Category Archives: Boston

 Before we batten down the hatches and close the windows for the season, I like to give the Boston condo a good airing-out. I’d have burned some sage if we had any, but this would have to do for now as the day was too perfect to wait (a windy but not too terribly cold day is ideal). Upon opening the front and back windows, a strong breeze blew through the entire place. Curtains billowed in the moving air, and candles fluttered as the day slowly turned darker. It was dramatic weather, fitting for fall and change. Kira and I sat at the table as our wine breathed, taking a breather ourselves after a morning of hustling and bustling. We tentatively planned some upcoming dates for a belated birthday celebration and our annual holiday stroll, and there was something very cozy about the condo as the wind rushed through it – the juxtaposition of the cool air and the candles, the outside and the inside, the recent memory of summer and the future planning for winter.

The wind was strong, and we moved into the bedroom to watch a bit of ‘Practical Magic’ for seasonal appropriateness. Kira was chilled, so we pulled out the heavy winter blanket and lit a few more candles. Turning the seasonal page from white to red wine, we sipped to warm our stomachs, while Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock got all witchy. Soon it was time for dinner, but neither of us was in the mood to walk very far. Flirting with the wind from the safe haven of the condo was one thing; whoring through it unprotected was quite another. I proposed heading to the corner market and coming up with a simple puttanesca, along with some cheese and fruit.

We hurried along the darkened streets, over wet leaves and fallen branches as the wind whipped around us. Apples and pears and crackers made for an opening salvo, while pasta, anchovies, garlic, olives, roasted red peppers and fresh parsley would suffice for the puttanesca. Back at the condo, the kitchen warmed to the boiling pasta water and simmering sauce. Kira was amazed at my culinary abilities. Twenty years ago I could barely make toast, now here I was winging a simple (albeit rough) pasta dish. Like its namesake, a puttanesca is very forgiving.

We sat down to eat as the wind continued to howl. It would go like that all night, and I lowered the windows until they were almost completely closed. Food and friendship mingled with darkness and candlelight. It’s always cozy in the condo during the colder months.

The roving bands of rain continued into Saturday morning. We woke to a new pot of tea, and by the time we were ready to head into the city for some shopping there was a brighter break in the sky. A fine mist was falling, which is sometimes more annoying than an outright rain, and we paused for some French sustenance from Café Madeleine. Eating our croissants as we walked, ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’-style, we made a wet flaky mess of our shirts, but it was worth it.

A bit of early holiday shopping along Newbury turned into some possible party garb for myself (the usual derailment when trying to buy for other people at the onset of holiday season) but mostly we just did a lot of looking, and some deftly-timed ducking into stores to get out of the rain. The mist had morphed into something decidedly more solid and heavy. Careful what you wish for…

We stopped in Zara to find a raincoat for Kira, but they had the usual line snaking through the entire store and so we nixed the idea of even looking. (That store consistently has the worst register service of any place I’ve been – every single time I walk in there are lines and broken registers that can’t take credit cards and all sorts of nonsense. They’ve lost hundreds of dollars of business from me alone based on this and there is no end in sight to such mismanagement. Sorry, rant finished.)

A few birthday cards were procured from Newbury Comics, but the tricky holiday gift for my brother was not to be found. At Sephora, I sampled the new Tom Ford Private Blend ‘Ombre Leather 16’, and tried again to determine if I liked it as much as the original ‘Tuscan Leather’ but walked away still undecided. A spritz of Atelier’s ‘Oud Saphir’ was equally enticing. Too many choices… all of them delicious. And then it was time for lunch.

It had been some time since either Kira or myself had had a proper burger, so we sought out a pub in the midst and mayhem of tourists and college kids. The rain was picking up and places were starting to fill. Settling on the Met Back Bay, we found two open spaces at the downstairs bar and set up camp while the downpour began in earnest. It was a cozy scene, made more-so by the bonhomie of the brunchers (lots of Bloody Marys were being made in front of us) and the martini in my hand. There is no better place to ride out a rainstorm than a bar. The burger was good too, and we once again found ourselves stalling in the hope that the rain would pass or at least slow to a manageable drizzle. It did, but in its place was a front of cooler air, and brutal winds. Still, I’ll take wind over rain any day. As the afternoon ripened, that wish was delivered in gusts and gales that shook the city. We rushed into the South End, found a bottle of Malbec, and hurried back to the condo.

The drive from Albany to Boston can sometimes be quite perilous. Going through the elevated Berkshires always raises the risk of running into weather conditions that don’t affect either end of the trip, which can make for a dicey situation. On this day, the rain began falling halfway along the Massachusetts Turnpike. This was no light rain either – torrents of the stuff was pouring out of the sky like a million ‘Fantasia’ buckets were being spilled by an evil sorcerer. The threat of hydroplaning is very real when sheets of water are sliding all around the road. (I once totaled a car in a heavy rain situation, so I don’t take water lightly.)

Though the going was slower than usual (and I was on a tight schedule to meet with yet another bathroom contractor) I arrived to a break in the Boston sky and managed to make it to the condo in dry fashion. A load of laundry (since there are always towels to wash) and a repotting of a ZZ plant (since it was bursting out of its original container) occupied my time until the long-awaited reunion with Kira took place that evening. We hadn’t seen each other since April, and the summer apart had begun to leave me slightly concerned, but when we headed out into the rain it was as if no time had passed.

It was coming down hard again, and we ducked into the nearby House of Siam rather than make the trek to Chinatown. (It’s soup and noodle season!) As we sat at a table looking out onto Columbus, the rain increased. It was a steady downpour, leaving everyone soaked. Half of the people didn’t even bother with umbrellas – there really was no point. We took our time eating, hoping for a reprieve. Though there wasn’t far to go, a few blocks were enough to soak through the shoes. Eventually, with no end to the rain in sight, we had to make our way back, beneath feeble umbrellas and over puddles that had turned into ponds. As we climbed the steps to the condo, my feet were wet, my sleeves were dripping, and the brown bags holding our take-away containers were mush. None of it mattered though. I was back with my dear friend, and we made a pot of hot tea as Billie Holiday sang ‘Stormy Weather’ in the background. 

My father remembers it better than I do. Apparently I had proposed the idea of finding the family a place in Boston early on in my junior year of college, and the day after he gave the ok to begin the search I was in the city setting up visits to potentials properties. The year was 1995, and the South End was on the verge of taking off. (If you want decent real estate investments, go where the gays are. I wanted to be there for other reasons, but I digress…)

On that fall day, it had rained in the morning, but by the time I got all the way from Brandeis into the South End, the sun was out, the air was warm and humid, and the only remnants of the storm were the wet leaves beneath my feet. On a cobblestone driveway, yellow leaves clung like mushroom caps, muddy and veiny and emitting the tell-tale scent of fall ~ life and decay in one mossy aroma.

My real estate agent was a cute guy with whom I was already illogically smitten, and he brought me along to our first property ~ a small condo just across the street from the real estate office. As tempting as it would have been to live there in such close proximity to the man who would surely wear my wedding ring one day, I held my enthusiasm in check. Despite the charming wall of exposed brick, and the enchanting way the afternoon sun drifted in through the windows, it was just a tad too tiny.

For our second property, we looked at a large, albeit divided, floor-through deep in the South End. Far from any T station (too far, really) what it lacked in location it made up for in space. The problem was that the space was cut into so many smaller rooms that it felt disjointed and cumbersome, even if it was a steal for all the square footage. The distance to any transportation would prove problematic too, and I was reminded of the most important real estate adage: location, location, location.

The third try was the charm that brought us to Braddock Park. Great location ~ right between Copley and the South End ~ decent space (at least for one person, maybe two if they really loved each other) ~ and a steal considering that in the time that we’ve had it it’s probably tripled in value. That cemented the deal, and before November ended we had closed on the condo. I never tire of reliving those months.

The last time I was in Boston, the conditions mirrored those I just described ~ the warm, humid air of a fall day where the sun wins out over the season, the leaves collecting between the cobblestones, and the scent of life and death so gloriously entwined that one doesn’t exist without the other. I thought back to the young man who was searching for love as much as he was searching for a home, and I smiled at his determination.

It is my second favorite time of the year to be in Boston (after spring, of course). Fall carries its enchantment on a brilliantly-colored sleeve of leaves, sprinkling smoke-tinged coziness and seasonal delights along gourd-lined streets. At the start of the weekend, and the beginning of the leaf fall, I walk the roads with the sun at my back. There is just the slightest chill in the air, but it’s not sharp enough to bite. In other words, this is fine weather for any season.

I’m in transit, and Boston is just a convenient one-night stop-over before journeying to my friend JoAnn’s Fall Gathering. Usually, it is the destination in its own right, and I feel a tinge of regret in not being able to stay longer. No matter, there will be other weekends for that. A part of my heart is always here anyway.

As the leaves fall, I’m reminded of old romances. It was my customary practice to fall in love at this time of the year. Not intentionally, it just so happened that a few of my doomed love affairs began in the fall. A telling thing, perhaps, given how they all panned out. (I met Andy at the height of summer.)

Once, I saved a few leaves from the fall in which I met someone I used to love. I pressed them into a thick book, and when they were dry and flat I framed them in glass, in a hanging group of three, and presented them to the man who was not meant to last. I wanted him to remember that fall.

Along with myself, fall arrived in Boston this past weekend. Not in a dark and stormy way, but in a brilliant sunlit mash-up of blue skies, brisk breezes and pumpkin spice lattes. As the days waned, the sky grew softer. A few clouds rolled in – high and light and non-threatening – while the descent of the sun made everything look a little richer.

The start of the season is always a colorful thrill, even if the known and inevitable end is dismal, gray and dim. We don’t want to remember that now, and the good thing is that the change is so gradual that it goes almost unnoticed.

Boston is beauty, especially in the fall.

The search for a Boston bathroom contractor continues, and this weekend I’ll be making my first fall trip to the condo this year. Having spent much of the summer in upstate New York by the pool, I haven’t been in Boston as much as I usually like to be, but that will change in the coming months, when the focus returns to my favorite city.

I don’t have much lined up, other than some relaxing alone time, and the lack of plans and expectations, while at odds with my comfort zone, is not unwelcome or jarring. I think it will do me well. There is no greater feeling than fall in Boston. Let the magic begin.

On one of the last weekends of peace, before the deluge of returning college kids, I make one of the last trips to Boston for this summer. It’s been so nice and hot, I haven’t been here much this season, preferring the comfort and ease of alternating between pool and central AC.
This past weekend I returned for some walking and fall wardrobe shopping – the best of both worlds.
Turning onto Columbus, I passed the first lilac tree I sniffed this season. Thanks to the heat and humidity, it was now a powdery mess of gray and white mildew – a far cry from its shiny chartreuse foliage a few short months ago. Such is the effect of summer on some of us. It can wear the prettiest down.

The city was quiet, as is typical at this stage of the season. The locals have hightailed it out of town, while the coming college crew has yet to arrive. It’s absolute heaven for a shy guy who prefers the peace and stillness. It’s much too warm to be surrounded by hustle and bustle. The streets are deliciously sparse, the walkways wondrously clear, and the bother of a college town has yet to be wakened. I pause to take it all in. The madness will ensue shortly, and all this peace soon will cease.

I’ll put on my guard then. For now, ease and tranquility – for just a while longer.

Every time I say anything remotely critical of parents and children, some Mom or Dad gets all riled up and defensive, as if I’m attacking their own kid. This time, I’m going to reserve my personal feelings on the matter at hand and simply leave this out for interpretation and private discussion: this double-wide stroller was parked in the middle of a T car the last time I was in Boston. As you can see, it was impossible for anyone wider than 18 inches to pass by it. I genuinely want to know if this is acceptable to others. (I’m not proffering an opinion one way or another, so there’s no need to go crazy on my ass.) What is the best way to travel with such a stroller on public transportation (it didn’t look like it could be folded into a more manageable size)?

The annoying, obnoxious little kid in me (who takes up far more space than I’d like to admit) just wants to yell ‘Ooooh! I’m so hurt by this!! WAH-WAH!!!’ but the adult in me would like to seriously address the fact that the Primark store in Boston has banned ALANILAGAN.com from its WiFi access.

This is not a pornographic site, despite what your research or online filters indicate. There is no full-frontal nudity and there are absolutely no depictions of sexual acts whatsoever. Sorry, I know you may be offended by hot guys in various states of shirtlessness and undress, and the naked butt might be racy and NSFW, but it’s not pornography, so get over your prurient nonsense.

I had the same issue with Amtrak, which eventually saw the light and unbanned ALANILAGAN.com from their train service, so I’m hopeful Primark may do the same. (Not that it matters much to anyone else, but if they want me to frequent their store I’d like to see what I’m up to online.)

A community garden is a thing of beauty. Its beauty is more than what you see – it’s the underlying notion of people working together that instills something greater. The stories behind each plot, the neighbors that strike up conversations with any passing stranger, and the sense of genuine community add to the overall enchantment of such spaces.

It certainly helps that along with the vegetables and vines there are flowers that exist solely to delight with their dress.

I’ve passed this way before, but whenever I need a respite from concrete sidewalks and skyscrapers, I take a turn and wander along the verdant path. To recharge and reconnect with the living.

Some of the plants along the way are grand and bold, while others require up-close examination to leave an impression. All are worth a look.

Like some charmed Harry Potter platform, this secret library at number 10 ½, is fronted by a pair of red doors. A red door is a lucky sign, warding off the evil eye and serving as a talisman of protection. I’ve always wanted one.

Sculptures glow before the backdrop of an overcast day.

An inspiring setting in which to read or write, or simply ward off the rain.

On a side-street off of Tremont, this little market offers fresh local goodies for those lucky enough to stumble into its charming, tiny space. Outside, buckets of sunflowers and lilies and sweet peas spill onto the brick, while yummier treats beckon inside. This is the relatively unseen side of Boston, at least for non-locals, and I always get a secret thrill when I happen upon such jewels.

The root vegetables here have been dusted off to reveal a rich rainbow of color. The bounty of summer reminds me that the season is not quite half over yet, and I’m glad there is still more time for sun.

These robust radishes are crying out for some sea salt, and a crusty baguette with butter. The greens want only for a thorough washing, or maybe a quick sauté. Summer calls for something simple.

From the rich dirt of the earth come various edible sundries. Some beneath the ground, some above it – all precious in their own way. Fungi and foliage, root and stalk.

And flowers – oh such glorious flowers – signifying summer, spreading happiness, and reminding me how beautiful this world can be.