Suzie and I celebrated my 50th birthday in Boston this past weekend – the last of my half-century celebrations – and it was the sort of charming and enchanting weekend at the end of summer that only Suzie could pull off. It began with an afternoon entry into the city, whereupon we procured provisions for dinner from Eataly and Trader Joe’s. As has been my wont these last few years, an opening charcuterie dinner at the condo is the easiest and most economical ways of starting things off for a Boston weekend. When the weather cooperates, and the breeze is divine, we open up the windows and listen to the fountain of Braddock Park send soothing sounds of water, accenting the dreamy soundtrack of a summer’s afternoon.
The summer wind came blowin’ in from across the sea
It lingered there to touch your hair and walk with me
All summer long, we sang a song
And then we strolled that golden sand
Two sweethearts and the summer wind
Boston was still very much in bloom – the roses giving an impressive second showing after their first flush of color in June – and the skies would remain blue through Sunday. We assembled a dinner platter, dined looking out over the street, then took an evening stroll to a matcha ice cream place that Skip and I had tried a while back. We chose the matcha and ube twist, and I took mine in an ube cone.
We took our time walking back and making the most of a beautiful night at summer’s lush end. Suzie is a game walking partner, and if the weather is decent I’d always rather walk than take the T, even if the journey would constitute several stops. Summer nights will be done within the week – make the most of them while they’re here.
The next morning, we traveled to Beacon Hill for brunch at The Paramount. It was my very first time at that institution, as I’m usually not out early enough to get there before the line begins. We timed it perfectly, snagging a table just as the rush began in earnest. After that, our main purpose was to peruse the Beacon Hill Book & Cafe, another popular stop I’d never bothered to visit, and one which I’ll definitely be visiting again.
The definition of charming, it was made for the small of stature and the whimsical of mind, and the magical environs reminded us that there was still enchantment in this world. I was introduced to the story of Paige the Squirrel, and her friends proved a happy motif for books and decor and all flights of fancy. It segued nicely into our walk back through the Boston Public Garden.
Like painted kites
Those days and nights they went flyin’ by
The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky
Then softer than a piper man
One day it called to you
I lost you, I lost you to the summer wind
Beacon Hill has always been one of those sections that I don’t often frequent – in part because I don’t want to exhaust or run through it so much that it becomes commonplace. For now, it holds a special allure because I save it for a treat – a holiday stroll or a singular summer visit – but if I spend more time in Boston (and the light of retirement’s door has finally begun to glow in the grand distance) I’d like to make this area a regular part of my daily habits.
We would return for a birthday dinner at 1928 – another Beacon Hill first for me – and the meal and atmosphere matched the winsome weekend vibes. Spending time in my favorite city with one of my favorite people is one of my favorite birthday gifts this year – and the very best way to close out a summer season.
After a meandering search for a post-dinner sweet treat, we took the long way home along the Charles River, which held its own bewitching allure. That day we walked over 11 miles, according to Suzie’s fit-bit calculations, and the happy exhaustion indicated a day well spent.
A quick breakfast at Charlie’s finished our time in Boston, and it was so lovely we ate outside, where the bees barely bothered us. I didn’t want to leave, but this kind of perfect weekend wouldn’t be perfect if it lasted too long – and summer is the same way.
The autumn wind and the winter winds
They have come and gone
And still the days, those lonely days, they go on and on
And guess who sighs his lullabies
Through nights that never end
My fickle friend, the summer wind
