Category Archives: Boston

Prior to 2015, I had only been to Fenway Park twice in my life: once with my whole family in 1986 (the infamous year they made it to the series against the New York Mets, which we will not discuss at this juncture) and then again in 1993 on an orientation excursion night during my first days at Brandeis. During the latter, I left the game somewhere around the 7th inning, when the Red Sox were down by 11 runs and I needed some alone time on Newbury Street. I’ve always felt slightly guilty about that, being a Red Sox fan, thanks to my Dad, since birth basically.  Ever since ’93 I’d looked casually at a return trip, but nothing really got me excited until the more happily infamous 2004. From that year until 2015 I looked slightly more seriously at making a return to Fenway, if only out of curiosity because it had been so long. I put forth a few feelers to my brother, hoping he’d take the ball and run with it as a way of reconnecting since we did so little bonding of any sort.

By 2014, it was on my bucket list, and very few things make my bucket list unless they are a distinct and definite possibility. I tossed out the idea a few more times, but it was clear if a Red Sox game was going to happen, it was going to be entirely up to my own machinations. At around this time, Skip and I had established a regular movie routine, and since he had been a lifelong Red Sox fan we floated the idea of possibly taking in a game at some point. On one of our pre-movie hang-outs we fleshed out a plan, and after consulting with Sherri and Andy about the logistics, we set things into motion. In a way, it was fitting that as an adult I was going back to Fenway with a member of my chosen family. As kids, we have no choice or say in the matter ~ as adults, we get to choose and cultivate the people we want to be in our family circle. Skip was one of those people, and it didn’t take any nudging or pushing to get him to want to spend some time with me. Here’s a look back on my recollections on our adventures, along with Skip’s take on them, which is the real reason for reading on. (He is also the repository for the history of where our seats were, something that by this point blurs together for me.)

BroSox Adventure 2015

Our very first BroSox Adventure took place in 2015. It was a quick one-night trip to test the waters and bring me back to Fenway Park, where I hadn’t been in over two decades. I’d originally wanted my brother to take me, but he didn’t take the hint, and Skip was practically a brother by that point anyway. That first year I remember both of us getting accustomed to hanging out with some relaxing down-time, something we’re rarely afforded with movie start times, dinner reservations, and show tickets. I get to work with Skip’s wife Sherri, and we are able to find occasional jewels of time when we can take a breath and laugh. For Skip, the ride to Boston was our first extensive expanse of one-on-one time, and it did not disappoint.

On that Saturday, we arrived in the noon hour and headed for a casual lunch at the Rattlesnake Bar. From there, the fun continued with some pre-gaming at the condo and then the actual game – my first in over two decades. We walked back from the game, something that would become a tradition. I couldn’t handle a Red Sox subway crowd, we could never find an Uber, and it was a way to prolong the adventure as we made our way back into the city with the throngs of fellow jubilant Red Sox fans. The fun didn’t let up until we sped back into Loudonville and I almost got a speeding ticket to cap it all off, but we were saved by Officer Happy Ending.

SKIP’S TAKE ON 2015:
I remember the Rattlesnake Bar! I didn’t know what to expect of the weekend as it was our first trip and we were feeling our way around.  We were good friends to be sure, but I had no idea how a weekend-long hang was going to go. As it turns out, amazing enough to start a tradition, but I didn’t know that at the time. I remember walking down Boylston and just happening upon the place. This is probably where you learned that I can sometimes be obnoxious in my “inside baseball” knowledge of the inner-workings of a restaurant. The bartender totally fucked up your order and then blamed it on the kitchen. I spent a good 20 minutes explaining why that never happened, how she fucked up, and how she blamed it on the staff in the back when it was clearly her mistake. That was a really fun lunch and set the tone for that trip and basically the rest of our Boston weekends. Having not known what to expect it suddenly occurred to me how natural and casual the whole trip would play out.  
SEATS: Saturday afternoon game. This was our first time and we went with scalpers, ended up on the first-base line under the 2nd deck.
SIDENOTE: This game was only a few days after a woman sustained life threatening injuries from a broken bat at Fenway. This was the same day that a horse won the triple crown for the first time in decades. I watched the race on an old guy’s phone in the row behind me. Sox won.

ALAN’S FOLLOW-UP: I totally forgot about that baseball injury!! I do now remember telling you that you were responsible for protecting my precious face should a bat be thrown into the audience. I think you told me it wasn’t called an audience.

BroSox Adventures 2016

My only goal for our second Red Sox game was to avoid the sophomore curse. Ok that’s a lie. My only concrete goal for that second trip was to install a new air conditioning unit in the bedroom window. The weekend began in sunny form – I was cracking open a beer for Skip and pouring a G&T while Skip did most of the work of the installation. I took him out to Boston Chops, where we had a steak dinner on the sidewalk and watched the world walk by.

Our game this year happened to fall on the same weekend as Boston’s main Gay Pride festivities, lending a sparkle and excitement to the city, and our time there. There was also Skip’s new Oculus, from which I experienced my first brush with a virtual dinosaur. I also think this was the time we stopped at Club Cafe and Skip asked if some strange guy wanted to dance with me and he definitively gave an emphatic no. Being rejected without being interested was actually a first for me. Leave it to Skip to teach an old dog new tricks.

SKIP’S TAKE ON 2016:

So I remember a lot about this trip. The first being how scared I was of the air conditioner install. Not that I had any doubt in my abilities to properly install it but rather: it was about the air conditioner in the back of the mini-cooper on the ride there as it took over the entire back of the car. I was worried that I hadn’t properly packed enough tools in my tool bag as I was certain that if I hadn’t packed it, you wouldn’t have had it, and mostly I was worried about lugging that air-conditioner into the apartment as the first one and a half floors of stairs up to the condo door were very steep with no handrail. Other small memories include: Boston Chops Pomme Frites, getting rooster-kicked by you after that guy said he couldn’t dance with you because he had to work in the morning. I realized the sting of being shut down at a bar wasn’t solely relagated to hetero guys punching outside their weight class when hitting on attractive women.
SEATS/GAME:  Saturday afternoon game. Second year, went with scalpers again. Loge box way behind first base. Wasn’t until the bottom of the 7th that I realized we bought similar seats in two completely different sections. Thankfully we didn’t get moved. Sox won.
SIDENOTE:  I barely slept that last night worrying about us walking the old air conditioner down 3+ flights of stairs.

ALAN’S FOLLOW-UP: Much ado about an air conditioner! And rightfully so ~ I totally wouldn’t have had any tools or handy-man accoutrement,  and I would have been royally pissed if I had to spend a single night in a non-air-conditioned room. (This is why Skip’s such a good friend: he knows me better than I know myself sometimes.)

BroSox Adventures 2017

We did our best to tone down expectations after two banner years of Boston fun, but we needn’t have bothered. After barely touching upon the Pride festivities the year before, 2017 marked Skip’s first time at a Gay Pride Parade (and my first in a few years). Skip began a little under the weather the first night we arrived, and Sherri is so much better at handling that sort of thing than me, but he rallied the next morning and came back from the brink of chills and death to attend his first pride parade. We had dinner near Fenway, at Tiger Mama, forgoing fanciness for some delectable Asian street food. Then we were onto our first night game, which I loved oh-so-much better than day games. Maybe I enjoyed it a bit too much, because this is the game at which I laughed so hard I spit a mouthful of beer at the guys sitting right in front of us. They weren’t too thrilled. It remains a contender for most memorable moment thus far.

SKIP’S TAKE ON 2017:

Fun year. I mean they all are but this one stood out (fever chills first night aside.) The first pride parade was amazing. Butch lesbians on motorcycles. Elizabeth Warren and that one Ginger Kennedy offspring. Every company in Boston with floats broadcasting “Surprise! We’re totally LGBTQ friendly now!” I remember “The Karate Kid” being on a big screen at Hojoko. I thought the girl in the Uber was coming on to me. Realized later it was Pride weekend and she thought I was gay. And for as long as I live I will never forget the look of abject terror and disgust on those two guys’ faces when you totally did a gigantic spit-take on the back of both of their heads in the 3rd inning. I honestly thought I was going to have to fight two AARP golf grandpas because you couldn’t hold your beer after me making fun of you for forgetting where the fuck we were sitting.
SEATS/GAME: Our first night game. On a Saturday. Fuck the scalpers and bought online. Great seats on the 3rd base line. Sox won.
SIDENOTE: We saw the Sox play the Tigers that year. Starting pitcher was Verlander who you had a crush on. I explained how hot his wife is. Shortly after this game he got traded to the Astros and they won the World Series. Not before beating the Red Sox along the way. You lent your condo to Sher and I that fall so that we could both go see our first playoff game. There were snipers on top of the press box for that game because of the Vegas shootings. Sox beat the Astros. It was their only win that postseason.

ALAN’S FOLLOW-UP: Ahh, yes, so many colorful characters in this weekend – that Uber lady for one; she was so gay-friendly and you were so clueless. It almost made up for the guy I didn’t even want to dance with… and I too cannot forget those two guys I spit on. Literally the first and thus far only time I’ve done a genuine spit-take, and they were completely unamused, if not downright hostile. 

{More to come…}

“Thank god I don’t mind insults!” Kira says as we bundle up against a chilly Boston morning. 

“Yes, because you are dressed for insults,” I reply.

It’s our usual banter, but for some reason I want to remember it. I pause to type the exchange quickly into my phone.

“Are you writing what I’m saying?” she demands. “Is this going to be in your blog?”

The winter sun is brilliant. The wind isn’t too strong. Spring wasn’t quite in the air yet, but it was close.

“I don’t know yet,” I finally answer. “Hopefully something better will come out of your mouth.”

A brisk Saturday morning begins with some croissants from Cafe Madeleine. After Friday’s home-based splashdown into town, we awake early, refreshed and ready to explore the city. If we’re feeling especially arty or are looking for some sort of inspiration, we may visit the Museum of Fine Arts or the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. If we’re feeling adventurous (and the Red Line is running that way) we may head over the river into Cambridge. For the most part, however, we tend to feel like a day of shopping and hotel lobby hopping, where we rest and recuperate in between our walks. 

Lately we’ve been heading back to the condo by early afternoon, to enjoy a siesta, the duration of which seems to grow longer and longer the older we get. The last time I was there I also introduced Kira to some meditation. It’s a world away from our afternoons and nights in the 90’s, some of which I no longer even remember. Happily, it’s a better world. 

We will finish whatever movie we fell asleep through the night before, as the afternoon sun streams into the bedroom bay window. I will scroll through the offerings on OpenTable for later that evening, and then we’ll head into the kitchen to get some nuts and olives and some fancy mocktail dolled up with a couple of citrus twists. Often at these times I’ll be struck with a pang of the thought of the next morning – the sadness of a Sunday – and I’ll make plans for our next get-together. I’ve been trying to live in the moment rather than in some future indeterminate time that may or may not come to fruition; I don’t always succeed. Here, in the transition from day to night, we talk about the future, and that leaves me with hope. 

Dressing for dinner, which once upon a time took up a preponderance of effort and consideration, has now become a rushed bit of a chore, which is how it should be when in the company of a trusted friend. I still get some kicks out of putting on something fancy, but it matters less these days. Kira never put much stock in such silliness. Conversation and togetherness means more. It always did. 

And so we would find ourselves at Saturday night dinner, decked out as much as we wanted to muster, realizing that all those little in-between moments were where the real dazzle and excitement was. How fortunate to find it so, as there are so many more in-between moments than fancy, dressy dinners. 

The world was shifting before we even knew it was shifting. That’s often the way. Kira has spent the last few years teaching me, mostly through her own resilient example, how to embrace change, to lean into it and accept it as a challenge, and a way of bettering oneself. Back at the condo, we would usually scrounge the fridge and freezer for some sweet treat to accompany a cup of tea, and Saturday night would come to an all-too-swift close. 

It feels somewhat distant now, and with each day it grows a little fuzzier. Maybe that’s why I make such efforts to document the time we spend together. I don’t want that world to go away just yet. That’s my fear of change. It’s a small fear though, and a rather insignificant one when I pause to fully analyze it, because time and and distance can never fracture the kind of friendship I share with Kira. 

We will be back together in Boston at some point – maybe not this month, maybe not this summer, maybe not this fall – but one day I know we will be back together. All of us. 

It’s been about three months since I’ve had the fortune to hang out with my friend Kira, which is not the longest we’ve gone by any stretch. We didn’t see each other for over ten years when I moved to Chicago with an ex-boyfriend and she moved to Florida with an ex-husband. Once the exes were out of our lives, we found our way back to each other in Boston, even if I didn’t live there full-time anymore. Since then we have occasionally gone months without hanging out, and that has never strained the bonds of our friendship. There are certain friends who are like that, and certain friendships that are not bothered or rested by time apart. We fall right back in perfect stride with them when we are lucky enough to meet again. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss Kira, especially during these difficult times, and so I’m going to recall some of our typical weekends together.

It begins with the drive. If I time it just right – and leave precisely between 12:30 and 1 pm – I can get into town just in time to snag one of the South End Visitor parking spots at the end of most of the side streets near the condo. Arriving by three o’clock lands me at the sweet spot for parking – because then I’m good for the weekend. If all else fails and there are no spots, I’ll bite the bullet and park in a garage. If snow is predicted I may do that as a precaution too. (I do not scrape snow off a car.) After unloading whatever I’ve brought from Albany (it’s so much easier to bring bulk staples like paper towels, toilet paper, and cleaning supplies from upstate New York than taking the T and spending city prices for that stuff) I have a few hours before Kira gets out of work, in which I’ll do some shopping, often for dinner provisions.

For a number of years we’d head out on that Friday night for a late-dinner after 9 PM – sometimes in the South End, many times in Chinatown – and then a nightcap somewhere to celebrate the arrival of the weekend. In the last few months we’ve eschewed going out on that first Friday, opting to stay in and have dinner at the condo. It’s nice to cook for Kira after she’s spent a full week at work – a couple of weeks ago I’d assembled a big charcuterie platter and sent her a photo of it before she was done for the day and she said it was the happiest thing she’d seen in a long time.

By the time she arrives, two or three ridiculously-stuffed and oversized Vera Bradley bags hanging off her shoulders, dinner is ready to be served. Maybe Billie Holiday is playing in the background, or Shirley Horn, or Celia Cruz – something for the evening that could be mellow and soothing or exhilarating in anticipatory delight. I’ll sip on a mocktail and once in a while I can convince her to sip on a glass of wine (she can nurse the same bottle for a couple of months since she barely drinks, even if that’s against the advice and practice of just about everyone who drinks wine). Lately we’ve both been doing the mocktail scene and it hasn’t changed much in our interactions. I’ve always felt safe and comforted in Kira’s presence; we take care of each other. That kind of safety and assurance is rare, and one of the many reasons I cherish our friendship.

It’s also fun. As I catch her scrolling through cleaning supplies on Amazon (who does that?) I gently poke fun at what she’s doing. “Oh, I get it!” I exclaim. “Cleaning supplies are like porn for you. Mr. Clean is your ultimate porn star!” She shakes her head at my nonsense, and I take a silly selfie before she’s ready and her earring is in. 

Amid the soft glow of a few candles, we sit at the dining table and share a meal, looking out at Boston twinkling in the night. We will catch up on what the previous weeks or months have been like for each of us, and as disparate and different as our adventures may have been, we somehow intermingle our tales, and the roots of our friendship grow deeper. Dinner done, I’ll take a quick spa shower while Kira works on the dishes – her contribution since I cooked – and then we’ll switch, as she takes a spa shower and I finish the clean-up.

There – right there – is often the jewel of a moment that marks the happiest moment of the weekend. It’s a brief glint of promise and potential, a flash of quiet and contentment as I turn down the lights, blow out the candles and feel the ease of a full Saturday inch open in the midnight hour…

“I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.” ~ Charlotte Bronte

It’s been a while since I’ve had an evening alone in Boston. Usually I’m lucky enough to have Kira by my side, but even for those get-togethers I’m occasionally on my own while she finishes up at work or attends swim lessons (don’t ask). I’d forgotten the calm and peace being alone can afford. Some part of me has missed that, and I didn’t realize that until I had – or, more accurately, made – the opportunity for some alone time.

It came at the time of the day that can either be the most hopeful, or the most frightening. Dusk in the fall and winter more often errs on the side of the latter, eliciting loneliness even for the least lonely among us. There is a sadness when the day dims, especially if the wind is on the rise and the temperature is on the decline. Even in the beauty of the moment – and the sky does some miraculous things when it’s turning the sun down – there is something haunting and sorrowful about the close of a day.

Against all that blue, however, our cozy little condo glows warmly, a safe respite against the dying winter. Its last throes can be its worst, and it’s best not to let down every bit of guard until May at the earliest. We are not quite out of the woods, and even in summer there are shadows.

As the evening curtain falls, the sky deepens in its blue the way the ocean darkens as it goes deeper. It’s a lovely shift of gradient, mirroring the nearby sea in scope and expanse. The notion of all that space is daunting. It has frightened some in the antithetical way of those who find panic in confined spaces. Too much of either makes many of us uncomfortable. Time is like that too. And once in a while a single evening stretches out across the darkening firmament like an endless map of stars.

Over the past couple of years I’ve scaled back my trips to Boston. Part of it was due to work, part to the desire to stay closer to home, and part of it was simple laziness. Life gets in the way, as some New Age philosophy goes. (Is it really a New Age at this point? When does it become Old Age? Because I think we’re there.) But back to Boston, quite literally. Though I didn’t spend my entire childhood there, I spent a few key childhood moments in the city, and then I spent the formative years of my late teens and early twenties there, which made me into the man I’ve somehow become, for better or worse. Every time I’m there, I feel a bit more grounded. It was where I had been lost, and where I had found myself. That’s something you have to do alone.

Often, I was there in solitude, yet rarely did I feel lonely. The condo was my companion, and the city twinkled outside its windows, ready and waiting for when and if I wanted to play. When the weather turns I will feel its pull again, although even in the most unwelcoming atmospheric conditions, Boston somehow manages to thrill. Sometimes it’s even better when the outside world wails, and inside the condo is a cozy respite from the meteorological and emotional mayhem of a rough winter.

As I write this, an early spring songbird trills an unexpected and not unwelcome string of notes. It feels slightly out of place with so much winter yet to go, but we’re on the right track. There’s less than a month of this shit to go. Boston beckons… and I hear the call.

There are some who forsake the garden in the winter. They do not wish to see it mid-slumber, in its quiet state of hibernation. They prefer only to visit when its at its most beautiful, and I cannot begrudge them for that. Yet those people miss all the wonder that is the garden in winter, a time when stillness and serenity take the place of chattering waterfowl, and snowflakes take the place of flower blossoms. 

Whenever I’m unsure of things, when I worry too much and wonder about what the future holds, I return here, no matter the time of the year or the day, and it calms the heart. On this morning I found peace again, and I found hope. It made me want to start again, to be better in whatever ways I could. 

I’d forced Kira to get up earlier than she would have liked, but by the time we reached the garden she was coming around to the idea of its beauty, and as we wound our way through the cleared paths, she gave in to the contemplative Sunday morning and its surroundings. 

After getting a number of photos, I brought us to the Lenox Hotel, where we looked up brunch spots as we warmed ourselves by their fireplace. It was the loveliest way of closing out our winter weekend. We made it through the winter storm. We made it through the wilderness. We made it through the beauty. 

Kira and I slept in on Saturday morning, as she wasn’t scheduled for a swimming lesson until noon. Sleeping in seems to be a luxury that grows more and more elusive with each passing year of age. Whereas before I could sleep happily until noon, the past several years have found that wake-time creeping earlier and earlier; these days I’m generally up by eight even on weekend and when left to my natural waking instincts. One of the blessings and curses of older age, I suppose. On this day we took our time getting up, even if there were peeks of blue sky and bits of sunshine before the storm was set to arrive. 

We shared the ride to Park Street then separated as Kira went swimming and I went on the hunt for winter clothing bargains (there were several to be found). While our custom was to go out for dinner on Saturday, the snowstorm was scheduled to arrive at the same time. Not wanting to either walk or find an Uber at such a conflux, we agreed on another homemade meal at the condo. The only question was what to cook.

My bout with retail therapy complete, Kira and I met up on Newbury Street and we commenced the dinner discussion. With visions of endlessly-percolating stews and simmering soups in the further recesses of my mind, we opted for something much simpler, since we would normally be sitting down to someone else’s hard work. The Senor Sandwich was a happy compromise – simple but flavorfully substantial. It was also easy enough to be construed from what we found at the local corner market and Eataly, since Trader Joe’s already had a storm line snaking throughout the entire store. 

The storm made its entrance as we exited our last food stop. Bits of snow sputtered from the sky and the wind picked up again. In the air was that cozy anticipation that accompanied a proper snowstorm, particularly one which could be weathered from a safe vantage point. We arrived back at the condo just in time. The snow began coming down in earnest, the street turned white, and a dinner made and shared between friends turned it into the perfect evening. 

Standing at the window and looking out over Braddock Park, I felt the same sense of calm and serenity in a snowstorm that I’ve had the good fortune to feel whenever I passed a storm in Boston. The warm glow of the hardwood floors, the occasional rush of water through the baseboard heaters, and the flickering of a few candles lent heat literal and figurative throughout the space. On the other side of the window the snow continued to fall and the occasional passer-by walked quickly through the pretty mess. The plows came a little later, their hum and beeping a comforting sound reminiscent of the hopeful wishing of snow-days and school-days. 

We retired relatively early, as we had an early start planned for the next day. I’d been waiting for a snow-covered moment to get some photos of the Public Garden, and we were gifted with the ideal set-up. 

The sun was out early, conjuring the perfect backdrop for what I had in mind…

Suzie put it succinctly as only she could: “I know that Kira brings you tranquility” she texted as I alerted her to the fact that I would probably be spending a winter weekend in Boston. As with most things, Suzie was correct. A January weekend with Kira would be the best manner of seeing our way through a winter storm, and one was scheduled to hit right in the middle of the weekend – Saturday afternoon and night. And there is no better place to pass a winter storm than the Boston condo.

Preparations began the night before I left, as I put together a version of shakshuka that could travel and then be assembled with the final flourish of eggs and fresh herbs added at the last minute in Boston. That Friday was due to be exceedingly chilly, with temperatures in the almost-single digits and with a ferociously-biting wind. Kira would be arriving in the midst of an icy night and I wanted to welcome her with warmth and sustenance.

Most of my Boston visits with Kira involve a free stretch of time while she finishes her work week, and in this window of freedom I will usually do some shopping and roaming before Kira arrives. I started out the same way, until the cold and the winds drove me indoors and back to the condo early. It was cozier that way anyway, and I was grateful for the bit of quiet. As dusk arrived, I started dinner, lit a few candles, sipped at a cup of tea, and settled in to the moment.

When Kira arrived, a plate of charcuterie sat assembled at the dining table and we instantly dove in to the food and the catching up. She brought a bouquet of flowers which completed the minimalist tablescape in lovely fashion. We loosely plotted out the next day, barely finished dinner (lesson: a big-enough charcuterie platter will suffice for a future Friday night dinner), and watched a bit of ‘Now, Voyager’ before retiring. Time with a good friend was indeed tranquility, and something we needed when a storm was brewing. 

Captivated by the possibility of some killer sales, I often try to make it into Boston for some shopping at this time of the year. I try not to set any expectations up, but I will usually stumble upon something I don’t actually need, and then have it turn into some treasured object valued both for its beauty and its steal of a price point. Sometimes that turns out to be a cologne, and this is the story of one scent that took me a very long time to appreciate.

A number of years ago I was browsing the scents at the soon-to-be-departed Barney’s at Copley Place, trying to discern what the overriding fragrance from the Men’s Department on the second floor was. They only had the line of Frederic Malle but there were about ten bottles in total, which made it impossible to pin down the specific fragrance I was smelling. In truth, it was the amalgamation of all of them – an impossible-to-replicate hybrid – and when I asked the supremely-uninterested-in-helping salespeople upstairs to help me narrow it down, they were completely flabbergasted and had no idea which one it might be. One quick game of eeney-meeney-miney-homo later and I decided ‘Noir Epices’ was the one that came closest to what I wanted. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision that went against my usual favorite notes, more powdery and floral than I customarily preferred, but I was just beginning my fragrance journey, and this one caught my nose at that particular second.

As it settled around me, I went on my shopping way, finding a plaid Kate Spade messenger bag at a hugely discounted price in Lord & Taylor, and though a bag was the second-to-last thing I needed (cologne being the first) I was already on a roll and justified it by the reduced cost. Back on Boylston Street, a few holiday lights continued to burn. The night was cold and otherwise dark, but not unbearably so, and the shopping high left me giddy, seering a happy memory that coupled with the new cologne. There is no greater memory-signifier than scent. 

Even so, a week or so later I instantly regretted the fragrance purchase, as it was too much for my olfactory palate at the time. (I favored bright and easy citrus notes back then.) Away from a sparkling night in Boston and plopped down in an office space, the scent proved overpowering and almost obnoxious. ‘Noir Epices’ moved to the back of the cologne cabinet, but every January afterward I would bring it out, and every year it has grown on me more and more, so at this point it’s a favorite for this early part of winter. Tom Ford has his own take on this titled ‘Noir et Noir’ (and a few other connected scenes such as ‘Japon Noir‘ and ‘Noir Anthracite’) and it captures the same essence. I still don’t love it enough to splurge on Mr. Ford’s bottle, especially with the attached cost in Benjamins.