Before Chris arrived for our weekend together, I had a night alone – which is always a welcome and favored sort of night at a time when I’m just exasperated by people. The odd irony, or immaturity, of the scenario is that as soon as I find solitude and begin to savor it, I find myself seeking out people from afar – hence a little look-see out into the world from the safe vantage point of being behind curtains and one floor above the ground.
You see all sorts of things when you take the time to look, and little glimpse into the nighttime activities of others is a voyeur’s dream. I assume that most people are like myself and if they don’t want to be seen they’ll simply draw a curtain or close a blind. It’s usually the half-closed windows that give the most tantalizing peeks of real life carrying on without thought or concern of being watched; my windows are usually half-closed.
And sometimes I forget that windows work both ways. For every moment I might be peering out, someone else might be peering in. There is something vaguely unsettling and also inspiring about that. The truth is you’ll probablydefinitely see more here on this blog than looking into any of my windows, no matter where I might be, or what I might not be wearing.
Taking a brief break from the cowboy motif at work here, I joined my friend Chris in Boston for an extra-long weekend of camaraderie and chillaxing at the condo – when and where a Nor-easter arrived right in the middle of the whole thing, testing the coziness and comfort of a condo weekend. Happily, it was a grand time – our typical 36-hour window of getting along swimmingly was extended and we made it out unscathed. In truth, my friendship with Chris has been one of the sustaining graces of my adult life – and after over thirty years of being in each other’s lives, he’s more like family than a friend. As such, we have navigated how to deal with each other’s idiosyncrasies, as well as how to appreciate our differences. Such as his proclivity to bring bad weather wherever he may roam.
I arrived a day early to decompress from the madness that is work and life, and the weather was still fine. Fall is usually brilliant in Boston, and this beginning was a beautiful and welcome day of sunny warmth with the slightest cooling breeze hinting at more to come.
I began the day with an early bowl of pho from my favorite place in Chinatown (Pho Pasteur) – the ideal fall weather companion. Fortified and warmed for the day ahead (the wind was already picking up) I procured some charcuterie ingredients to assemble for Chris and I later that day. It would be a weekend of mocktails and dining simplicity, with a dinner of charcuterie followed by a matcha ice cream run along Newbury Street.
When the Nor’easter finally did arrive, we kept mostly to the condo with a few dining exceptions, and while I departed early Sunday morning, Chris was staying the week to work on his projects. I envied him the stretch of days and nights in the condo, which is the coziest place to be during a storm or a cold night or an entire fall and winter.
It struck me that I was especially sorry to see the Labor Day weekend come to a close. We’d had such a good time, with nary a bit of drama or disagreement, that I didn’t want it to end. We took our time finishing our plates, glad for the extra pancakes – grateful for their sweetness, and the prolonged opportunity for a bit more conversation.
After packing the car and bidding adieu to the condo (until my return to town to rendezvous with Chris next weekend) we decided to make one more stop along the way – the outlets at Lee, MA – where the beauty of the Berkshires meets some basic retail offerings.
Behind the outlets, near our parking spot, a winding path curved into the forest below. I’m not sure where Noah’s path might take him in the years to come, but he seems to have a good sense of self, and a strong moral compass, and I’ll always be here to guide him whenever he might ask.
It was a good weekend with my nephew, and he already texted that he wants to go back soon.
We opened the next morning with a breakfast at Mike’s City Diner on Washington – a longer walk than nearby Charlie’s, but the day was already shining in sunny style, and walking among beauty makes for easy talking. It had only been a few weeks since I’d been there, but it was Noah’s first time, so an introduction seemed apt. We took our time as the place slowly started to fill up, then made our way further into the South End for the next planned excursion.
Sunday mornings at the SoWa Market were how I used to close out my weekends in Boston, and it’s been a few years since I’ve gone. On this day Noah was up for the visit since he likes a vintage hunt, and I thought they still had a vintage market somewhere. We browsed the food stands and stores, then found some t-shirts and a suede coat to go with my own upcoming autumnal theme.
As we sat down for a breakfast dessert of ice cream (a rule-bending habit we had started the night before) a bank of gray storm clouds looked to be moving in, but they seemed isolated enough not to cause an issue. We discussed where we want to go next, and Noah mentioned that he usually ends up near the harbor at some point on each of his trips here, so we headed in that direction. After making it only a few blocks, the rain began – at first just a bit, with only a few drops, then it got a little heavier so we hustled into a canopied park, sitting down on a dry bench beneath some trees. I thought we might wait it out, but it only seemed to get heavier, and without umbrellas or jackets we were at the mercy of the sky, so we made a quickened walk for whatever nearby restaurant could be found. Eventually, we found Citrus & Salt, ducking in just as the heaviest downpour arrived.
While we had only eaten a couple of hours before, a snack seemed good since we had some storm time to pass, so I told Noah I’d order some guacamole and asked if he liked oysters. He said he never had them before but he would try. One of my nephew’s many admirable attributes is that he is willing to try any sort of food you might suggest, and more often than not he ends up liking it and adding it to his repertoire. It makes for fun dining experiences, and on this day we shared a plate of oysters – his first, continuing his own culinarily adventurous weekend.
As our impromptu meal concluded, the sun came back out and the sky shone blue again, so we continued our way toward the harbor, where we detoured through Fanueil Hall, then found the path to the Charles River and followed it back toward Copley.
Passing Commonwealth, I remembered the elephants were in town, and as I hadn’t seen them yet it seemed the perfect time, and the perfect company, with which to meet them.
Returning to the condo for an afternoon siesta, I looked up place that offered Peking Duck to make up for our change of plans the night before and found Novo Lantern which was a much closer walk than Chinatown, so I made a reservation for us. This was Noah’s second first try at a new dish, and he ended up loving it as much as I did. The first time I had Peking duck was with my Uncle Ding – and the second was with my Uncle Roberto – so perhaps it’s a Filipino Uncle thing.
Noah and I had a deep discussion about things over our assembly of the duck – the very best sort of conversation that you can have with a cherished family member – the kind that makes you feel alive and grateful and happy, the kind that makes you feel like this is what life should be like always. He’s a good guy. I feel lucky that he’s growing into such a decent young man, and that he still likes spending time with his crazy Uncle, whom he counted as the most interesting person he knows. Such praise deserved a treat, so I took him to Aquitaine for a dessert of chocolate bread pudding, then we called it a night…
While we didn’t have them over as much as we usually do in the summer, the twins were game for one last weekend of fun before the fall season starts officially. Noah was available for a trip to Boston, so we drove over for Labor Day weekend – as was our previous tradition. (Emi will join us for this weekend’s visit and a trip to Vermont.) Now that they are sixteen years old, it’s sometimes easier to do separate visits with them, as there is less competitive in-fighting and more quality one-on-one time. In this instance, Noah and I made the most of a pretty fine weekend in my favorite city.
Like any good Guncle worth his weight in retail therapy, I took Noah shopping along Newbury Street to get our bearings. It was actually his idea, as he wanted to find some clothing items after my questioning what his fall fashion theme was going to be (and insisting that he have one).
We stopped in a vintage shop, along with Arc’teryx and Uniqlo, and then began the walk to Chinatown where we had our stomachs set on Peking Duck. First, however, we found a matcha ice cream place and decided that no one was going to stop us from getting dessert first. That’s the beauty of these last weekends of summer – there are no rules, and anything goes. It would set our adventurous tone for the weekend.
Grateful for the walk to burn some of this matcha and taro swirl off, we made our way past the Public Garden and Boston Common, then took a careful perusal of Chinatown to see where we might find Peking duck.
As we passed the best place for pho (Pho Pasteur), Noah said maybe we should get that. I mentioned that a bowl of pho is always the kick-off to fall for me, so I was game, but we were both still torn between that and the duck. As it was getting late – and apparently even Chinatown closes up early these days – we ran the time down and ended up finding the last few minutes of food service at Pho Pasteur, which decided the dinner.
So it was that my first bowl of pho for this fall season was shared with my nephew Noah – and I can’t think of a finer dining companion. We had a good talk – and it set the practice for several good talks over meals, one of my favorite things to do. Noah seemed to enjoy it as well, and after finishing our bowls we each felt stuffed enough to warrant a walk home. We fell asleep almost immediately after the long day, preparing for the next morning…
The post-birthday breakfast is one of my favorite moments – all the pressure is off, the new cologne can be worn, and the fresh start of another journey around the sun can begin. On this day I managed to secure a reservation at Beacon Hill Books and Cafe, one of the most enchanting places in Boston, starting with its tiny doorway, which was even too short for me or Andy to walk through without ducking. Squirrels in honor of Paige, the bookstore squirrel, dotted the decor, whimsically calling to us from around every corner. While the bookstore is a destination of its own, this morning it was the fabled breakfast that had us squeezing down the hallway into the cafe.
Still on a birthday high, I ordered the caviar omelette while Andy got the peach pistachio buckwheat galette. We decided to share the ginger rhubarb scone with Devonshire clotted cream.
The omelette was delicious – but the scone was a veritable revelation. Somehow both flaky and crumbly, delicately moist and not too sweet, its ginger and rhubard flavors were perfectly matched, and all of it came together wonderfully under that clotted cream. I immediately made a plan to attempt the recipe once I returned home. With the promise of home and the future in mind, we departed Boston… for the moment. Back soon.
Being that it was my special day, a second stop for peach ice cream was made – I told you before, this flavor is only available for a short period of time and one must strike when the ice cream iron is hot. All glory and gratitude for J.P. Licks.
Dinner was at Capri, former site of Cinquecento, where we enjoyed dinner many years ago (the night that Andy tried octopus for the first time and fell in love). We opted for a burrata and prosciutto board to begin tonight.
As happens on most visits to Boston, I began by getting my bearings by doing some shopping along Newbury Street. I didn’t end up buying anything, but a look-see shopping expedition brings me back to myself, and soon it was time for our first dinner.
I’ve been wanting to try Dalia since it opened a few months ago and I managed to get reservations for the day before my birthday. It was just as handsome as advance word had promised – with food to match. The one minor snafu was that my entree arrived about fifteen minutes before Andy’s, and since he offered, I ended up eating it before it got cold. Neither of us much minded – we’re pretty easy-going dining guests, and perhaps Dalia is still working out their timing.
The only semi-reliable place for the peach ice cream has been J.P. Licks, and it’s usually available right around this time of the year. While the night was still young, I was no longer, so we got an Uber back to the condo, where the street glowed its magic glow on a pretty summer night…
Sipping a mango-dragonfruit refresher at a sidewalk cafe in the South End, I feel slightly nostalgic on my 51st birthday. Andy and I are in town for the low-key event, keeping a quiet out-of-town tradition intact; I was never one for big birthdays. Sitting on the sidewalk and watching the Monday traffic go by, I realize that I’m old enough to remember when this cafe used to be Francesca’s – back when Geoffrey’s was the hot spot of the neighborhood and the South End was filled with gays and their admirers.
When I look around now, the only restaurant that still stands in the same place is Aquataine. How strange that the city is so different, yet I feel so intensely the same. Thirty years ago, on this same stretch of Tremont, I felt similarly uncertain. The only thing that may have changed in my constitution is that I probably hide it better now. (And I was quite good at hiding it then.)
Today we have an idyllic day – a very sunny Monday with a lovely cool breeze – it reminds me of summer nights in my early 20’s, when I’d jog around the South End purportedly for exercise, but it really was just to find a romantic partner with whom to share a Boston life together. At the time, I was hopelessly in love with the idea of being in love – not really realizing all that love might entail. In that respect I have changed – a lot. My husband is back at the condo, waiting to take me out to dinner for my birthday, and if I’m uncertain about life in general, I’m no longer so uncertain about love.
Our quiet birthday jaunt to Boston begins with a brief recap of our adventures tomorrow…
One of my favorite things to do when I’m in Boston is to walk the city – not with any goal or destination in mind, just the act of walking and exploring and happening upon whatever happens along the way. It’s at odds with the carefully-choreographed precision that characterizes so much of the rest of my life, and it’s how I’d like to act more often. The last weekend in Boston proved good practice for that kind of letting go, though that also came with memories that surfaced and rushed to flood the heart with ideas for which I wasn’t entirely prepared, but I allowed myself to feel it all, and let the tears fill my eyes when they came rather than force them away.
One little kiss, a moment of bliss, then hours of deep regret One little smile, and after a while, a longing to forget One little heartache left as a token One little plaything carelessly broken
Ensconced in the Boston brownstone, one floor above the street lined with other brownstones, I finish my dinner that first night and take a moment to read a bit on the couch. Cole Porter plays in the background, lending the weekend a lovely soundtrack, the way he often provides a summer setting for evenings that turn solitude into magic. Many a Boston evening has been spent in similar fashion, and I’m suddenly waxing nostalgic for all the nights that came before. That can be troublesome and dangerous depending on what sort of mood Spirit decides to take me, but when the night is still light, as it happens to be at high summer, nothing feels as dangerous as it perhaps should, and so I prepare to walk.
On that first night of walking, I made the conscious decision to engage with whatever and whomever crossed my path. My first stop was a new plant store in the South End, and after the woman working there welcomed me in I asked her how long they had been open, telling her how beautiful the space was. She told me the quick story of how they had moved from a nearby spot, and then she thanked me as I told her I’d definitely be back, then continued on my way.
Meandering through the South End, I crossed through Chinatown then the financial district before finding myself at the harbor – Spirit seemed to be guiding me to the water, and as I looked out onto the water that led into the Atlantic Ocean, my mind wandered all the way to Cape Cod, to the first man I can remember ever remotely crushing on – a guy who was running the dolphin show at a place called Aqua Circus. He probably exists mostly as a made-up visage in my mind of a slightly-curly-and-reddish-brown haired man, the same shade as the bit of chest hair that showed at the top of the zip-up hoodie that wasn’t zipped all the way up. While that lives as possible fiction, I distinctly remember that before his show began he asked if I would be his helper for the night, and I hesitantly said yes because I knew there was no alternative to saying no to him, and I didn’t want there to be. The help I was to provide consisted of retrieving several small rubber hoops that he would ask me to give to him at a certain point in the proceedings. It was the first time a gentleman had showed any interest in me – I wasn’t more than ten years old, and I felt like the whole world had suddenly opened up and revealed some wonderful secret to me and only me. Enraptured, I sat at the edge of my seat until he looked for me, then I carefully made my way to the hoops, and onto the little stage at the end of the pool. While the dolphins had been my main interest, at that moment they fell away, their clicks and clucks and calls fading into the slow motion world where this young man stood before me, all gratitude and a golden smile and a public round of thanks that the audience joined in granting me, and all I wanted was to help him more.
Strange how that memory came flooding back as I looked out over Boston Harbor. He was one of the first men I remember stirring something in me that no girl or woman ever would, and I don’t always think of him, not the way I would think of other men this evening. The screams of a seagull brought me back to the present moment, and I backed away from the water.
It was at this place where I once ran on a winter’s night after I foolishly fell for a one-night-stand in Rochester, NY – the man who brushed the snow off my car the next morning, and so I decided I had to love him. Not knowing any better didn’t diminish the pain that ensued, and I remember arriving here after a breathless almost-run from the Government Center T stop and soaking up the solitude and loneliness – unlike the summer night at hand, that winter’s night was entirely bereft of people. I was alone, and I could cry without worry of anyone seeing – and I did, to the sad soundtrack of a flagpole clanging desolately in the wind. Tears welled up again, not for the present moment, but for that young man I was back then, the guy who didn’t know what to make of all those feelings, all those yearnings, all that loneliness. As for the one-night-stand guy, he would contact me years later, as many of them would, inviting me to meet if ever I was in his town, and by then the magic was always gone, the hurt eradicating whatever I once felt for them. It was never really about them anyway.
Remember you vowed By all the stars above you Remember?
I made my way through Faneuil Hall, the place I worked through my last years of college and beyond, then Spirit impelled me to follow the roads to the place where the very first man who kissed me used to live. It was right across the street from the very first Boston hotel I stayed at when my Mom brought my brother and I to the city. Some walks are steeped in nostalgia, and for whatever reason I was brought back to those two pivotal times and places, each sad and astounding and wonderful in their own way. For the very first Boston stay, my mother took us to see ‘E.T.’ at the movie theater nearby; I was more excited about the small plant store across the way, where I’d spend a good hour just inspecting and taking in the tiny collection of houseplants they had on display.
As for the man who gave me my first kiss among other firsts, I remember the stale smell of his little room. The towel around his waist. The sad little sink kitchen set-up that butted up against the bed. The worn and torn Alcoholics Anonymous book that stood on the windowsill. The way his stubble felt like it was cutting into my face, the way I wanted more. The way he was breaking my heart and the way I didn’t know why. We are so careless with each other, even when we know better.
Remember we found a lonely spot And after I learned to care a lot
I followed the river back toward home, the opposite way that man had taken me when we first walked together on a warm and sunny September day. You can’t correct the past by retreading it, but once in a while you understand it a little better, and in that understanding is a little bit of resolution, an easing of whatever faded hurt might remain. All these nights of walking in Boston may be my attempt at chipping away at the pain. Most times, nothing comes of it but a few thousand steps; sometimes the tears land, and some healing happens.
Making my way through the Boston Public Garden restores my sense of calm, and all the happy memories that the garden holds. It carries a different charm in the evening, when the bats are flying about and the waterfowl have tucked their heads into their necks. My head was feeling scattered, and whenever that happens the garden grounds me – this one and all of them. Once I felt right again, I continued on for the last leg home, passing a diner that I would eat at the morning of my departure.
You promised that you’d forget me not But you forgot To remember
In the sunlight of the next day, all the darkness is forgotten, and all the nostalgia too. The past once again recedes into the past, the ghosts of people who once populated and seemed so important to me disappearing behind the colorful blooms of flowers who take happy pride of place in the mind. The world rights itself on the daily if we let it. Yet I don’t depart unchanged.
Into my dreams you wandered it seems, and then there came a day You loved me too; my dreams had come true, and all the world was May But soon the May-time turned to December You had forgotten; do you remember?
Sometimes you can tell when something special is in the offing – it carries on the wind, maybe in the scent of the sea – and sometimes you simply go along with the gentle unfolding of a weekend in Boston, and nothing much happens and in that is the magic, but only when you listen closely and carefully. When I arrived, the city was in gorgeous bloom – a beautifully sunny July afternoon, and my only goal was to walk the weekend away and be mostly alone with my thoughts and mental meanderings.
At words poetic, I’m so pathetic That I always have found it best Instead of getting ’em off my chest To let ’em rest unexpressed I hate parading my serenading As I’ll probably miss a bar But if this ditty is not so pretty At least it’ll tell you How great you are
At this private little pied-à-terre where I’ve always had a home-away-from-home, one can wear their underwear to dinner and not be bothered. Sometimes it’s the simple things in life that bring us the most joy. I settle into comfort and charcuterie, taking my time and listening to Cole Porter as the light slowly lowered in the sky, and with it some of the harsher heat. I indulged, as I was planning on doing a lot of walking this weekend.
Some weekends in Boston have a way of melting their days into one mash-up of magic and emotions, and when they’re done my mind is so full it’s difficult to recall everything that happened in the order that it all went down – that’s always a good sign that I was present in the moment and not documenting of chronicling things, which can keep one at a remove and distance. It’s better to be immersed and mindful, and so this post will melt into the next one as far as my nocturnal ambulations go. The spirit is what counts, and the spirit is what I will endeavor to capture.
“You’re the purple light Of a summer night in Spain…” – Cole Porter
“Don’t speed!” Andy warned me as I pulled out of the driveway with Skip. Not sure why he said such a thing, as it is my habit to subconsciously do the opposite of what anyone tells me to do, and within ten minutes of departing for Boston, I was being pulled over somewhere in East Greenbush for speeding. (And I was still going less than I’ve seen Andy go on the Thruway on the regular.)
After accepting the ticket, part of me let out a sigh of relief – at least our police interaction was already done for the weekend. Thus began this year’s BroSox Adventure – a happy tradition we started eleven years ago, and one of our favorite rituals to kick off the summer season.
We began with stops at Eataly and Trader Joe’s, where we procured the items for a substantial charcuterie board, then headed back to the condo where we set up food shop until it was time to get a car to Fenway. I asked Skip to keep his ears peeled for a song that would personify the weekend, and as we filed into the ballpark we noticed all the men in kilts. Scotland was in Boston for the FIFA World Cup, and the place was filled with men in kilts. A group fell in behind us, their accents and actions the stuff of gay porn and worthy of adulation. I listened as Skip laughed.
The game was a good one – despite their sucky season, the Red Sox managed to win 10 to 1 – Skip and I have largely been a good luck charm for this franchise, and this night continued that streak. Our dinner would be the Fenway franks, which Skip maintains are the best hot dogs in the baseball world – and he’s done all the testing.
A number of years ago, when we were sitting at Fenway watching a game, I had spit out a mouthful of beer on the two guys in front of us after something struck me as funny. They were not amused, and this year karma came back, but it delivered its blow upon Skip. A group of young fans behind us were attending their first game (I’m assuming, as they kept asking for relish for their hot dogs which five sellers kept telling them they didn’t have). They were a little obnoxious, but such is the province of youth. I told Skip that was likely us ten years ago; he disagreed.
As a wave made its way around the park, we stood and raised our hands, and one of the guys behind us knocked the beer out of the hand of another, which promptly spilled all over Skip. He was good about it; the woman next to us seemed more upset – she wanted us to raise a ruckus and demand that they buy him a drink. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed. Maybe we have grown up a bit.
When the game was over we walked back toward the condo, stopping for gelato at Eataly and making the most of a perfectly-marvelous almost-summer night.
The next morning we slept in, at least what constitutes sleeping in for middle-aged men these days, and the day was already heating up. Sunny and mid-80’s was the happy weather plan, and knowing this we wandered along our usual path on Newbury Street and all the way to Beacon Hill for some future project ideas (let’s just say someone got a cowboy hat). At some point Skip saw a guy in a t-shirt that read ‘YES SIR I CAN BOOGIE!’ which was on the playlist for this summer’s theme – and suddenly we had our song for the weekend like Magic!
By midday Skip was lagging, and I was feeling the heat too, so we made our way back to the condo for an extra-long siesta. The older we get, the more we value the afternoon nap it seems. That said, I didn’t get much shut-eye, and I wanted to try a possible summer cologne so I left Skip to his rest, and made a quick jaunt to Saks where I found a summer fragrance by Guerlain.
When I got back, we readied for an appetizer and drinks at Pink Taco where we enjoyed an excellent dinner last year, then walked around while World Cup madness seized the city. For the first time in a long time Boston felt alive and vibrant, caught up in the excitement of all the visiting Scots, and we found a Mexican bar in the South End where we set up to watch the game.
The weekend of sports didn’t end there, as we managed to catch the final minutes of the Knicks game playing in another bar, where we watched with a few other NY fans from the sidewalk, then found a pizza joint that had Skip claims is the first decent pizza we’ve had in Boston for all these years.
Walking in the twilight and stumbling over the uneven brick-laden sidewalks of the South End – tree roots like earthquakes buckling the ground beneath our feet – we made our way back toward home. Two men spilling over into the second half of their lives, still searching for what it all means, still finding ways of adapting, still embracing the friendship that makes it all worthwhile…
Astute viewers of the original ‘Sex & the City’ series may recognize the duvet cover here – the classic Calvin Klein ‘Bamboo’ pattern that once adorned Carrie Bradshaw’s bedroom was one of the first pieces I got for the Boston condo way back in the 90’s, and I put it back on the bed recently in a fit of 90’s nostalgia. Our recent BroSox Adventures will play a part in the first summer blog posts to come, so more on that later. For now, a more virtual return to Boston as I make plans for a few extended stays in that favored city – consider it retirement practice – for more than a weekend.
An earlier foray into a briefer retirement practice occurred in this post, and it concluded with a hopeful eye to the future. I’m even closer to it becoming reality (another five years or so) and after this month at work I feel that I’m already ready. To get into the habit, I’m going to take a few longer stints in Boston to see how it will work, and to acclimate myself to a schedule without a set schedule.
The Boston Museum of Fine Arts has been doing their ‘Art in Bloom’ annual exhibition for fifty years (just like me!) and it’s one of the most whimsical scenes if you’re lucky enough to see it. Floral designers come up with arrangements and floral displays that are inspired by works of art in the museum. It’s a neat floral twist on classic artwork, and most of the time the artists, and their inspiration pieces, are so indelible that you can guess it without the captions.
The accidental iPhone shot seen above – blurred from the late-night lighting – reminded me of that concept – life imitating art or vice versa. I love the way it appears as some pastel or watercolor, an effect that isn’t easy to do with the autocorrect nature of phone cameras these days. Imperfection is life, imperfection is beauty, imperfection is genius. The actual intended photograph of a chartreuse-leaved bleeding heart plant is seen below. Which do you prefer? My heart leans toward the abstract, the wonder, the accident.
The trees hadn’t fully leafed out yet, aside from the brilliant chartreuse of the weeping willows, but this always give the area the look of possibility, room to expand and fill in as the summer season ushers herself in.
On this morning, we walked around the Garden, surveying the beds of tulips and flowering apple trees. Families of ducks and Canadian geese patrolled the water, but no signs of the swans this year.
This little Boston oasis is one of my favorite parts of the city – a space that completely takes you out of the concrete gray surroundings, and a welcome relief of green tranquility seen through the curtains of elderly willows.
We had a lunch at the Four Seasons, still missing the Bristol Lounge and its heavenly burgers and 12-layer chocolate wedding cake that brought us so much joy over the years (happily we were told a new restaurant was opening in that space in the next year or so). As we made our way back to the condo for an afternoon siesta, the rain returned – nothing heavy, just enough to keep us happily indoors for an afternoon nap until it was time for dinner.
For our second and last dinner of the weekend, we had reservation at Avra Estiatorio, where a crazy-good Greek menu found us partaking of the best octopus appetizer we have ever had – and so generously portioned that for the first time in decades we couldn’t quite finish it all. (I was hellbent on saving room for dessert, and they had a 16-layer chocolate cake that rivaled the elusive one we had at our wedding lunch in the Bristol Lounge 16 years ago).
It was a very sweet ending to a wonderful weekend of meals, and as the night had turned into a lovely one, we walked some of it off as we made the journey home.
The next morning, our bunny friend stopped by to see us off – a fond adieu from a favorite denizen of my favorite city.
Another anniversary weekend in the books, as a peony bashfully winked at us from behind its pink petals…
