On my last trip to Boston, I passed by this church, and as pretty as it was, I was more transfixed by the two Brugmansia plants potted at its entrance. More commonly known as Angels’ trumpets, these are tropical plants that don’t survive the cold New England winters, but can be brought into a warm garage or unheated basement for the winter months, then brought back out to create the amazing show that is seen here. I once kept a couple of these, in enormous pots, that grew to be about seven feet tall. When they bloomed in summer, their fragrance filled the night – the variety I had gave off a heavy lily-like lemon scent that pervaded the entire backyard. It was especially nice for late-night swims, when the perfume seemed to cling to the water’s surface. I got lazy one year and left them outside in the winter (those pots, and the attendant tree-like trunks that they eventually develop, were not easy to move up and down stairs) so we no longer have any, but I’m tempted to try them again. It takes a year or two to develop them into the tall specimens you see in this photo, but it’s a wait that’s worth it.
These are the ashen remnants of my Fall wishes, lying on our Boston windowsill, waiting for the wind to whip them away. On the first day of each season, in a tradition that Andy taught me when we first met over a dozen years ago, we make a list of our hopes and wishes for the season ahead, then burn them as an offering to the universe. It is a ritual I have come to love, if only to remind us of the passing of time, the demarcation of the days, the way the hours wait for no one. My wishes, oddly enough, are not for material possessions as one might assume – there are no Prada bags that make the list, no Tom Ford Private Blends inked out upon the page. They are far more basic and, again at odds with what the world thinks of me, far more selfless. In those wishes hides the truth, and by burning them I keep it safe.
In the terror that accompanies the start of Fall, before you’re ready to give in to the darkness, before the leaves get torn from the trees, before the final warmth of the earth departs for the Winter, there are nights that offer respite. Dusk can still be blue, and the moon can still light the clouds.
 A couple of good friends and a bottle of Jameson. On nights like this, there is nothing to do but embrace the new season. Summer has been spent. It’s time to move on. The pool days have come to a close.
And so we retreat to the city. The best time of the year to be in the city is the Fall. Spring carries its own enchantment, but when the gardens are going to bed, the city sends out its strongest clarion. We would be foolish not to heed it.
The last time I recall being on a trip with my brother was in 1996, at our cousin’s wedding in San Diego, CA. That fateful journey was recounted in a Madonna Timeline here, so I won’t rehash what’s been written. This past weekend, we went to Boston together, and it was a welcome reminder of fun family times, and a reconnection with my only brother.
We reminisced over a soundtrack of 80’s tunes ~ ‘Eye of the Tiger’, ‘Who’s Johnny’, ‘We Built This City’, ‘Forever Your Girl’ – and talked about the movies that meant the most to us ~ ‘The Goonies’, ‘Adventures in Babysitting’, and ‘Star Wars’. We spoke of sleep-overs and tree forts and Huey Lewis and the News. As the goldenrod bloomed along the roadside, and the first leaves started turning their warmer shades of rust and red, the kickoff weekend of Fall glowed brilliantly on the horizon.
My brother and I are about as different as two brothers could possibly be, but that has never hindered our enjoyment of each other, and it’s strange that we don’t hang out more. Life has a habit of getting in the way, and we’re both busy guys with lots to do, but every once in a while it’s good to reconnect and get away. I don’t think we realized how much we needed it.
The picture above stands on our fireplace mantle in Boston. It was actually taken on that San Diego wedding trip all those many years ago. As we settled in for the weekend, I looked at it and remembered. It was the night I came out to my brother. It was the night we had our first adult conversation. In many ways, it was the night we grew up. Now, all these years later, I am struck by how much, and how little, we have changed.
It’s impossible to plan the best weekends of our lives. They just happen – unplanned, unmoored, unintentionally – and that’s part of their charm. If you’re lucky, like I was this weekend, you realize it as it’s unfolding, and you cherish each moment, savoring each bit of company. You can always measure how good it was by the sadness that the Sunday morning of departure brings. With heavy hearts, we trudged back to the car for the ride home, content only with the solace in not having to make the trip alone.
If there’s one album that signifies the start of fall to me, it’s ‘Here’s to Life’ by Shirley Horn. It’s not that there are any specifically fall-themed songs, no ‘Flaming September’, ‘When October Goes’, or ‘November Rain’ but on a personal level it brings back the fall I first went to Brandeis, and Boston. I still remember the evening I purchased that CD. I’d walked around the city before winding up at the end of Newbury Street. I passed through the revolving door of Tower Records (in the space that is now a thoroughly-depressing Best Buy) and rode the escalator up to the second floor. Back then there was no iTunes or online music purchasing, so the music store was still vital. I’d peruse the CD singles section for hours, finding old forgotten Madonna singles, or discovering new ones. (That sense of surprise and discovery is one of the things I regret most about the arrival of the Internet.)
On this particular night, I passed a stand of new music, and one of the titles being displayed – Shirley Horn’s ‘Here’s to Life’ – was getting all the accolades. A woman with some fierce, black, opera-length gloves sat gazing out from the cover, and the praise being promoted on the sticker was grand. Today we don’t have to buy music without listening to it first – at that time a new CD was a crap shoot, but something impelled me to take a chance and buy it, sound unheard.
The opening strings, and the gentle way she had with the vocals, instantly set my mind at ease when I settled into my tiny dorm bed later that night. A few cold-braving crickets chirped outside the window, which was open just a crack for the insufferable radiator that had only one temperature setting: “Hell.” My roommate was gone (as he was most of that year – for this reason alone I loved him), and I laid awake listening to the sounds of other students coming in from their revelries, and the string-laden jazzy nuances of Ms. Horn. A long-distance girlfriend, and much confusion, crossed my thoughts as ‘Where Do You Start?’ began – and the thought of having to start all over again first reared its nausea-inducing head. The music somehow made the pain exquisite – could this be what a work of art does, could this be why it might be so revered?
One day there’ll be a song or something in the air again
To catch me by surprise and you’ll be there again
A moment in what might have been…
In the solitude of that time, I learned how to be alone with myself, and all right with that. As much as I would fall for passing men, as infatuated and obsessed as I would sometimes become, I would always remember how to be alone if I had to be. And I would have to be, many times, and many nights. I remember the leaves of Harvard Square, swirling around my feet as I stood at the newsstand, browsing the magazines, hoping not to be called out for reading instead of buying them. The cafe across the street, where couples bundled up tightly in coats and hats, sat studying and reading, content simply to be in each other’s company, was as enticing as it was forbidden. I longed for the simplicity of that, the easy way people had with one another. I wondered if I would ever find it.
Over the wisdom of Ms. Horn’s occasionally raspy voice, the years of love and pain unfolded behind us. It would always be like this. I was old enough to understand, but too young to believe. I still thought there was a master key to all of it, a font of knowledge from which I had only to sip to find out the truth, the answer, the point. No one wants to realize that all the chasing and figuring out was for something that was in you all along – if I had been Dorothy I would have clocked Glinda for that almost-deadly exercise in futility.
A venerable Boston institution, Charlie’s is a restaurant located literally around the corner from our place, yet we only seem to get there for special treats (the day of a Madonna concert, for example). It is a classic, old-school-style diner, where patrons sit at the counter (my preference) or with other patrons at the small smattering of tables set up. There is something comforting about a diner – with its griddle smoking and spattering just a few feet away, the easy casual camaraderie that overcomes all who enter, and the promise of good old-fashioned greasy grub.
This has not gone unnoticed by many in Boston, including a number of celebrities and politicians, whose photos line the walls, and who keep coming back for the (pretty) low prices that have remained remarkably consistent over the years. There’s also the tight-knit group that runs the place – friendly and amiable to all, if no-nonsense when it comes to serving up food and turning over tables. Personally I like that approach in a diner. This is not the place for fancy frills and excess – and God knows I create enough of that in the rest of my life.
Comfort and consistency don’t get all the credit they deserve. Luckily there are a few places still holding onto the tried and true.
This none-too-subtly-monikered business is on the corner of the street where our condo is in Boston. I dig the color, I dig the name, I only wish there was something for me in it. I haven’t blow-dried my hair since the 80s.
If you’re like me, you don’t like to be touched. I enjoy a hefty amount of personal space about me at all times, and if the rumors about Anna Wintour’s elevator preferences are true, well, I’m on board with her 100%. (We won’t get into the atrocities to which I’m subjected on the office elevator every day – but there are far too many crocs, pleated pants, and synthetic windbreakers for any one person to deal with, but I digress…) Back to touching me – I usually don’t like it. Particularly when I’m sober, which happens more than you’d think, especially during any given day. However, when I had my first massage a few months ago, I became an instant convert. It’s one of the only times when I don’t mind another person’s hands on me, especially if they’ve been well trained.
It was transformative, and the whole experience, from the helpful receptionist to the soothing interior, left a tired and worn-out traveler rejuvenated and refreshed. If you’re looking to treat yourself, this is one great way to do it.
A slew of Boston posts begins with the happy ending – a few treats from Finale – our favorite dessert place in Boston. It really is the perfect way to conclude an evening, and they’re open a bit later than most places (11 or midnight on most nights). While the Madonna concert ended a bit too late to make it here on that night (hell, it practically began after Finale was closed, but more on Madonna later), we managed to snag a late-night treat the evening before.
At about this time (okay, probably two hours after this time) Madonna will be taking to the stage in Boston for her MDNA Tour, and I will be shrieking in my high-pitched teenage-girl squeal that I adopt when these sorts of events come up. Andy will be looking at me and laughing. And then we will both be watching the Queen put on the Greatest Show on Earth.
Not that I’ve ever needed a reason to return to Boston (again and again), but when Madonna’s in town, well, it’s a given that I’ll be in town. Though I’ve passed the fanatical devotion that allowed me to recognize Cloud and Tamara on Boylston Street when the Confessions Tour rolled around in the summer of 2006, I still get a major thrill from seeing my favorite performer live. (Sad to say I wouldn’t know one of her dancers if I met them on the street this time around… and if anyone knows anything about the elusive Mr. Hobby, please let Suzie know… her daughter claims he was a teacher at her school or something, and I guess we’re trying to determine who was lying.) At any rate, we’ll be back in Boston today, and just in the nick of time – I’ve been craving a Zuni Roll from the Parish Cafe.
