Category Archives: Boston

You wouldn’t know it from the dark rain clouds and dismal temperatures of recent days, but this past weekend was practically perfect. I spent it in Boston (where I’ll be returning this weekend for a Red Sox game with Skip – wait for THOSE blog posts) and Kira joined me for some project work before we hit the town.

She arrived a little after 9 PM, when her shift was up, and we began the photo/video shoot for the new tour. That in itself was fun and riotous (picture me channeling Norma Desmond on the wooden staircase of the condo and you have a pretty clear picture of the insanity than ensued). Once that was done, it was close to midnight (ok, so there was a lot of catching up and talking too) and we headed to one of the few all-night diners that Boston offers. Last time I was in town we happened upon it, and since then we’ve been planning for this night.

Like an oasis in the dark, it rose all bright neon blue and flaming grills and it was just exactly as I dreamt it. (Yes, I’ve actually dreamt of the place.) We had been going to Chinatown when in need of late-night dining, and though this is right next door to it, sometimes you need a burger and fries instead of Peking Duck.

There’s something truly gratifying and comforting in going to a diner with an old friend, especially when it’s tucked deep into the night and few others are around to mar the atmosphere. While working on a new project, I tend to go somewhat insular, retreating to a place that feels quiet and remote. A trusted friend like Kira keeps me in the world, bringing me back to civilization.

Things are said to seem more sinister in the night, but beneath the lights, and close to a cherished friend, I felt nothing but safety and warmth, and the sustenance of a greasy diner dinner.

Every now and then when I’m riding the T in Boston I’ll catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dirty glass across the subway car. It used to be a youthful guy with a backpack, then it was a young man with a Jack Spade bag, and now it’s just a middle-aged man in a simple black t-shirt with a few more lines and wrinkles, even in the forgiving dirtiness and filtering scratches of the subway window. The digital numbers of the advancing clock glow red between station announcements. The squealing joints of subway cars screech their moans and miseries around each trying turn. We sway as the train swerves slightly, jostled but not mindful of much: the ennui of the commuter.

Next to me is a young man with a hat that holds longer locks of hair. He reminds me of my friend Chris when he was younger. I’m suddenly aware, as happens only once in a while, of the passing of time. I remember visiting Suzie in Ithaca and meeting Chris and the other roommates. We were so young. It was twenty years ago. There so suddenly, like the arrival of a subway train that seems to take forever then is gone in a flash, the relentless rush of it all feels overwhelming. We hurl so quickly to our next destination we don’t realize how fast we are going.

I look around at the people lost in their cel phones, connected to their earbuds and disconnected from the world in front of them. They see but cannot hear each other. They glance but cannot listen. And I am just as guilty.

A small part of me panics at the notion of how quickly it’s all passed. Mostly, though, I marvel that I can still be in the same location after going so many places.

The SoWa Market recently moved across the way into its new digs, and I was saddened to see that they were much smaller and sadder than the endless row of warehouse rooms that previously constituted the scene. It always felt like a magical line of rooms that kept opening up, one after another as in some never-ending nesting doll, but now it’s been reduced to a single expansive basement space. A bit of the magic has gone. Even so, there were objects of enchantment to be unearthed if one looked closely enough, little jewels that sparkled in the right light and the proper angle.

On a Sunday morning, browsing the well-used wares and meandering among the forgotten once-treasures is a happy way to spend the time.

Though I like the way they look, and the order of a full-set (my Virgo tendencies will always trump my Leo cusp) I’ve never remotely wanted to purchase or utilize a second-hand set of glasses or dishes or foodware of any kind. No matter how beautiful or valuable they may be, that holds no appeal.

Most of the time the market is filled with junk, but it’s still fun to look, and I can imagine this as a treasure trove for the young and the imaginative, as junk has a way of casting its own spell. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. (Just don’t bring it into my house. I’m terrified of bed-bugs.)

Every now and then I’ll be riding the subway in Boston and I’ll catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dirty, smudged glass of the window. In-between the passengers sitting across from me, I’ll watch myself lean to the side a bit and stare back at my own visage, slightly puzzled to see myself in such a fashion. (Most of the time when we look at a mirror we are by ourselves, so seeing oneself in a sea of strangers, and from a distance, is always somehow jarring.) It used to be a young man with a nameless backpack, then it was a guy with a Jack Spade bag, and now it’s just a middle-aged gentleman in a simple black t-shirt with a few more lines and wrinkles on his face, even in the forgiving dirtiness and filtering scratches of the subway window. These check-in moments on the T are markers of time ~ not altogether unwelcoming, but not exactly hopeful either.

Next to me is a much-younger guy with a hat that holds longer locks of hair. He reminds me of my friend Chris when he was younger. I think of us in college, and on some crazy spring break in San Juan, then fast-forward to where we are today. Outwardly we’re adults, with homes and families and jobs that make it look like we have our shit together, but sometimes my heart still riots. The passing of time ~ there suddenly like the arrival of a subway train that seems to take forever then is gone in a flash. We hurl so quickly to our next destination and we don’t ever realize how fast we are going. Sometimes there is nothing but a stranger to hold onto, but that would be weird so I fold my hands in my lap and watch the blur of the subway tiles rushing by.

There are some sections of Boston that hint of European flavor, that conjure streets in London or Paris as one is walking along and absentmindedly gazing at certain squares. These little pockets of Old World charm pop up throughout the historic city, and I’m lucky to have several in my neighborhood. There’s also a stretch along the Boston Public Garden and around the Park Plaza that brings to mind the Europe of fantasy and make-believe – where softly-shaded stone and wrought-iron window gates grant forbidden views into living rooms that go back over a century.

Such a rich history has always grounded the Northeast for me. It’s why, no matter where I may go, this will always be my home. I need something solid, something that has stood for time immemorial, to make me feel secure. I’d like to be one of those people who could pick up and move and make a home wherever he might find himself – and for a certain time I might be able to do that – but I’ll always seek something more stable. Something that has withstood the test of time.

Of course, the entire earth has done as much, and everywhere one steps has been in existence for longer than we can feasibly grasp. Now I’m getting existential, and put in mind of an astronomy course where the size of the universe was contemplated to the point of nihilistic hopelessness. It’s dangerous, when you really start thinking about it. The grain of sand. The implacable stone. The drop of water. The ray of sunlight.

As day turns to night, the city enters its slumber. Light fades, but for the moment colors turn a little richer.

The sky goes dark. The light of humans, conjured centuries ago, flicks on with a switch. The comfort of civilization cries out, and I try to imagine a time when our lives and schedules were ruled by the light and the weather. More existential crap, more muddled rumination. Across one ocean it is already night. Across another it is nearly morning. We are somewhere in-between.

Echoes of Europe whisper from the wide mouth of a stone urn, like a poem from the past.

One of my favorite stores in Boston is Jack Wills, the fabulously British London-themed stop that carries distinctive clothing items for the discerning gentleman and casually-elegant lady. (They currently have a stunning striped jacket that I briefly entertained buying, but I digress wistfully.) On my last shopping excursion, when I happened to be feeling particularly sassy and less-than-patient, I was approached by a guy who did his best to help me in the face of my intolerance. Here’s how our brief conversation played out.

Salesperson: Are you looking for anything pacific today?

Me (quizzically): Pacific?

Salesperson: Yes, are you looking for something pacific?

Me: Do you mean specific?

Salesperson: Yes.

Me: No.

I’m pretty sure he still had no idea what I was talking about, what he had done wrong, and why I had to stop speaking to him. [Sigh]

A blue sky after a very gray winter can be a boon to the soul, and Boston offered one of its most blue moments this past weekend. There were a few rain showers, but in-between I got a peek at what’s been hidden all this time. Though the wind was the strongest I’ve experienced in a while, the sky was mostly clear but for some swiftly-moving bands of clouds, captured here in the reflection of the John Hancock Tower.

Beside the mighty tower, the warm hues of the dwarfed Trinity Church provide the history of old and relatively new encapsulated in one gorgeous juxtaposition. That’s one of the most charming aspects of Boston – the old and the new beautifully co-existing and forging a future together.

As for my visit, I accomplished much: a major spring cleaning, in four separate stages (vacuuming/dusting, floor mopping, bathroom, and the carting out of garbage). Setting the stage for Boston weekends to come this spring, this annual rite of passage always makes me happy. I live in the anticipatory moments, in the times of preparation and planning. Good times with Kira and JoAnn are in store…

My long-awaited return to Boston finally came to fruition last weekend (with a possible repeat visit this weekend to execute a proper spring cleaning). I didn’t quite get around to scrubbing the floors because of all the fun I was having with Kira, who at long last cut her hair off and listened to what I’d been advising for almost two decades. It looks amazing, and has instilled a self-described new confidence in her life. (She’s already asking me to go skydiving with her.) While the weather outside was far from spring-like, we ventured forth undaunted. Too long had it been since we’d pounded the Boston pavement, and both of us were feeling a little stir-crazy. Still, there were moments of pause and rest, such as in this tea stop at the condo. After a snowy walk to the new Whole Foods Market deep in the South End, we stopped for a warming lunch of pho in Chinatown, then returned to the condo for a mid-afternoon siesta.

The importance of a breather in the midst of a long day cannot be overestimated. A lot of people assume my entire life is one long breather, but that’s because I work so hard to make it appear so effortless. It takes a lot more than tea to get through some days, but on the days when tea is enough, such as when I’m lucky to find myself in the company of a dear friend, it’s precisely what is needed. Especially when Boston just can’t move beyond the snow.

The SoWa Market is moving to its new location after Easter weekend, but before the change of venue I wanted to make a quick stop at its current warehouse location. Filled with objects of whimsy and intrigue, each coupled to a story mostly unknown and a history often untold, the market is a fun romp of exploration and discovery ~ the very best way to spend a Sunday morning in Boston.

Kira and I started with a pair of scones at the South End Buttery – one in Orange & Chocolate and one in Maple & Bacon – both a study in deliciousness. The Lemon-Lavender cupcakes advertised on the outside sign had not yet materialized, but a proper scone can erase a multitude of otherwise-unforgivable omissions. The day was bright and sunny, but the cold of a malingering winter held fast. Kira fortified herself with a hot chocolate while I sipped a hot coffee. These were the in-between moments that I often looked back at and missed the most when weekends like this were over.

While the destination dinners and shows and other events provide the impetus for many of our plans, it’s always been the quieter times that resonate in the memory. The funny trips to Walgreens or CVS, the impromptu cookie at Cafe Madeleine, or the quick jaunt to Star Market for breakfast food the next day – these are the times that somehow matter more than front-row tickets to some smash musical or a dressy dolled-up evening at a fancy steakhouse.

A stroll through the SoWa Market falls somewhere between a destination event and a throwaway moment – but this walk will be remembered as the start of the spring season, and the last at its current spot. It will also be the visit where Kira mistook an ATM machine for a piece of vintage machinery and I didn’t have the heart or the energy to correct her (until she needed a real ATM machine and didn’t know where one was located.)

The Market will always be a magical place for me, but most of that magic can only be conjured when the right company is present.

It’s been a long, trying winter for those of us who’ve wanted to visit Boston. With all of the snow, I couldn’t make it back until this past weekend, and even then I was unsure of what I’d find. To my pleasant surprise, most of the snow had dwindled into a few dirty piles here and there. Glimpses of apocalyptic scenes remained – the new dogwood tree that had been planted in front of our building was stripped of a few of its branches, while snow banks continued to reveal parking spot savers and bits of dirty debris. But the temperatures were on the rise, and even though most of Saturday was filled with wet snow and a driving wind, none of it stuck.

Instead, there were sights of promise and hope, like the batch of snowdrops in bloom here. Drifts of daffodils were also seen poking through brown leaves and wet soil in the more protected spots that caught the sun and melted the snow sooner than other areas. The hopelessness of winter was dissipating. The shift was discernible. There was energy and excitement in the air.

It’s all about to begin again…

Returning to Boston with a dish of fish in tow, I hold onto a lingering bit of residual Catholic guilt and maintain a no-meat-on-Fridays regime during the Lenten season. Half-magic, half-faith, half-idiocy, I was raised in such a fucked-up manner that if eating fish on Fridays is all that remains, I’ll take the quirk and feign healthy living for the judgment of unbelieving heathens. This weekend I’ll be seeing my friend Kira, whom I haven’t hung out with since last year and our Holiday Stroll. (This is one of those mundane, factual posts that is much more exciting to write than I’m guessing it is to read, but since I’m writing it, too bad.)

All of the snow has kept me from the city for longer a stretch than I’ve grown accustomed to – and it’s been sorely missed. I try to return to Boston for a regular dose of civilization, and the past few months have left me bereft of Boston magic. That all changes this weekend, and it will be good to simply walk the snow-ravaged cobblestone with Kira and catch up on all that’s transpired since the calendar year turned over.

I’m also going to prematurely suggest the idea of spring cleaning, just putting it out there into the universe, along with the possibility of some project work too since I’m being all ambitious, but it’s entirely possible, and more than likely, that both will fall by the wayside as I simply ingratiate myself with the city in quiet, non-working fashion. Run on, little/long sentence, run on.

It is, even by Boston standards, a crazy cold night. Not so much because of the temperatures but because of the wind. ‘Fuck’ seems to be uttered by every third person I pass in regards to the evening at hand. I’m in Boston for the weekend, trying to find some comfort in solitude, some way to make the winter bearable.

My soul had started off somewhat chilly too. I had a solo dinner of Pad Thai, with an introductory bowl of Tom Yum soup in an effort to warm the tongue and the body. I was not in the mood to be around people, and ate my dinner alone in the front window table of House of Siam. I had just done something I hardly ever do: canceled an appearance at a friend’s party. I wanted solitude. I wanted quiet. I wanted a moment to myself. Yet as I rounded the corner to Braddock Park, a woman smiled from ear to ear and said that she loved the color of my coat. I smiled back and thanked her. Later, a woman checking me out at the register remarked on my ring, saying how beautiful it was. Even the normally taciturn sales-clerk at Barneys was all smiles, probably because I just purchased one of their Byredo Parfums, but no matter. The city was welcoming me, the city that so many have called cold and charmless, and it thawed my bruised heart like only Boston ever could.

Whenever I run the risk of over-inflating my ego, there are one million different people with one million different pins ready to pop that shit up. Not tonight. Tonight they cradled my tired soul. Tonight they held my raw hand. Tonight they reminded me that just when you are ready to give up on people they still hold the power and capacity to surprise, to please, to comfort.

On this evening, I returned early to the condo. It was just too bitterly cold to explore the city. Besides, I had come there just for this – a quiet night of reading, of hot tea, of looking out onto the gray but beautiful expanse of Braddock Park, up at the towering and twinkling Hancock Tower – all from within the warmth of this sturdy brick building. When safety is no longer to be found in our childhood homes, we have to find it elsewhere.

I pick up a book of Edna St. Vincent Millay poetry, and read the following:

Some Things Are Dark

Some things are dark – or think they are.
But in comparison to me,
All things are light enough to see
In any place, at any hour.

For I am Nightmare: where I fly,
Terror and rain stand in the sky
So thick, you could not tell them from
That Blackness out of which you come.
 
So much for ‘where I fly’ but when
I strike, and clutch in claw the brain –
Erebus, to such brain, will seem
The thin blue dusk of pleasant dream.

A recording of Tibetan prayer bowls rings its low calming tones as I turn off the lights in the front room. Braddock Park glows through the windows. I shuffle into the bedroom, where a candle burns on the bedside table. A ridiculous gray union suit keeps me relatively warm and cozy, and I slide under the covers of the bed to read a little.

So much of my life is spent alone.

And so much isn’t.