn’t anticipate any problems. The biggest hurdle would be in getting the unit up the stairs, or so he explained. I had visions of much worse: trying and failing to dissemble what was already there, taking out some hapless passers-by below, or discovering that we lacked an essential tool or part to successfully complete the mission. As the traffic cleared, the day could be seen for the beauty that it was: sunny and warm and the perfect re-entry into Boston. We hadn’t been here together for almost exactly a year. And though a wise woman once remarked that you can never do the same twice, no matter how fierce, I held onto hope that this weekend would be just as fun and exciting as the very first time.

Before we could officially let loose however, there was the mission: installation of a new air conditioning unit. After over twenty years of faithful service (and a couple of seasons of very loud and noisy and rattling service) it was time for our very first AC to retire. I’d asked Skip if he would help me take out the old and install the new during our Boston Red Sox weekend, and he was game. (Get it???)

I had complete confidence that he knew how to make it happen, re-enforced by the serious tool set he brought along with him. We pulled up to the condo, unloaded the AC (the only hairy part of the ordeal thus far) and got back in the car to park. After a quick yet unanticipatedly-extensive beer run (who knew that they didn’t sell beer at the 7-11?) we made it back to the condo and headed into the sunlit bay-window of the bedroom, which housed a dusty old air conditioning unit that looked like it had been welded into place.

What served to solidify its placement and running all these decades was an installation job that required a whole lot more work than Skip originally envisioned. Long screws had been drilled through the metal framework of the window. Thick gobs of caulking, hardened into cement-like grips, ran around the entire unit and inside the window. Just when we thought we could pull the thing out, another screw revealed itself, embedded deeper within and requiring excavation. Carrying the thing upstairs soon seemed like a cakewalk compared to getting this beast free, but finally it budged.

I fanned myself and took a sip of a gin & tonic. (Thank goodness for Andy’s stock of Fevertree Tonic Water, and a fresh lime.) Watching all of this unfold was sweaty, draining work. A bit of dust from the old unit had settled on my shoe and I hastened to kick it off. I presented Skip with the next step: a support for the new AC, which was slightly heavier and larger than what formerly occupied the space. He installed it in no time, and soon we had the new unit in the window and running with ease. Instantly, the room felt cooler, and with the additional BTUs I could already discern a noticeable difference. Skip had just saved summer at the condo.

We went out to Boston Chops to celebrate, because when you do something that uses power tools you want a steak dinner with an endless stream of fries. You also want a cocktail and some red wine. And then you go on a gay bar crawl and get humiliated by your straight friend. But that’s another story for another post… and not in the upcoming Part 2 of this tale. Come back anyway.

Repeating a Red Sox weekend in Boston just once hardly counts as a tradition, but hopefully one day it will be. Like the Holiday Stroll with Kira, this is just too fun not to threepeat. But that’s getting ahead of things, and when you have a weekend as fun as the one Skip and I recently spent in Boston, we’re going to extend the joy I had in recounting it over a couple of posts.

For now, I’m posting a juxtaposition of last year’s game versus this year’s game as seen below. I look equally unimpressed in both, which just goes to show how deceptive appearances can be. In truth, I was having a blast in both instances. Skip just has a better way of showing it. (He was also the one taking the wretched photos, so he knew what was coming. I was caught unaware. Virgos hate surprises.) This year’s adventure had the added onus of having to install a new air conditioner (you’ll have to come back later today to see how that turned out…)

The unofficial kick-off to summer arrives with today’s holiday, and for a visual treat of how far we’ve come, check out these contrasting shots of Boston. Taken from our Braddock Park vantage-point, they illustrate the shift in seasons better than I could ever describe.

Winter, spring, summer or fall…