Category Archives: Boston

Peking Duck, to be precise. Well, any duck will do, but in this instance I had the aforementioned Chinese preparation of the waterfowl on a recent dinner in Chinatown. Kira and I had just seen a show, and rather than puzzle out which restaurant would serve us at such a late hour, we walked to Chinatown, which, I’m told, is generally open deep into the after-hours for night-crawlers like ourselves.

My first massage, courtesy of the Mandarin Oriental in Boston, was beyond anything I could have imagined. The only thing to which I can liken it is the last ten minutes of a really great yoga session, where all you have to do is to lay there and feel the peace and relaxation – only this goes on for as long as the massage lasts, and you don’t need to do any sort of strenuous exertion beforehand.

In fact, the only thing I had to do before the session was to enjoy the thermal experience that the Mandarin offers – in the form of a crystal steam room, vitality pool, and a rain shower that washed away any and all worries. But before that, there was the welcoming ceremony of herbal tea and a scented hot towel. Beside a peaceful waterfall, I removed my shoes and slipped on a pair of slippers. An attendant brought me back to the spa area and set me up with a locker and a tour of the facilities.

With its soothing lighting (tranquil and soft), sumptuous bathrobes (they knew the way to my heart), and insanely sensual offerings (the showers alone, with their intoxicating selection of body wash, shampoo and conditioner, were a revelation) the Spa at the Mandarin is an expert study in the art of rejuvenation and relaxation. Advised to arrive 45 minutes before my scheduled massage time, I immediately realized the benefits of this as I took a quick shower than immersed myself in the vitality pool. Warm water swirled amid a pulsating stream of hot bubbles, and for this alone the experience was worth it. After a glorious period of decompression, I headed into the crystal steam room for a spell before one final dip in the pool, and another shower (the body wash was just that good). For the last fifteen minutes before the massage, I stretched out in the relaxation room – and a more aptly-named space must not exist.

When my masseuse appeared – a soft-spoken smiling gentleman named Kenny who would prove to be my portal to nirvana – I was already in a state of calm, but I had no idea how much calmer things could get. He went over the process, offered me another cup of tea, and then it was time.

Now, I’m not one who enjoys the touch of strangers. I don’t like the accidental brush in the elevator, and I am adamantly opposed to social touching unless I’m three sheets to the wind (in which case I’m slightly more at ease with hugs and the like). But during the daytime hours, I recoil at contact, and even have a problem with people being remotely within my ‘personal space’. However, for a massage at the Mandarin, I was willing to suspend my issues, let go of my inhibitions, and simply enjoy the experience for what it was. Well, apparently the wrong people have been touching me all my life because this was the single more enjoyable thing I’ve done in a long time (and I’m selfish enough to partake in a lot of enjoyable things – hello Tom Ford Private Blends).

Between the invigorating essence of the Quintessence oil that was used, the expert maneuvering of the masseuse’s hands, and the over-riding calm of the whole atmosphere, I felt the closest to heaven that humans could hope to reach. I was an instant massage convert, and when it was over it felt like I had done the most addictive and pleasurable drug in the world. Floating back to the showers and vitality pool for one final round, I didn’t want it to end.

After a shower and a change of clothing, I make my way back from whence I came. A woman in the Southwest Corridor Park wearing a vibrant floral blouse and a straw hat is walking a black poodle. She smiles at me.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she remarks. “Not so humid.”

“Gorgeous,” I say, returning her smile. I am exactly where I am supposed to be, I think, heading to where I will find answers and resolutions.

At the Back Bay T-station a man stands at the foot of the stairs playing a guitar. He finishes the last bars of ‘Life Goes On’ and then it is briefly, eerily quiet before be begins a plaintive folk song. It is hot on the platform, and the T stations will hold this heat until October.

I get off at State Street and retrace my steps. The way to Bond is shorter than I remember, but a few lonely stretches of sidewalk still separate us, and the ghostly litter seems sad and poignant.

A stray feather and what looks like the remnants of an office lunch. Someone’s cut-up credit card and a crumpled sticky-note. The day-to-day debris of people going about their lives – the people I wanted to be – the normal ones, the simple ones, the ones who do what they’re supposed to do. There is a nobility to those lives that I’ll never achieve, a certain grace and dignity to be able to do it all without falling apart. Even at their sneaker-clad power-walking messiest, they have it more together than my impeccably-attired ass ever will.

I skirt the park again. Beneath a vine-covered arbor, a newly-married couple poses for their wedding photos. Another sign, another totem. The reception is taking place in the hotel, changing the previously-quiet atmosphere into a buzz-filled zone of static. Luckily, the celebration is not at Bond.

The stairs rise before me…. The hostess says hello… The evening is about to begin… I ascend.

Like a signpost, this sculpture stands at the intersection of several streets. This is one of the only times I can recall seeing it in the daytime. It came to me in a dream, where I keep searching but never find. Down dark streets, criss-crossing paths, and winding circles, I’ve been here before.

The faces lead me onward, steering my course and whispering the way. Are they warning or welcoming?

I am not there yet, but I am close. The surrounding buildings rise higher, making it difficult to discern location and direction. I find my way to the park where I once sat reading ‘The House of Mirth’ by Edith Wharton, waiting for him to finish work at the hotel across the street. It is the Langham Hotel now, and the Cafe Fleuri, where he waited tables, is still there. I have never set foot in this hotel. Even back then, I only ever waited outside, watching from afar.

He is not what I am seeking. He is, as far as I know, not in Boston anymore. I don’t know where he is, and I stopped looking for him years ago. My search is for something else.

I step into the lobby from the side entrance. No one is around. I sit down on a velvet couch and examine the room. Elegantly appointed, it is draped with sumptuous curtains lined with thick fringe. Behind me an escalator and a staircase rise to the Cafe Fleuri, already closed for the afternoon. The escalator is still, and a velvet rope cordons off access.

I sit there for a moment, trying to recall what was going through my mind in 1994, back when he was the first man I fell for. This is where he worked. This is the place from which he once called me on a late summer afternoon. I still remember the dying orange light of a sunset creeping along the cement walls of my castle room at Brandeis as we spoke. We seemed so far apart – Boston was but a miniature capsule in the distance from the vantage point of Waltham – and yet so close.

Somehow he is not the reason I am here today. Inadvertently, perhaps, and technically, maybe, but there is something greater at work, something about that whole time period that has drawn me back to this location. Walking through the lobby, I take a turn into a side hallway that leads to an open door and a grand flight of stairs. It is dim here, but above the stairs I can just make out the top of a bar, and a couple of chandeliers suspended grandly. It is a great room, with a ceiling that disappears skyward. I am overcome with the sense that I have found it – the place where all will be revealed.

The hostess returns and welcomes me to Bond. I ask if there is a dress code later tonight. In my shorts, half-buttoned shirt, and flip-flops I am nowhere near ready to step into the room. She says only after nine o’clock is it enforced. I thank her and say I’ll be back for an early cocktail.

Back outside, in the afternoon sunlight, I am relieved. This is where I will find it, whatever it is. I couldn’t even tell you why, but I just have this feeling that Bond is the place to be tonight. There’s something in that space that might unlock secrets that go all the way back to 1994. I’m strangely certain about this…

Following a cobblestone path downtown, I am drawn into a religious store, where I inquire about a rosary bracelet. I found an antique one in Sheridan’s many moons ago, back when it was in Downtown Crossing. Now, a pair of nuns mulls around a hot store trying in vain to find a similar model. We don’t have any luck and I leave empty-handed.

I do not notice until I am almost past it, but between the tall buildings a space has opened up and rows of books stand to my left. It’s like a bookstore has risen out of the cement, splitting a brick building in two, raw red clay piled high on each side of the new space.

This is the sort of magic that can happen in Boston. It is a miracle of Dickensian proportion and style, recalling some lost Curiosity Shop or run-down library. The faded perfume of Miss Havisham rots in these corners, and the dusty pages of musty books refuse to yield their own secrets.

I will save this space in my head for later. Something else is driving me on, impelling me deeper into the city. What I am looking for is not here, but it might be someday. I will come back. I will return. I will seek this out again…

Sitting on the bank of the Charles River, I am watching the runners and bicyclists go by. It is a sunny summer Saturday – and my journey in Boston continues. The morning was spent strolling through the Public Garden and lazily perusing the shops along Charles Street – and though it’s a tax-free weekend I have not yet made any purchases. I ended up here again, after crossing the walkway to the Charles River – a stop I seem to make once a year.

When I lived in Boston full-time I didn’t frequent this area as much as I should have. Partly because it was off the beaten-path, partly because I never thought to visit, and partly because of its connotations to the first man I ever kissed. Yet invariably, I find myself back here, always at this time of the year, always as the summer days wane. It is the path that we took after our eyes first met in Copley Square – the walk back to his place in Beacon Hill. Today it is the portal to my past, to that fateful day seventeen years ago, when my nineteen-year-old self met a thirty-six-year old man, and everything changed.

Now, all these years later, I am about to turn thirty-six. The same age of that first man in my life, the one who set me on a trajectory that has repercussions to this day. And while we are in such very different positions, I wonder what my life would be like if I weren’t married, if I didn’t have a home, if I lived in a tiny apartment in Beacon Hill and picked up a boy half my age. Would I be able to do what he did to me?

Shirtless men run along the path before me, sweaty and sunburned, their eyes fixed in the distance. Pony-tailed women pass swiftly by. A bi-racial couple and their two sons walk as a chattering group, simply seeming to enjoy one another’s company. The father puts his hand on the older son’s back, and the gesture is easy and natural. I wonder if I ever brought that kind of joy to my parents, or if I was too different.

We are so needlessly tormented.

A man walks by and he has no arms. The empty shirtsleeves hang limply at his sides like folded wings. A jogger passes him, arms swinging strongly, giving him weight and balance, and, it seems cruel to say, purpose.

It is time to leave this place. Whatever I was looking for cannot be found here… it is somewhere else. The trail continues…