Category Archives: Boston

“To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.” ~ Oscar Wilde

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. 

Oh how I love a drag queen.

And more than that, I love ‘The Little Mermaid’ even if brings to mind this rather embarrassing episode. 

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’. 

Bonus of not drinking: I had the frame of mind to jot these gems down.

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. 

{To be continued…}

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. 

A number of years ago, I had made a trip to Boston to see Kira and wound up taking this same route to pick her up from work. Back then, my walk had taken place on a cold night in late fall, when most of the leaves were already down, and a chilly rain had fallen leaving puddles at every turn. What a change in such weather on this afternoon. With the heat rising, I walked through the center mall of Commonwealth Avenue, beneath the canopy of shade-giving trees, past the statues of historical noteworthiness, all the way to the entrance of the Boston Public Garden. In the midst of the glorious spring, I thought back to the last time we met in person – it must have been on this trip to Boston in January of 2020 – which was the last time I’d gone anywhere before COVID hit. I didn’t know the import of that trip, and how I would have to turn it into that year’s Holiday Stroll. 

Now, those memories mingled with the path of today, and they jarred me with a sense of sadness, a loss of that way of life. Maybe just for now, maybe for a while, maybe forever. Commonwealth met the Public Garden. I crossed the street and entered, wondering where Boston was sending me, what messages I was supposed to receive. 

“Take what you like, give what you want.”

The words were printed on this little stand that appeared as by magic in the midst of the Boston Public Garden. There was a message there. An important one, and a pertinent one. It holds true as much for friendship as for life. But there was something underlying it as well, a darker tone of ominousness that lurked right around the corner. I paused to take a photo of these puppets, spooked and slightly disturbed by them, as if they were some gingerbread house waiting to ensnare the unwary. Then I thought I should have more faith in people. As I walked around the stand, a person in a mouse’s costume sat next to it – I hadn’t seen them there and I was startled. Silent but for a nod, the human face beneath the mouse’s was barely discernible, and covered in lace, making for an even more disturbing visage. Backing away from the giant mouse, I came upon a trumpeter playing to no one in particular. 

If there was a message in his song, I could not hear it, and I felt like I was missing something, or going the wrong way. Still, I followed the path toward Beacon Hill, unwavering. Boston held its secrets usually for good reason. All would come right in the end, I had to believe. 

A fringe tree lowered its bowers and panicles of bloom – and suddenly a happy memory of Kira and I in this very garden came back to me. I’d unconsciously avoided the fringe tree I recalled – the one I made Kira pose in front of probably a decade ago. Now, inescapable and right in my way, I could not avoid it, or its sweet perfume. 

It smelled of the same intoxicating fragrance – bringing back that day, and other days even further back – in Suzie’s side yard, in the Wasilkowski’s front yard – in all these yards of childhood – and I wondered if life would be mostly memories from this point forward, and whether would that be entirely awful. 

At the end of the path, I crossed to Charles Street and followed it almost to the end, where a Thai restaurant – The King and I – had a table available for us. I sat down at the appointed time, and in a few minutes Kira walked in. It was the first time we had seen each other since January 2020. I sensed her to my right before I could bring myself  to look up to see her. Averting eye contact is my main tell of being upset with someone. 

So much had happened since that winter, and for so much we had been out of touch, as was her wont when things got difficult. I needed to talk to someone then, and she wasn’t there. Worse, she hadn’t shared what was going on in her life. Weaker friendships had fallen apart over far less, but so had stronger friendships. I knew this, and wanted us both to have an opportunity to address the last year and a half, and see where we were, and how we each wanted our friendship to continue. Could the pandemic have taken our friendship as one of its many casualties? For the first time, sitting across from her, I allowed the thought to cross my mind. 

We each spoke and we each listened. I felt our friendship still there, yet I felt it shift into something different. I also felt it hesitate and hold, and I embraced that. Such things weren’t to be decided or determined at a single lunch. We were not the rash young people we’d been when we first met in Boston in the fall of 1998. We would not yell and scream and storm out in a mad scene. We would not part in anger, nor would we part in happiness or resolution. Nothing is that easy anymore. We parted in a chilly uneasiness, unable to hug and stranded in our respective points of view. It was as bad, and as good, as it could have gone. For once, I expected the actual outcome, and it came to pass. 

It didn’t feel good, but it felt right, for now. In the past, when I’ve felt similar sadness, I’ve found my way to some body of water, to feel grounded, to feel connected to this world. Hastening my pace, I walked all the way to Boston Harbor, where I once walked after a guy I thought I loved didn’t love me back. On this day, I sought the coolness of the sea, to clear my head and help me see.

This was a different sense of loss – not quite complete, not nearly resolved – and I wondered at what other people had given up, willingly and unwillingly, over the past year and a half. There was a hardness in myself that wasn’t there back then – I felt it, and it was a good thing. It had gotten me through. In many ways there was less I was willing to accept, and in some ways there was more. Both seemed to be working against Kira and I hanging out for the moment, and that was ok. Part of me isn’t ready to hang out with people again anyway. 

Turning my back to the sea, I let the water keep some of my anguish, and then let some retail therapy work its magic like only shopping can. Emerging from the almost-bustle of downtown, I found my way back to Public Garden, feeling more grounded and more certain than a couple of short hours ago.

It’s been well over a year since I’ve made a solo-overnight trip to Boston, and with my friendship with Kira in the balance, it was time. After looking at the weather, I moved this quick journey up by a day, so I’d have most of Thursday in town, while the sun was shining and the weather was warm. That turned out to be proper planning, as the city as alight in blossoms and beauty until I departed the next day. 

All the little squares before the brownstones were filled with flowering shrubs and plants. These tiny gardens, some protected by wrought iron gates and fences (which lend an even more inviting atmosphere with their dare-to-defy-it air of the forbidden) are often bathed in dappled sunlight, giving a feeling of shaded relief from a hot day. 

After parking the car, I walked through the bloom-festooned Southwest Corridor Park and stopped by the condo, where I peered out the window and looked down on this Chinese dogwood. One of the few times I’ve been afforded such a vantage point, it was a lovely welcome back to the city I love, and in which I still manage to find new enchantments, even if it’s in the simple turn of a new view-point. 

My main purpose for this trip was to see Kira, and see what could be done to improve or mend our slightly-frayed friendship. She’d gone through some difficult times in the fall of 2020, and basically stopped corresponding without explanation or reason. It’s her usual method of operation, but in 2020 I was having troubles of my own – who wasn’t? – and I relied on simple texting and phone calls with friends to keep me going. She wasn’t there for that at a time when I really needed it, and I know she was going through stuff of her own, which is why it would have been more timely and important to connect then. She tends to push friends away at those times, and normally I let that happen – this time was different. We’d gone several months without getting in touch, and my sadness began to be shaded with anger and annoyance. Not one to be rash or quick to end a decades-old friendship, however, I wanted to re-connect and see what we could do to make things right again. 

Usually, I’d have invited Kira to spend the weekend with me at the condo, but this was a different world, and that just wasn’t possible. All I could do was meet up with her for a lunch near her workplace, so I made my way to Beacon Hill. 

Taking my time, I peered into the garden plots along the way, pausing to take a picture, or sniff an iris, or just to let a memory make itself known, and remembered. 

Boston is filled with such ghosts for me, especially now. They are mostly happy conjurings, accompanied by wistful half-smiles, and sometimes little chuckles. The older I get, the more they tend to move me, and the sadder ones feel more poignant with the passing of time, and the arrival at places closer to wisdom and acceptance. On this day, I recalled the ghosts of Kira and myself – and the much-younger and less-formed shapes of the people we would one day become. I protected those memories, and set up a fortress around the past, much like these little iron gates that forbid access to the flowers and plants that stood behind them. I just couldn’t tell if I was putting up gates to delineate the past from the present, or whether this was an ending or a temporary protection. It was a beautiful and bittersweet befuddlement, and Boston would send me on another journey that answered far fewer questions than it raised…

After missing last year’s BroSox Adventure, both Skip and I are doing our best to temper our excitement and expectations for our Return to Boston next month. Lower expectations are the best and smartest route to take when emotionally prepping for a weekend away these days. We’ve had one too many events canceled over the last year plus, so I’ll be content with a simple weekend in my favorite city. 

Truth be told, it’s never the big bombastic events and moments that make up the most resonant memories I keep of Boston – it’s the quiet in-between sections, the down-time that occupies the majority of a weekend away. A simple selection of croissants from Cafe Madeleine, or the early afternoon siesta that somehow seems to happen even when it’s never scheduled. The casual looseness of a little pied-à-terre tucked away on the second floor of a brownstone, looking out over a gurgling fountain… the simple minutes of stillness that border on mindfulness… the feeling of being completely removed from the world while in the center of the city… this is Boston when the summer slips into place.