As we near the final portion of our Friendsgiving weekend adventure, we return to the preamble that started it all: a pause in our walk back from a reunion dinner at Reunion. At this juncture, Kira and I had made our way into the sumptuously-lit environs of the Mandarin Oriental on Boylston. The lobby was adorned in its customary elegant splendor, with a fireplace flicking white flames into the air, but stepping outside of tradition, we bypassed that space for a quiet and or intimate second floor sofa, where we took a load off our feet and paused for brief respite.
A slow jam then – and super-slow at that – to commemorate this stop. Obscure hotel hideaways are my favorite part of any city adventure. There is something intoxicating about being half-hidden from the world while sharing a moment of rest with an old friend. It always goes to my head.
Our wild nights now consist mostly of such moments, followed by the hurried scuttling through windy weather to reach the warmth of the condo. There we light candles, listen to Shirley Horn, sip tea, lounge languidly on the couch, and give silent thanks for not wanting to be wild anymore.
This particular night was not that different from any other in our long history of Boston nights – we followed the tea with a viewing of an old movie – ‘Mildred Pierce’ – and then it was time to sleep. Shirley sang us through to the morning, and the melancholy arrival of Sunday, always too soon.
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