On Friday afternoons, there used to be a farmer’s market at Copley Square, where rows of vegetables and flowers, baked goods and jams and jellies, cheese and butters and the like would line the sidewalks before Trinity Church. I think they still do it (I’ll find out today when I head back into Boston for the weekend) and it was always a pleasant way to enter the fall season, so I’m hopeful it’s still happening. This goes to show how out-of-the-loop I am when it comes to Boston goings-on these days. Something to rectify in the coming weeks…
The tricky turn of summer into fall is often deceptively beautiful, seducing with its balmy weather and bright all days. Cushioned by the coziness of the coming season, while holding onto the warmer air, is an intoxicating brew of enchantment that masterfully obscures the fact that winter will not be far behind.
Inextricably bound to its seaside perch, Boston has always carried hints of the sea in its air. Some days this is more pronounced than others, and on those days I thrill at the proximity to salt water, and the way the ocean laps at its doorstep. As my birthday dawned, we made our way to the Seaport, where we planned on visiting the Institute of Contemporary Art (ICA) for the first time. Suzie and her family had gone there a few weeks ago and recommended the journey. I was seeking something new for this low-key birthday year, and a museum with a water taxi to part of its exhibitions was perfect.
Andy snickered at this Louis Vuitton bag chained to the ground – a metaphor of fashion enslavement, or ‘the story of your life’ in his words. We wandered through the ICA and then made a super-quick run through its gift shop before making our way to the ship that would bring us across the harbor to the Watershed. Envisioning a Titanic-like expedition, I was surprised to see that they could accommodate 16 people at the most or something like that, and this little water-taxi would not have room for me to leisurely stroll about the deck, mostly because there wasn’t even a deck. No matter – I thrilled at the trip across the water since we never get to sail in any way, shape or form.
When we reached the Watershed, it felt like we were years removed from Boston, from the present moment, and from above the water. In some Atlantis-like fantasy, the Watershed exhibition was a respite from the sun, and the present world – and precisely what I wanted for my birthday.
There was magic in the cool and hushed walls, where artist Firelei Báez had conjured this spectacular exhibit. Andy and I slowly took our time walking through the tilted pillars and painstakingly-crafted ruins, where hours of meticulous artwork revealed themselves slowly, layer by layer, and away from the rest of the world, it felt like this space of sanctity was all we needed for that moment.
After the tour of the Watershed, we waited for the water-taxi to return in the tree-shaded beauty of a little park that looked out over the water. It brought us back to a lunch in the Seaport, and then we hopped on a ride back to the condo. While Andy took his siesta, I ventured out on my own – the traditional moment of solitude on a birthday that somehow appears every year.
I indulged in some shopping – even though Saks was out of my chosen cologne (losing out on an actual sale to Bergdorf Goodman who would deliver it just as quickly, and on a beauty sale).
Then it was time to dress for dinner at Mooo. A fancy birthday meal was about to ensue and close out our too-few days in Boston. It was amazing – from the delicate mocktail seen first, all the way through the ricotta cheesecake that Andy had (and promised to recreate for us at a date that will hopefully arrive shortly).
We arrived in Boston as Hurricane Henri arrived in upstate New York, and while we would cross paths a couple of times, we largely escaped the brunt of the bad weather, as Albany got much more rain than Boston ever did for this storm. After all the tumult of the past year and a half, a birthday trip wrecked by a hurricane would just be par for the course, but my spirit would be dampened deeply if it didn’t happen, so we lucked out.
It was on a Sunday when we settled into the condo, and while Andy rested I went out for an early stroll/shopping expedition, on which I picked up some Eataly eats for the days to come, as is the new favorite custom. If we had to be stranded inside for inclement weather, we would not do it hungry. Fortunately that never happened, but as the Boston sky looked dramatic and changeable, I would leave nothing to chance.
It was hot and humid, and the clouds hung lower than the tops of some buildings. The city gave off a dream-like vibe, where haziness and fog made everything feel a little more enchanting, if tinged with the threat of rain. For that first night, we tried out the new Contessa at The Newbury.
Back when it was the Taj Hotel, we’d spent our wedding weekend in one of their suites, and since then we’d returned to the rooftop restaurant for an extravagant birthday brunch a few years ago. Newly renovated and reopened, I was eager to see how it had changed. The Street Bar, where we’d had some delectable sidecars right before our wedding rehearsal dinner was still intact in sumptuous, classic form.
We had a drink there while waiting for our reservation, then took the elevator upstairs for dinner. Contessa is a gorgeous space – give me a fringed lamp and I’m yours. The food was decent enough, though on the salty side. More reason to drink I suppose. The view was spectacular, and the clouds abated so the expanse of downtown Boston spread out before us. It was the ideal entry into our trio of nights in the city.
The next day Andy hung around the condo while I did some birthday cologne reconnaissance. I’d narrowed it down to three possibilities: ‘Musc Ravageur’ by the magnificent Frederic Malle and a pair of Byredo offerings – ‘Oud Immortel’ and ‘Accord Oud’. I tried the ‘Musc’ at Neiman Marcus, but it had an abundance of vanilla, and while I’ve warmed slightly to that fragrance, it was only slightly, and I wasn’t quite ready to embrace this much of it. The ‘Oud Immortel’ was lovely, but veered a little too closely to Creed’s ‘Aventus’ to merit a purchase.
By Monday evening the rain had arrived, but it was spotty – pouring for a few minutes at a time then clearing a bit – these roving bands would traverse the sky for the night, scheduled to quit for good by my birthday, so this one night of stormy weather was comforted by an old Boston stand-by – the Atlantic Fish Company – which Mom had recommended after having a lunch there a few week ago. I hadn’t been there in well over a decade, and on a rainy night it provided a much-needed dose of comfort seafood. We returned to the condo in the midst of the rain, hunkering down for the evening with a hint of fall in the air, and that seems a good place to pause…
Taken along the Esplanade, this sunset closed out a recent day with Suzie in Boston, the adventures of which have already been posted here. Instead of rehashing that already, I’m taking this picture as inspiration to slow down and lean into these summer days before they’re gone.
Sit for a spell before the light goes out.
We can begin the drudgery again in the fall.
For now, relax – swim, sleep, walk, read, eat, enjoy…
Most of my trips to Boston in recent years have incorporated intentional time for an afternoon siesta – when the sun, if it deigns to do so, floods the bedroom through the bay window, and the world seems to quiet for a couple of hours to recharge and rest itself for evening festivities. It’s not something that’s honored or employed much in this country, but the rest of the world understands the benefits.
We took our afternoon break with a movie (‘The Devil Wears Prada’) and were refreshed before dinner at Oak & Rowan – a restaurant in the Seaport that looked good. The meal was stupendous, and this marked the first steps in getting to know the Seaport area a little better. It’s a bit of a trek, but nothing insurmountable on a comfortable summer evening, especially when trying to walk off a couple of days of substantial eating. The dessert we’d had was prettier than it was filling, so once again the hunt was on for a sweet treat to close the evening, and Suzie found a late-night cookie stand (Insomnia Cookies) that would do nicely in such a pinch. COVID has Boston restaurants mostly closing up before the clock strikes 11 PM, so we wandered into Downtown for this elusive cookie place, and lo and behold there it was not far from Boston Common. I’m not saying the cookies are anything more than frozen ones heated back up, slapped with some ice cream, and adequately served for anyone with the munchies – and sometimes that’s all one needs.
We walked back to the condo skirting the Common and then the Public Garden. Suzie freaked out at a rat and a snake she claimed were battling it out by the Common, but neither me nor the two other witnesses nearby saw anything like that. Suzie can be very imaginative. We reached the condo without further incident, spent some time being harassed by Chris via text, and took our revenge on a pair of glasses he’d left on his last visit. That part will remain our little secret, and it had to be done. Life is a mystery – everyone must stand alone.
Retiring for an early start the next morning (to avoid a line at Café Madeleine and to head to the SoWa Market for the first time in two years) we slept hard again, and by the midpoint of Sunday we were ready to hit the road, hitting it just in time to avoid the lengthier traffic lines. Good music and happy company and a full tank of gas made for a seamless ride home, and our time in Boston had come to a close much too quickly. I’ve missed spending time with Suzie – one of the major drawbacks of the current state of the world – and something we will work to rectify one way or another. For now, we are eyeing a day-trip to Manchester, Vermont for the next get-together/get-away…
There was already a line at Café Madeleine after our hard sleep the night before – all that walking and talking wiped us out – and I hadn’t slept so soundly in quite a long time, so we woke slightly later than intended. That meant we were without the Madeleine pastries, so we stepped into another line at Flour Bakery and just waited it out. The plan was to take a stroll through the Boston Public Garden then meander our way along Newbury Street for some shopping before a siesta and dinner.
The Garden was filled with waterfowl and rodents – tons of ducks and geese and squirrels, all wanting to say hello to Suzie, who wanted nothing to do with them. It was already hot out, the humidity was equally oppressive, but the Garden unfolded its shady paths and cool nooks, and in the shelter of a Metasequoia tree we set up a brunch of pastries and cookies. And water – oh so much water – to combat the heat and maintain hydration. Apparently I’m drinking water and booze like a pregnant woman: tons of the former and none of the latter.
We took our time walking through most of the Garden, staying close to the pond and beneath the trees, but even those attempts at remaining cool were proving difficult to maintain, so when we crossed Arlington to the site of the former Ritz Carlton/Taj Hotel, now The Newbury, we entered to use their air-conditioned restroom and regroup for a moment of cooling down. I’d recalled the restroom from my last trip to Boston with Chris, and their Byredo ‘Willow’ soap was the main reason for this stop. We stationed ourselves in an upstairs lobby area where they were setting up for a wedding later that day. Flowers abounded, and I was reminded of the simple joy of pausing in a hotel lobby on a day in the city and re-grouping.
Shopping beckoned us onward, even in the midst of mounting heat and humidity, so by the time we reached the Aesop store, I was ready to stop, even if I never intended to find anything. With a soap sink and station set up for sampling their product, the dark, dim coolness of the store was a balm for the overheated madness of the street, and we took our time indulging and trying out the sweetly-scented offerings on hand. While not in the market for more soap, I splurged on their Geranium products (which is worth a total post of its own, so stay tuned…) It was one of those moments of respite that only happen when purely unplanned, on sunny days where everything else is melting, and you don’t expect to find relief so when you do it’s even more gratifying.
We wound our way through the retail gauntlet, finding sustenance in the fries and fried pickles at Trident before returning to the condo for a siesta. Suzie proclaimed that Ahmad Jamal would provide the soundtrack to the weekend, hence the song selections in these posts. ‘Tranquility’ felt especially fitting for the laid-back calm of spending a weekend in Boston with a friend I’ve known since birth. One more post to go…
Suzie was my companion on my very last trip before COVID hit – to a ‘Swan Lake’ show in New York City in the winter before it all went awry. So returning to Boston with her felt like a return to the world of the living, even as it came with precautions and a stunning shift in what had happened to Boston, and to us, in the last year and a half. Most of our recent visits to Boston have taken place during the holidays, when winter was knocking at the door, and we were gathering friends and family for the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour. This summer trip was a return to the past for us, when we would take a few days of summer vacation to spend a couple of days in the sultry heat of Boston for some show or shopping excursion. This time around I think it was mostly to spend some quality time with each other.
To avoid crowds, our first meal was procured largely from Eataly, where we assembled a collection of meats and cheeses and fruits and crackers for a kick-ass charcuterie platter. As I started folding pieces of salami over the side of a glass, Suzie looked at me quizzically and said it looked like I was preparing a meat cocktail. After explaining that I had seen on social media that this was how to make a salami rosette, I began to doubt myself and the end result, but after using all the salami in the pack, I flipped it over and this stunning denouement silenced all doubts.
We had lots of leftovers for savory indulgences that would last throughout the weekend, so we stored things away and headed to the Esplanade for a summer evening walk. For far too many years, I ignored this precious place along the Charles River, and whenever friends are in town I’ve been taking them back here for a walk that feels far from the city, even as the skyscrapers loom on both sides of the water.
We walked to Beacon Hill and made our way to Faneuil Hall where we waited in vain for someone to sell us some cookies at the Chipyard. Alas, they were already closed by the time we arrived, and so we decided to walk to the harbor to cool down a bit instead.
At the edge of the world, where sea met city, and the dark of the sky was matched by the dark of the ocean, we set up shop. The water lapped at the stone beneath our feet as we dangled them over the edge into the darkness. Boats passed in the near distance, while planes landed at Logan Airport in the far. The breeze felt good, the conversation was better, and the company was the best.
Our search for a sweet treat to end the day ended up at the local convenience store, where some ice cream would suffice – and after a full day of walking we deserved it. Unpacking our re-entry into Boston over this dessert ended things on a sweet and satisfied note. The next day we planned to sleep in and deal with the heat of the day as it came…
Texts from our new world arrived early the next day, with the first one from Mom asking if I had seen the news about I-95 and an armed stand-off that had shut it down. Putting the phone down and looking out into the gray rainy morning, I padded softly to the window before Chris was up in the other room. Even in co-habitation, there was still so much solitude, something I’d always sensed but hoped wasn’t true. Facing that is something I’ve worked at over the last few years, and it felt like I was finally at some sort of peace. In my head, this piece played along to the rain.
Originally planning to depart first thing in the morning, I took a page out of Chris’s own travel M.O. and decided to make the most of the last few hours in Boston. I decided to join him for a Saturday brunch and leave a little later, provided the route home was open and not blocked by an armed militia. The rain had also started up again – heavy and unyielding – so it would be wiser to wait on all accounts.
Chris stirred and we ordered a car to a restaurant across the street from the Boston Public Garden. On such a morning, only a lifelong friend could lend any sort of comfort and safety to a world that felt like it was crumbling around us.
We finished our brunch and stopped by the Four Seasons, where we’d shared a wedding lunch over a decade ago. The Bristol Lounge had closed since then, another mark of the sad passing of time, another lost place that would only reside in memory, and that grew more fleeting as well.
The rain gave us a little break, so we walked through the Boston Public Garden. Chris had been the officiant when Andy and I were married there, and it was his first time returning to this sacred space. The world surrounding the Garden may have been overcome by madness, but in here there was only peace and beauty and love. We walked around for a while. Every time we were about to take a path out, it seemed we would pause and go another route, perhaps not wanting to break the spell.
“The tragedy of growing old is not that one is old but that one is young.” ~ Oscar Wilde
When at last we departed the Garden, we stopped at the former Taj Hotel – now The Newbury – and where we’d once sat down for cocktails before our rehearsal dinner, we now ordered tea and coffee. Eyeing the arrival of a nearby table’s sundae, I splurged and ordered one of those as well. There may no longer be this epic chocolate cake from the Bristol Lounge, but there would be chocolate somehow.
Chris left me to my sundae while he went to call his family. I looked out at the Public Garden, remembering that sunny May day when Andy and I got married. Warmed by the thought, and the chamomile tea, I felt a slight reassurance in the world again. Chris returned and we delved into how we were growing old. He examined some of the photos we had taken over the weekend, lamenting how time had taken its toll on us. Wrinkles and lines, gray hair and furrowed brows that didn’t unfurrow so fast anymore, he seemed more bothered by it than me – the ultimate switch in roles from where we were twenty years ago. I always figured I’d be the vain one who despaired of losing my youth and all its accompanying physical charm and ease, but it was Chris who was having the tougher time of it. Maybe he saw something in my gray and white hair that terrified him. Maybe he couldn’t escape the deepening lines of our necks and foreheads. Maybe he felt the chill of being unnoticed in a room where everyone was suddenly younger than us.
I came to terms with that a few years earlier, life and age as a gay man advancing so much quicker than it seemed to do in the straight world. Maybe this was new to Chris and he wasn’t embracing all the good that came with it. There were sacrifices and trade-offs to moving beyond youth into middle-age. Maybe the approach of his 46th birthday spooked him, and in turn his worry spooked me. As one of the few pillars in my life on which I’ve always relied and depended, seeing him falter a bit chilled me more than any crazed militia or the threats of a post-COVID universe. It felt like we both needed a friend at that moment, and I decided to postpone my return home until the next day.
Outside, on the steps of the condo, we paused to take in Braddock Park. How many times had we lifted our feet trudging up these stairs? I still have a framed picture from a cold, rainy day in June from 1998 or so, when Chris was looking for places to live in Boston while he attended Harvard Divinity School. He is lying down on the couch, flanked by Suzie and me, all of us looking equally annoyed with each other, and all of it belying the happiness and joy of being young and not knowing all that we didn’t know. I distinctly remember that period of our lives, in particular one Sunday morning in early summer when we all gathered for brunch somewhere on Tremont Street. As I nursed a hangover from the night before, I still understood then that I was in the midst of what might very well be the happiest time in my life, so I leaned into the moment. Alissa was there that morning, and it struck me how she had been with us all this weekend too, appearing in scattered moments of memory, recalled by location and the company of Chris.
The rain began again, and we went inside before making plans for our unexpected dinner and one more night out together.
They sat us in the back of Citrus & Salt, where we ordered some virgin margaritas and fish tacos. Chris seemed itching to be part of the bustling scene near the front of the restaurant, and I didn’t want to stand in his way. Whatever he was searching for was something I could not deliver, and it wasn’t something I ever really wanted. Watching from the periphery and enjoying quiet time with close company was enough for me. There was nothing glamorous about noisy crowds or making small-talk with strangers. Chris, on the other hand, plugged into life that way. We accepted our differences, even as we never fully understood them.
Walking past the line of young people waiting to get into Club Cafe, I watched them without envy. Soaked and chilled by the unseasonal weather, waiting to get into a place where they would likely not find whatever they might be seeking, I still admired them for doing exactly what we might have done two decades ago. They were at that tender part of the journey where waiting outside in the rain would become part of the hazy morning-after retelling of the night-before at a brunch that I hoped they would remember and mark as one of the truly happy moments of their lives.
And my friend Chris, who was with me then, and with me now, still wanted to find that happiness somehow, still wanted to capture the elusive realization of contentment in the moment it happened. It was slightly sad, and slightly noble, and I could never knock him for trying. I hope he finds it.
The next morning I walked to Cafe Madeleine alone for breakfast. The rain had ended, but the world still drooped beneath its weight. Returning to the condo the back way, I passed the garden plot beside our building and found one of the bunnies sitting in the morning calm. Its eyes looked back at mine – dark pools of unknowable mystery from both sides – and I wondered what life it had known in its time in Boston.
“It takes great deal of courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it.” ~ Oscar Wilde
“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” ~ Zora Neale Hurston
When Chris proposed a Boston stop on his cross-country summer expedition, I wasn’t sure it would work out. Our lives have altered so drastically since COVID, and while I was secure in our friendship, I didn’t take anything for granted, nor did I count on something good happening before it actually did. That’s taken quite a lot of the enjoyment and fun out of life for me, as so much of my experience was in living things out in joyful anticipation of what was to come. Unsure of how anything might play out these days, I’ve halted my happy hopes to stave off any possible disappointment. After all, Chris was to have joined us on the perfectly-planned out Plaza weekend in New York City that never came to pass. We’re both still shook from that. So when we planned to rendezvous in Boston last weekend, I held my excitement in check until we actually sat down to a charcuterie plate in the condo and toasted with mocktails the reunion that was almost two years in the making.
You may tire of me as our December sun is setting because I’m not who I used to be
No longer easy on the eyes but these wrinkles masterfully disguise
The youthful boy below who turned your way and saw
Something he was not looking for: both a beginning and an end
But now he lives inside someone he does not recognize
When he catches his reflection on accident…
Boston was welcoming at first, but I knew the rain would come. Chris didn’t heed my advice to bring an umbrella, to his almost-instant regret, but he insisted it wasn’t about the weather, it was the company. I caught a few flowers along Southwest Corridor Park before the rain arrived.
On our way to a dinner at Terra, we had our first encounter with a family of rabbits who would greet us almost every time we returned to the condo. I thought of Andy and missed him.
Treating Chris to an early birthday dinner was supposed to be a surprise until we sat down and the birthday dessert arrived, but the hostess decided to ruin the surprise by welcoming us to our birthday dinner. She was apologetic about it, and honestly, at our ages, a little ruined surprise isn’t a big deal. It’s the company that counts.
It was our first joint foray into the world of dining and entertainment post-COVID, and we kept the party going with a mocktail at the Fairmont Plaza, followed by a post-dinner snack at Earl’s. Boston felt alive, even as a downpour descended, one which would not abate until the next day.
We made it back to the condo, soaked and tired and somehow happier for having returned to the comforting warmth of a friendship that we’d known for more years than we were strangers to each other. Twenty six years of camaraderie and support.
On the back of a motor bike
With your arms outstretched trying to take flight
Leaving everything behind
But even at our swiftest speed we couldn’t break from the concrete
In the city where we still reside.
And I have learned that even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea like navy men
Cause now we say goodnight from our own separate sides
Like brothers on a hotel bed
Like brothers on a hotel bed
A brief break in the rain the next day allowed for us to walk along the Esplanade after Chris was finished with his work and I’d done some shopping downtown. The mark of any successful journey together is spending a few hours apart – it’s a science that Chris and I have perfected over years of trial and error (originally honed by a trip to Disneyworld with Suzie). Good friends allow that space for solitude, and we were both better for it. When we returned to the condo for a lengthy walk to dinner, the break in rain continued, but the wind and cooler temperatures left Boston with a chill more customary to the fall.
Many years ago, when we first met, we would take similar walks in various cities – San Francisco, New York, and Boston too – trying to figure out life, trying to see how we fit into the world. We could conjure those memories and compare them to where we are today, and some of the most basic questions still remained. We’ve grown in different ways, taken different roads, but meeting up again felt like we’d merely been traveling in parallel directions, just one street away from each other. True friendship is like that.
The rain returned, so we ordered a car to dinner at Time Out Market, where Skip and I had just enjoyed a meal, and where a DJ-fueled scene would likely be what Chris was hunting. We enjoyed the first dinner of the evening, then stopped at the Cask & Flagon near Fenway and the famed neon Citgo sign. A brush with the Boston Red Sox was better than no Red Sox game at all.
Weather-wise, the night had taken a turn for the worse, with a bone-chilling wind and rain that pelted like it was November. Ducking into the lobby of the Hotel Commonwealth, we warmed ourselves while I tried to figure out where we might find a cup of hot tea. That’s where we are at this stage of our lives. No martini, no highball, not beer – just a search for a cup of hot tea. I was fine with that though, and Chris managed to stay true to his proclamation that it was about the company.
We wound up at one of the few places open late now for food and drink: Solas at the Lenox Hotel. Happy memories had been made here before – and wonderful moments with Skip, and JoAnn, and Andy – all of which flooded back as we ordered our second dinner of the night. We seemed to have replaced drinking with eating, and we were both better off for the switch, even as our stomachs moaned with the load.
A walk back to the condo was the best thing for us, and the rain had slightly let up. In the queasy light of the midnight hour, the family of rabbits greeted us again. I was due to depart the next day, while Chris stayed in town for one more night. Boston went to sleep in the rain…
You may tire of me
As our December sun is setting
Because I’m not who I used to be
This concluding post of our 2021 BroSox Adventures falls fittingly on the first official day of summer. Truth is, we’ve been celebrating the season since we made our trip, so let’s get right back into it from where we left off. Greeting the morning at the Mandarin Oriental was an exercise in indulgence, so we lazily took our time getting ready for the day, sleepily tumbling out of the hotel and across the block to Newbury Street, where we had a casual brunch at Trident Booksellers. For all the bombast of drag queens who went from the Little Mermaid to Lady Gaga in the flash of an eye, or the excitement of a hard-won baseball game, it was the little moments of downtime that would always end up resonating in my mind, remembered more fondly than all the other hyped-up events. This Saturday morning stop on Newbury – one of our unplanned traditions, with a requisite stop at Muji, and a new browsing of Room & Board – was another quiet patch of time in which simply passing the morning was made more fun with Skip’s accompaniment.
New friends silver
Old friends gold
We’re like diamonds
Truth be told
People come and
People go
We keep shining
Soul to soul
We picked up some treats from Eataly, checked out of the Mandarin, and returned to the condo, our decadent time pretending to live way beyond our means suddenly over – and none of that seemed to matter anymore. Our Red Sox game wasn’t set to begin until 4 PM, but time was moving faster on this trip, and I felt the fleeting sense of its dissipation. We had a few snacks and moved onto the front steps for some stoop gazing with a glass of Macallan for Skip and a grapefruit seltzer for me. We may have also taken the rest of an edible – and the timing would be perfect for the game, and an epic Uber ride. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Shooting the shit on the stoop with a friend is one of life’s simple pleasures – and something that had been missing for too long. In that sense, I think we both realized that something had been lost in the last two years, and there was something very profound and moving about it. We felt it in the moment. There was loss, and there was gratitude. And suddenly, out of the sunny sky, there was a spattering of raindrops.
An isolated cloud passed overhead and we both felt a few more drops of rain trickling just on us. The cloud was gone, but we still felt water dripping from above. It was like our stoop was the only place where it was raining, and it made absolutely no sense. We looked up the next time more fell from the sky, and then we saw the silly bird hopping about in the drain, splashing water down upon the fools below. We cracked up at that, and the silly antics continued when we climbed into an Uber that would take us to the game.
The remaining edible hit just as we pulled onto Columbus. I was chattering away with the driver, Jean, who initially seemed an affable gentleman. We all had our masks on, even as much of Massachusetts had lifted its mandate (and we were vaccinated). Skip was conversing with Jean now, and I can’t even tell you what I found funny, but suddenly I was engulfed in a laughing fit. It was one of those that grew, feeding on itself to the point where my stomach was starting to hurt. Skip looked over and started laughing at my silliness. All I could see were his eyes above his mask, which only made me laugh more. I was quickly losing it, finding it difficult to breath with the laughter and the mask, and tears were filling my eyes, but it was so funny and silly I didn’t care.
Skip was losing it too, and to set Jean’s mind at ease I tried to scream out a simple declaration of ‘WE…. ARE… LAUGHING!!!’ so he didn’t think we were crying or having convulsions. At that, Skip completely lost it and let a fart rip right out loud. Poor Jean rolled down his window about a minute later. That was it. I was DEAD in this Uber.
Unable to breath for so many reasons, I slunk down and took my mask off for a few seconds because I really thought I was going to pass out from laughing so hard. “I am so sorry, Jean!” I sputtered, half screaming through my laughter. “That was so rude! I apologize for this person!!”
Jean was brazenly unamused by our nonsense, dropping us off at his first opportunity at the start of the bridge that led to Fenway Park. Of course traffic was then in a slow crawl so he drove beside us the length of the bridge, prolonging everyone’s mortification. I was still cracking up from the ride as we entered and took our seats after some confused fumbling trying to find them. Pulling open the Uber app to give Jean a five-star rating – it was the least I could do – I got a message from Uber stating that on my recent trip I had removed my mask and broken their protocol and would need to provide proof that I was wearing a mask if I wanted to use it again! Another fit of laughter ensued as we settled into the game.
Skip had recently referred to Fenway Park as the “Cathedral of baseball” and even as they were losing to the Blue Jays, there was something powerfully religious about this intrinsically American past-time. The sun slanted through the windows behind us, lending a church-like solemnity to the raucous proceedings, and the Fenway franks we had tasted better than any other hot dog in recent and long-term memory.
We were among people again, and I was glad to be experiencing such a re-entry into society with Skip. Over the last year and a half, my social anxiety had been largely relieved of potential pitfalls and difficulties. Starting a social life up again could feel daunting and draining, but a safe friend never failed to offer support, even if he was blithely unaware of the import of his presence. It was another moment of gratitude in the midst of a baseball game. The silly and the sublime, the sacred and the profane, the yin and the yang – another BroSox Adventure was being written for the books.
After the game, we paused to consider dinner options, and I recalled the nearby Time Out Market, explaining the dining hall aspect to Skip, who jumped at the notion. When it had first opened a couple of years ago, I made an early morning visit on a day I was supposed to meet Kira later in the afternoon. I’d felt a rare moment of loneliness, as Kira wasn’t with me, and I think I even texted Skip a photo I took of Fenway – empty and forlorn on the cold fall morning. In a way, it felt like a happy denouement as we walked through the sunny early evening, the warm light still washing over us even as we approached the 8 PM hour.
A DJ was spinning Dua Lipa and Journey and Olivia Rodriguez and somehow it all worked. People were laughing and talking, and while the tables were filling up, it didn’t feel crowded. We ordered some food and waited for our buzzer to light up. It was the perfect wind-up to the weekend, one of those moments that comes together with unplanned ease, like the world was aligning for us even if Mercury in retrograde was doing its best to mess with everything else.
We walked back to the condo as was our usual tradition, vainly struggling to shirk off all the hot dogs and bibimbap we’d just ingested, and the night turned a brilliant shade of blue. Even in the encroaching dark, summer was on the horizon. We spoke of the vacations to come, and summers that had already gone. We spoke of family and friends and the people we held most dear. For a few brief stretches we didn’t speak at all. While I had never doubted that our friendship would survive Covid, it still felt incredibly good to be in Skip’s company again.
We reached the condo and went out for one more round of stoop gazing. The next day dawned in warm and sunny fashion, and I realized I had left my glasses and an extra pair of contacts at the Mandarin, so we trudged over there as the sun grew in warmth and brightness. I was glad to not have to take the quick journey alone, and happy to prolong our return home just a few moments longer. Our BroSox Adventure was back in glorious effect, and as momentarily sad as I was to see it come to such a quick end, I was grateful we were both still intact, still able to make the trip and expand our friendship.
A true friend is someone who puts on Barney’s cologne simply because you asked. He doesn’t question why, he just starts spritzing.
A true friend is someone who proudly dons a gay pride rainbow Red Sox shirt even though you only bought it for him as a joke. He’s not embarrassed, he’s not self-conscious, he’s just instantly and intrinsically supportive.
A true friend is someone who can crack you up when all you see is his eyes above a mask in the back seat of an Uber. He doesn’t have to speak or tell a joke, he just makes you laugh – and he makes your life richer, more expansive, and always a little bit better.
“Don’t be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends.” ~ Richard Bach
“A good friend is a connection to life – a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world.” ~ Lois Wyse
The mark of any great weekend can usually be found in the first stirrings of Sunday morning. If something exceptional and soul-warming happened, that initial crush of the Sunday scaries is a telling indication. Such were the dismaying notes of dread and disappointment that were starting to appear as Skip and I made our way to retrieve the bag of contact lens items and glasses I had inadvertently left at the Mandarin Oriental.As we walked in the brilliant sunlit warmth, and I munched on a mobile breakfast of croissants from Cafe Madeleine
Alas, I felt the keen pang of heartsickness upon leaving Boston. There was never enough time… but the results and aftermath of a wild weekend won’t mean much without the lead-up and adventures that ended on this bittersweet note of Sunday clean-up, so let’s return to the highly-anticipated start of everything on a sunny Friday, late in the morning, and the first stop at Price Chopper before hitting the road…
Excitement and electricity were in the air, and Mercury was in retrograde motion. The opening salvo of ‘Shipping Up to Boston’ fueled the very first turns we made, a driving song suggested by Skip, and one that marked the dramatic collection of music I’d selected for this trip, to mirror the dramatic year and half we’d all had. Checking out of our quick Price Chopper stop, I noticed that the total for the water and gum for the ride to Boston read out an ominous $6.66. Skip mentioned the infamous bad sign of the goocher before the boys in ‘Stand By Me’ began their coming-of-age journeys. I hoped we didn’t share a similar fate, not being in any mood for dead bodies near train tracks. Skip and I were far from boys, and had long since come of age, so I wondered if this trip would be a turning of the page in our own BroSox Adventures, if not an entirely new chapter. After 2020, it might be a completely new book. As such, I had been tamping down my own expectations and tendency to hype things up in breathless anticipation of our first trip back to Boston since 2019. It would be enough just to make this journey again after a year off.
This year, the drive itself into Boston would prove to be an integral part of things, worth mentioning for the quick pot-pick-up now that it’s entirely legal in Massachusetts to use cannabis – and we all know that I’m a mellow kind of girl. The process was fascinating, as the young woman who was taking Skip’s order stopped by and asked us to turn on the hazards (which I’d never done before). She was extremely affable, telling us about her recent effort in saving a baby bird from being run over by a car. Even indirectly, cannabis seemed to be making people much happier – or maybe this woman was an isolated moment. Across the street, we paused for a piss-stop (ten glasses of water a day will do that to a forty-five-year-old bladder). In the bathroom of McDonald’s a gentleman was just coming out of the stall, making guttural sounds and noises and carrying a crumpled paper bag, acting all kinds of crazy while I stood at the urinal and did my best to ignore his noises, and the responsive noises of Skip in the stall mimicking his nonsense. Everything was as if we never said good-bye. These were the moments I’d missed over the last year and a half – silly, foolish stuff that only good friends find funny.
The day ripened into afternoon as we arrived at the condo, dropping off our stuff and taking only what we would need for a night at the Mandarin Oriental. Since Skip’s dog Cooper had won us a gift certificate, it seemed only fitting to use it with Skip in tow. I’d been wanting to stay there properly ever since experiencing their spa, a visit to heaven on earth. We paused at the condo for drinks and snacks, then walked to the hotel, where I hoped to partake of some spa time while Skip napped.
The scent of the ocean was on the wind – an invigorating and intoxicating fragrance that would rival the sprays of Barney’s cologne I asked Skip to don for our check-in. Rain always seemed to bring out the sea – water calling to water – and in the air hung the first hint of the wet night to come. It wasn’t here yet – only the hints of it.
Mercury in retrograde reared its tricky head shortly after we checked in and I headed down to the spa. The vitality pool – their luxurious hot tub – was closed for service, leaving only the steam room, which cut my time there quite short. A disappointing moment, but after 2020 it was a minor incident not even worth inquiring about a rain check for. Returning to the room, Skip was back up, and we headed out for a beer and a seltzer, and a power meeting on dinner options, ultimately settling on Boston Chops. As we approach the breaking mid-point of our forties, and another summer of potentially shirtless moments (our pool is open and Skip has the wedding of Sherri’s sister to attend in the Caribbean next month) we had both been doing some intermittent fasting to shed our extra Covid weight. That discipline was suspended for the weekend, as we headed to a favorite steakhouse and tasted the first few frites, and a béarnaise sauce that was to-die-for. Breaking bread with a good friend you haven’t seen in a long time has got to be one of the most soul-enriching experiences our time here on earth still affords. As enjoyable and satiating as dinner was, it was merely a preamble for the fun we were about to have.
In previous years we had walked past and toyed with the idea of stopping at Cathedral Station, a gay sports bar of sorts. It’s been literally years since I’ve been to a gay bar, and this seemed the perfect moment to fix that, while watching the Red Sox game on television with Skip and his expertise in tow. We got a table and asked the host to put on the Red Sox game. Shortly after our beer and cranberry-club arrived, a figure decked out in head-to-toe Ariel garb from ‘The Little Mermaid’ began slinking around the room.
Put those two things together and I was utterly enchanted for the first five minutes of our interaction. Upon learning that Skip was straight, she quickly turned her back on him and spoke only to me – which she would do sporadically for the remainder of the evening. It’s practically impossible to ignore Skip, even with years of practice, but Layla did it flawlessly. While entertaining as hell at first, it quickly grew slightly rude and tiresome, to the point where I tried to avert eye contact so she wouldn’t seek out our table again.
The game was a doozy – and Skip seemed to be the only one in the whole place actually paying attention and watching, excitedly cheering the Red Sox on and screaming his usual nonsense; our initial plan to watch the game this year from afar didn’t seem all that bad, even if it rang a little hollow. Near the end of their comeback, I was blessedly in the bathroom when they made their winning play – and even though the bathroom was on another floor, I could hear Skip’s shouts and the pounding of his feet on the floor. I may have stayed there a little longer than necessary to allow the hysteria to die down, and to let Skip talk up his Tatum O’Neal game show encounter at a nearby table (for which he’ll have to write his own blog post because I’m not repeating that kind of desperation). Whatever he said left them supremely unimpressed as they all departed before I got back.
In his own advancing age, Skip has been making some hilarious mistakes when it comes to names and trivia, so when I mentioned Pedro Guerrero as a possible father to Vlad Guerrero Jr. he laughed and didn’t believe such a player existed. A quick Google search proved my answer not entirely foolish (well, except for the Jr. aspect – but I knew of a baseball player that Skip had never heard of, so it was a draw). He also confused the years that the Red Sox won the World Series – maybe it was his beer – and when I have to correct him on baseball trivia you know we are in a brave new world.
A few inside-side-notes to Skip directly:
It’s ‘Weber’ grill, not ‘Wagener’.
It’s ‘Holyoke’, not ‘Housatonic’ (or vice-versa).
It’s ‘Blue Jays’ not ‘Blue Rays’.
And, my personal favorite, it’s ‘Room service’, not ‘Room rental food’.
We departed with a vow to return here again next year – it was a happy mix of people, maybe a little more giddy than usual to be out and about once again – and now a new memory of joy in Boston exists where only possibility lived before. Exiting and not really thinking through our next steps, we walked right into a first for our BroSox Adventures: steady rain. While we had skirted one quick thunderstorm during dinner and drinks at Hojoku before a game, on that night the skies had rather miraculously cleared right before the game, as if on cue from a very kind God. On this night, with Mercury in retrograde, the rain did not let up for a minute, and we found ourselves trudging through the wet night, and somehow laughing our way through every step. Finding a way to laugh while walking through rain without an umbrella is a testament to the magic of being with a longtime friend.
A final bite at Solas ended our first day back in Boston on a filling, and happily fulfilling, note. We crashed quickly, and soon were out. Maybe we should have made more of a room at the Mandarin, but Boston had beckoned and we were at her wish and whim. Or maybe we did grow up a little, and such things as ritzy hotel rooms weren’t as important as time with good friends.
It says a lot of wonderful, amazing things that this is the current FaceBook profile pic for the official Boston Red Sox account. It seemed like such a matter-of-fact thing, and for a moment I wondered what my younger life would have been like had something like this existed when I was just growing up and learning who I was. When you don’t see yourself anywhere, part of you doesn’t truly believe that you’re even there.
This year’s return to our annual BroSox Adventure originally looked a little different than previous years. We are, after all, still muddling through a pandemic in which certain idiots are still refusing to get vaccinated, and the rest of us are being forced to carry the responsibility and concern for our fellow human beings. Luckily, New York and Massachusetts are both doing well on those fronts, and the last time I was in Boston they were just opening things up to full capacity, with no masks for those of us who are fully vaccinated. That includes Red Sox games, which changes our original plans for the BroSox Adventure with Skip.
We had planned on simply taking in a game from afar – either at some quiet pub or restaurant, and possibly just in our hotel room at the Mandarin Oriental – but someplace low-key and, frankly, affordable. When they opened up Fenway to full capacity, however, tickets suddenly became available, and Skip managed to scoop some up, enabling us to return to our tradition in all its customary form. As Skip put it, a BroSox Adventure without a trip to baseballs cathedral would somehow ring hollow – especially after being absent for over a year. This feels right, and it adds the finishing touch to a trip that we’ve been hoping to happen for two years.
Shaking off the ickiness of an awkward and difficult lunch is only partly cured by a shopping excursion. That sort of balm requires beauty and flowers and the sweetness of a slow sun setting over the city which has never let me down. To those ends, Boston delivered a calming end to the day, as if to say that everything was going to be all right, everything was as it should be, and it was ok to simply pause and breathe and exist.
Summer would come to Boston, just as spring had done, and there was no stopping or changing that. The upcoming BroSox Adventure with Skip is on the near horizon, while a birthday celebration in Boston with Andy is further down summer’s road. I’ll also be spending some time on my own in the city, like I used to do when Kira was in Florida. I’ve missed such solitude. We have all missed so much.
It is enough to exist, to breathe, to simply be – and we need not share that with anyone or document it or do what I’m doing right now by blogging about it. For that reason, the summer may be outwardly quieter than usual, and maybe I’ll have fewer posts each week. Perhaps that’s how this blog shifts into its own arc of winter, something that’s been hinted at and may finally be happening. Not that I’m planning on going anywhere anytime soon – some winters are a lifetime long.
As I find myself back at Braddock Park, there is still light in the sky. It’s been quite a day – and all of this in a single day – so I take an early sleep. It is not a content one, however, as I’m restless and uneasy. My legs hurt from too much walking – so much so that I can’t find a position that is comfortable, and I toss and turn much of the night. When at last I drift off, a man starts screaming profanities outside on the street, waking me again.
Giving up on sleep by 8 AM, I make the bed and head out for breakfast at Cafe Madeleine. Overnight the air has changed dramatically. All hints of summer have been sucked out of the atmosphere. It is chilly and overcast, like fall is back, like winter is coming, and the unease of the night spills into the new day.
Still, the gardens remain in bloom, and their blooms will last longer this way.
