Category Archives: Boston

As I write this, it is the day before the last day of the year, and I sit once more at the table in the Boston condo. To my left, the Hancock Tower twinkles in the cold night sky. Perched perhaps precariously close to this keyboard is a large mug of hot chamomile tea. Tendrils of steam curl off its surface, and I blow on it each time I take a small, quick sip. The day turned progressively colder as the sun went down. The wind picked up. Whispers of trouble at home, if we can ever really call a place home, have reached me even from a distance. Unlike others, I will not get into blaming or acting a victim. Tonight, I am alone. Contentedly so. Neither lonely nor sad, neither giddy nor drunk, I sit in the single place where I’ve ever felt completely at ease, completely myself.

I wear a somewhat garish silk kimono, procured a couple of days ago at The Shops at Porter Square. I went there for some soba noodles and came home with a kimono. It seemed a perfect trade-off. It eases the pain of so much ugliness in the world.

On this evening, I eat the remains of a Basque fish soup that I made the night before. Rather than run wild on such a cold night, I will stay here. Read a little. Maybe watch the DVD of ‘Grand Hotel’ that I brought with me but have never seen. Or perhaps I’ll just sit still and be very quiet. I’ve made enough noise this past year (though far less than some would have you believe – I don’t break things outside of my own house, thank you very much). But I suppose when you break something you run the risk of being blamed for breaking everything.

Across the street, the third floor of another Boston brownstone is occupied by warm light, and holiday candles in the windows. I’ve watched this person make dinner for almost twenty years – he is (now) an elderly man with gray hair, and whenever I’m in town I see him hunched over his stove, working on dinner. It is a great comfort, especially when so much of life is uncertain. I do not know for whom he cooks. I’m assuming it’s for at least one other person, else why would someone go to all that trouble so consistently? Maybe I just want to believe that. Maybe I don’t want anyone to be alone.

In the night, after the cold, the snow came. We awoke to a world wholly transformed from the darkness the evening prior. Sun glistened off every surface outside, a world of white – the brightest white – galvanized by the lightest blue sky, and all that glorious light poured into the condo. Any hesitation about the darkness of my color selections went out the tightly closed windows.

That day, we began the bedroom – in a deep blue. That included the ceiling too, which I thought I would soften with a little trompe l’oeil cloud action. If it sounds tacky and cheesy, it totally was. There’s no accounting for the taste of a twenty-year-old, particularly if said guy was raised on a diet of Norma Desmond, Madonna, and ‘Priscilla: Queen of the Desert’. That said, it didn’t look entirely atrocious. (Okay, the white fringe of the canopy bed that was to come may have been atrocious.)

As curls of smoke rose from one of my Uncle’s ever-present menthols, he paused and looked around. Every now and then he did that. Surveying what had been done, and what there was yet to do. I didn’t quite have that grasp of the big picture yet, I either fell so completely and close-mindedly into the task at hand or grew antsy at seeing only the end result. My Uncle could gauge both, but he had experience and I had none. He went into the other room. We needed a hammer. And nails. And something else, the memory of which now – at long last – eludes me, quite sadly. This is why I write things down. A trip to the hardware store was needed. I volunteered to make the trip, being the only one who knew where it was, but I hated to miss one moment of anything – so enraptured was I in having time with my favorite Uncle. I hurried out into the bright, beautiful world and stopped. It was a brilliant day. A gorgeous day. The cold had lifted a bit with the arrival of the snow. The sun was shining, unobstructed by cloud cover. This was how we survived the winter, I thought. With this brightness, with this light. You never got this in the summer. The temperature was the pay-off, but at that moment, surrounded by sun and ice crystals and light ricocheting off every spot around you, the pay-off was a bargain. My trip to the hardware store was my only time alone for those few days. There was beauty in solitude, and there was beauty in companionship. I’ve always felt slightly in the middle. When I got back to the condo, the guys had started on the bathroom. (That would be the peach bathroom – the only real misstep of the whole endeavor – and the room that would be painted over the most – its brick wall defying a complementary color to the very end.)

I set the bags down in the cluttered living room, and removed my coat. We were nearing the close of our time together, the close of these few precious days, and the beginning of my time alone here. There was suddenly a heaviness in my heart, far weightier than the hammer in my hand. I wasn’t quite ready for it to be over. I would never be ready for it to be over.

On the last morning there was still some work to be done, but we finished on time. The clean-up was quicker than anticipated. Begrudgingly, with dragging feet and stall tactics in full-effect, I helped them pack their things. My Mom arrived as scheduled, and soon they were on their way. I didn’t return to Amsterdam with them, I stayed in Boston. A new life had begun. A new home had been created. It had taken family, and that’s why it would sustain me. There was love here, even if it was only the love that I had given ~ it still counted.

All of the important people who have made me into the man that I am (for better or worse) have inhabited this condo at one point or another. They’ve visited and spent time within these walls. They have slept and eaten here, retired and woken, laughed and possibly cried. I’ve done all that and plenty more, and it’s still not enough.

Tonight, I sit at the laptop typing this out, and feeling as grateful to be here as I did almost twenty years ago. Two decades. Living, laughing, and loving… Here’s to the next twenty.

Looking out the window onto Braddock Park, I am sitting at the table in the front of the condo on a reasonably warm late December evening. I haven’t written here in a very long time – not on a computer at any rate. It feels strange and exhilarating, a return and a new beginning all at once. The first time I did so was in the earliest part of 1996. We’d only just closed on the condo that previous November, and it didn’t quite feel like home. I’d stayed here in the first few weeks – in a sparse, barren, completely unfurnished place that didn’t even have a light in the bedroom. There was no couch, no bed, not even a chair to sit upon – and I loved every minimalistic minute of it. Without television or stereo or computer to entertain, I was alone with my thoughts. Any voices I had in my head were free to chatter, to no avail. Once those voices tire out, they tend to leave you alone. Still, such quiet was not meant to last – at least not when it concerned wall color and furniture. I needed to put the Ilagan stamp on the place, or it would never be ours.

That year, my favorite Uncle and a few cousins were visiting for the holidays, and we cajoled them into going to Boston and painting the condo. (By ‘cajole’ I mean my father probably gave them a hefty sum to put up with my fanatical attention to detail and color coordination, and paint the place in a professional manner.) It’s what my Uncle did for a living, so it would be done properly, and I was itching to try a rag-off technique I had been reading about in some painting book. I also wanted all the white walls to disappear, so after New Year’s Day my Mom dropped us off and we set about that first night to prepping the place for painting the next day. According to my Uncle, the preparation was where the real work in painting happened – and also the most important part of a proper paint job. We sanded and scoured, set up ladders and laid drop cloths, made a bunch of coffee and smoked a bunch of cigarettes. It must have been midnight when we finally crashed – on cots and sleeping bags (there wasn’t even a bed yet).

The next day, they were already working when I awoke. The kitchen was almost done, in a rich astroturf green. No boring neutrals here, not for some time. I was more excited about the living room. I taped off the plastered crown molding and painted it in goldleaf. Yes, I was that garish at the ripe age of twenty. (All gay guys have to grow out of this phase. Some never do. I was lucky.) For then, though, the gold went perfectly with the bordello red I had in mind for the living room. I figured the rag-off technique would soften the glaring hue, and to an extent it did.

My Uncle would roll the color on, and I’d take a rag and dab it quickly before it dried, leaving a mottled look and a softness to the walls. In person and up close it worked quite well. In photographs it simply comes across as a fire-engine worthy explosion of bright, flaming red. Let’s make it gay indeed. My Uncle and cousins never said a word. Well, they probably did, but nothing too harsh or I’d have remembered. Instead, we all worked into the evening, when it was time for a break.

One of my Uncle’s favorite things to do was watch a James Bond movie. A new one had just opened that Christmas, so I brought everyone to the Copley Square Cinemas (back when there used to be a movie theatre at Copley Place). We ordered popcorn and watched the movie, and when we finally began the short walk home, the temperature had turned brutally cold. If it was frigid for me, I can’t imagine what it must have been like for a few native Filipinos, one of whom had only ever encountered the ‘cold’ climate of Washington, DC and only saw snow for the first time when he visited us in Albany once. I will always crack up remembering my Uncle that night, rushing down the street with a tiny scarf tied around his head like some ancient Russian woman, looking like a crazed bat out of hell and asking me frantically why it was so cold. I literally had to stop walking because I was laughing so hard.

That night we returned to the condo, to its warmth and solid walls, to its honey-like amber hardwood floors, to its hot water ~ and we gave thanks for its comfort. I knew then that I was home.

{To be continued…}

For the first time as far back as I can remember, I’ll be spending New Year’s Eve on my own in Boston. (Which means I may just wear the outfit I barely have on here – or maybe just the underwear.) A few weeks ago I asked Andy to come with me, but apparently he didn’t want to deal with the parking, so he’s not joining me (but he’ll be representing us at the family gathering). I’m not sure what I’ll be doing when left to my own devices on NYE, but if temperatures are as they traditionally tend to be, I might just stay in with a bottle of champagne, some videos, and a ball drop.

Quite frankly, New Year’s Eve has always seemed more of hyped-up bit of nonsense than anything particularly meaningful, so I’m not going to dwell on being apart from Andy. Hopefully there’s not some sort of bad luck involved in not ringing in the New Year with your husband. At this point, I’m partied out for the year, and just want the new one to begin. Now, to pick up the bubbly…

Last weekend I was in Boston, which is where I’ll be spending most weekends until the kitchen is done (including this one). Not that I need an excuse to go to Boston, but this one is legit. (I’m finally getting tired of walking through dust, ducking under drop-cloths and plastic, and coughing from whatever is in the air.) I may even spend a super-long weekend there that brings me into the New Year if I can figure out some parking ideas (or pony up for a garage). The point is, I’ll be happily ensconced in the condo for an extended time, and I couldn’t be more pleased.

It is one of the places where I feel grounded and safe. No matter what storms may rage outside, and no matter what storms may rage inside of me, Boston has always provided a safe haven, especially in the winter. It’s quieter there. I don’t usually turn on the television (I don’t think we get cable) and only when people come over do I play music. Reading books and writing letters occupies my time, but so does doing nothing ~ sitting on the couch or in a chair by the front window ~ its own form of meditation and contemplation. It’s a good place to get back to basics.

There is a working kitchen too, so I can pick up some supplies at the market then cook up a meal, which is a luxury these days ~ a cozy, comforting luxury. Kira and I made a lovely brunch while in town this past weekend, and it was a nice change of pace to spend a slow, lazy Saturday morning just padding around in our pajamas, leisurely setting up the food, and talking over hot tea while bagels toasted and the room filled with the scents of breakfast.

Only one person ever got me a present at Tiffany’s – a very sweet ex-boyfriend who bought me a beautiful silver pen. I still have it, and it writes better than any other pen I’ve ever used. I shopped here briefly for wedding rings, but it was a bit too stuffy and pretentious for me to feel comfortable. The one thing I do, and I’ve done it since I was a little kid staying next door at the Copley Marriott, was to inspect their display windows. They captivate with wit and whimsy, and it’s never a hard-sell of merchandise. In fact, most of the time one needs to specifically seek out what item of jewelry or expensive accessory they are featuring.

As an adult, I ventured into the Copley store to deliver a bracelet in need of repair for a friend. At that time, the staff was helpful and courteous, if a little wary of my under-dressed visage. I’ve been around the retail block (both ends) to know when I’m being watched. Not that it’s ever bothered be beyond a slight annoyance with the principle of the thing. (I’ve never been one to judge anything based on appearance. That was for you Santa – wink-wink!)

This year they incorporated the stone facade for perhaps the first time in their decorating scheme, and I love the way it completely transforms a retail landmark that most Boston dwellers have seen for three decades into something totally new and different. Thinking outside of that Tiffany blue box paid off handsomely here. Not enough to allow me to make any purchases, but a price can never be put on beauty and magic.

Last year, at around this time, Kira and I made our second holiday stroll, whereby we dedicate a day to a leisurely walk through a holiday-bedecked Boston without any definite plan or holiday shopping to-do list. We might take a peek into the antique-laden rooms of Charles Street, buy wool gloves from a Tibetan store to keep out the cold, or take in a lunch of dim sum in Chinatown. We might stop at Jacques for a drink with a drag queen or warm ourselves by the fireside of Cuffs. We may parade past the towering tree at Faneuil Hall and then its smaller sister at Copley Place, then find our way back to the condo for a candle-lit night-cap.

There is no rhyme or reason to the path we take, or the stops we make. We travel by wish and whim (which leads us to transitory treats, like the pop-up market we found last year at Downtown Crossing), guided by the shifting light of the day, or forced indoors by an unyielding wind.

This weekend tentatively marks our third year of carrying on this tradition. Beginning at The Liberty hotel, I’m not sure where the day and night will take us – I only know that it will be filled with the warmth of a dear friend, the good sentiment of the season, and the luxury of being in my favorite city at this most wonderful time of the year.

Another weekend in Boston comes to a close, with the promise of a few holiday-themed weekends coming up – actually, probably quite a bit more, as once the kitchen renovation kicks into gear, I’ll be hightailing it out of Albany at every opportunity possible. This one, though, is done, and I’m already gearing up for more travel in the week ahead – a journey to New Jersey to select the granite for the counter-top – and a quick trip to Washington, DC to attend a baby shower. My fifth baby shower. Something is very wrong with those numbers… More on that later. For now, a parting glance at my favorite city.

Sunday morning. Gray light through the half-closed blinds. When I awoke, the drops had not yet started hitting the air conditioner, so I thought we’d be safe to walk around the city for a bit. After a cup of tea, and some morning chit-chat with Kira, I stepped into a hot shower, but by the time I finished drying off, the cadence of water was already beating rhythmically on the metal unit.

We stalled at the front table, looking out onto the street. Above the John Hancock Tower, the light grew brighter. Maybe the day would turn around after all. These were the moments I loved – the extra time with a dear friend, unexpected and welcome – and I put my usual plans to make an early departure on hold.

There were honey sticks to find, and honey to go along with them, at the SoWa Market. There was a brunch to be had at Cinquecento, and lavender water to locate afterward. There was a red umbrella held over both our heads, and a quick change into new boots for Kira and her open-toed shoes. As the day got progressively worse, and the wind and rain toyed with our shared umbrella, we ducked into hotels and shops, drying off between wind-blown wetness, partaking of bits of sustenance here and there, but mostly just browsing and enjoying the time together.

Slowly, I’m learning to embrace the moment, even in the rain, and even if it only delays the inevitable good-bye.

I like how the clouds have changed in the sky in these two photographs.

A day can do that.

A day can make all the difference.

And a night can make even more.

The Bunker Hill Monument stands as an impressive edifice marking one of the significant battles of the American Revolution. In all my years visiting and living in Boston, I never made it over the Charles River to visit this historic site – until last weekend. When the skies above are so beautiful, and a breeze is dancing in from the shore, it’s good to go somewhere you’ve never been – to make a memory and mark the moment. The vantage point from Bunker Hill proved the perfect point on which to begin.

Getting there, one must cross the bridge into Charlestown, another place I’d never been. Ever since Suzie took me across Ithaca’s gorges, I’ve been a fan of bridges, simultaneously thrilled and slightly frightened of being so high above the water, like the exhilaration one might get at the top of a Ferris wheel. I stood looking out over the river as a boat passed beneath, its red-and-white-striped roof causing dizzying effects as seen through the metal slats of the bridge.

After walking all the way to get there, the prospect of climbing to the top of the monument can seem rather daunting, no matter how nice the day. There are no elevators, only a stern warning for people with medical conditions or in bad shape that the stairs are not for the faint of heart. Usually I heed those warnings (though in my case it’s mostly for laziness). This time I was impelled onward – and upward. All 294 steps upward, steps that were supposedly-helpfully marked every 25 or so, which was more depressing than encouraging, especially around Step #150 when, winded and sweating, I realized it was only the half-way mark.

Spiraling higher and higher, the dim stairway offers barely enough room for two to pass at a time. In a way, it’s a very intimate experience. There are no breather spots, no roomy demarcation points, and no lounge in which to pause and get a second wind. When you start something like this, you simply have to finish it.

At the top, a small circular room with cloudy plexiglass windows barely opened up. The claustrophobic among us, if any managed to survive the tight stairway, would have probably fainted. For me, it was enough to stop walking and try to calm my shaking legs. The wind whipped through the open top-half of the windows, a welcome bit of cool air to dry off the sweaty countenance that comes from walking up all those stairs. (Did I mention there were 294 of them?)

There, ensconced high above the city I so loved, unseen and unknown to all below, I enjoyed a private moment of revelry, a spark of secret joy. The view of Boston is indeed a good one, and it’s always nice to see one of my favorite cities from a new perspective. It was also amusing to watch other people just coming up, soaked in sweat, more winded than me, and displaying both disappointment and awe at their destination.

The way back down always seems shorter, less onerous, even if the walk up has wiped you out. Perhaps it was because I didn’t quite want to go back to earth, back to the things that needed to be done, the battles of daily living that paled to the battles of Bunker Hill. Step after step, the tower receded further into the sky, the rarified air out of grasp, the moment and the memory distant and suddenly forlorn. But the sun still shone down, the breeze still danced, and the journey continued.