Category Archives: Boston

While waiting for my birthday massage, I walked into a South End community garden, where long rows of plots were bursting at the seams with flowers and foliage and vegetables. It was an escape to paradise in the middle of Boston, and my heart has always thrilled at the prospect of discovering these lesser-known spots filled with nature. Like some secret garden, they are made more precious from their very secretiveness, as if the whimsy of the world whispered only to you this enchanting confidence. A silly notion, perhaps, but no less lovely because of that.

Those stalwart summer annuals – zinnias and cosmos – which I’ve unfairly dismissed over the years, reminded me of why they were so popular in the first place. Their vibrant colors, coupled with their blooming power even at this late stage of the gardening game, have put them on my list of things to grow next year. As we head into the final stages of summer, it’s a comfort to think that there’s another one coming.

I was also pleasantly surprised by the beauty of the vegetables on hand – the bright cheery squash blossoms and their resulting bulbous gourds hanging perilously heavy (the largest ones safeguarded by a tenderly-placed net beneath their growing carriage).

Vines trailed over fences and overhead, creating nooks and alcoves of hidden delight, small spaces away from the prying eyes of the city, where treasures like these cherry tomatoes could grow and ripen for the enjoyment of their caretakers.

An Asian woman in a floppy hat – one of the only people I encountered here – beckoned me over to a cage covered in leaves and tendrils. She didn’t speak English, but she pointed excitedly to the pendulous squash hanging like fairy tale lanterns. With a smile and some laughter, she was just as thrilled as I was at discovering this secret stash.

There’s a certain child-like innocence that a garden brings out in most of us, a sense of wonder and magic that adults seem to find more and more difficult to access. It’s one of the joys that gardening has maintained in my life, no matter what else might be going on.

Beauty is a balm for the soul, and for the battered heart that feels so much in such a cold world.

The dahlias were beginning their show, as the phlox was finishing up. Fall was on the edges of this garden too, and soon it would be everywhere. For now, though, a suspension of summer in the heat and humidity on hand.

And it seems I was wrong: we weren’t the only ones in the garden that day.

This rascal made the most racket, but no one seemed to mind.

My over-riding feeling on turning 40 was that it was just another day, so arrangements for the moments leading up to and including my birthday were low-key and casual (even if there was an itinerary). We drove to Boston for a long weekend, and arrived at the condo, where we set up camp for a couple of days. A quick and easy dinner at Cinquecento (to which we arrived courtesy of Andy’s new Uber skills) was followed by an early night. I needed to rest up for all the relaxation and fun that the next day would bring.

For my 40’s, I want to be more relaxed, more playful, less worried and concerned about things that don’t really matter. I want to let go of certain things, and hold onto what was always most important to me – friends and family and love and beauty. I want freedom from the constricting binds of jealousy, envy, unfairness, injustice, and hatred. I want redemption from the past – from the hurt and pain and heartache that accompany most of our journeys to 40. Mostly, though, I just want to have more fun. I don’t ever really allow myself to do that. Something is always holding me back.

For the last weekend of my 30’s, I relaxed into a few days of celebratory ease, and it began with a wonderful visit to Etant Spa in the South End. I’ve gone there for a massage before, and it is always a luxurious treat. A massage is more than mere self-indulgence: it provides a bit of nourishment for the soul, a blissfully tranquil state of perfect relaxation. That has always done more for my health and well-being than exercise or healthy eating ever could.

Having a massage early on in this long weekend provided the best point of entry for the proceedings. Everything that followed was tinged with the sweet shadings of a lighter touch, the removal of daily work concerns or home tasks, and a reinvigorated state of being. The eyes opened up to play then, and everything felt more alive. An art installation I might otherwise have overlooked, and certainly not have jumped on, called to me.

Entitled ‘InMotion: Memories of Invented Play’ by Amy Archambault, it was a fitting embodiment of what I wanted to do as I entered my 40’s.

A dinner at Douzo was next. The last days of my life as a thirtysomething were coming to a close. Quietly. Happily. Contentedly.

This fall marks our 20th year with our Boston condo, and it’s where I’ll be spending part of my birthday weekend. It has held a special place in my heart for all this time, filled with happy memories, a few lasting tears, and the comfort of a home that has never let me down. Come rain or shine, winter or summer, day or night, it has been ever-ready to embrace me at my best and worst, providing safety and surety in a world that crumbles just when I think everything is all right.

The street on which it is located has only improved over the years. In the early days, the fountain in the island didn’t even run. Now it spurts its happy streams of water, and the giddy cadence of splashing drops makes beautiful music in the middle of the street. A luxury in the fast-paced noise of the rest of the city. More on such magic this fall…

When brainstorming for birthday ideas, I suddenly started to feel the pressure of living up to the whole ‘Big 4-0’ aspect of this particular anniversary of being born. Whenever that happens, I tend to panic a little at the daunting prospect of marking such a milestone in expectedly-astounding fashion. At such moments, I go into survival mode, and rather than trying to live up to the build-up and create some over-the-top experience, I will find a solution by going the opposite way: keeping things quiet and simple and uneventful. That’s the way this 40^th birthday celebration is being designed, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be a few flashes of extravagant indulgence. (I’m still me.)

Being that my brother told me he would be saying at our place in Boston on the eve and morning of my birthday, celebrating my 40^th in Boston could only be comfortably accomplished by booking a hotel. Admittedly, this is a bonus for me, in light of my love of hotels, so it all worked out in the end, and with the generous offer of my Mom to make it special, I searched some of the places I’d always wanted to stay, but never had reason to, given our own digs in the city.

After perusing a few options (the Ames Boston Hotel, the Mandarin Oriental, the Langham and the Liberty) I came back to a nearby classic: the Lenox Hotel. A long-time fan of City Bar (and the gorgeous Lemon Verbena soap in the restroom) I’ve spent a fair share of moments passing through or taking momentary respite in their pretty lobby, and I’ve always wanted to spend a night or two there. I’ve also taken note of their celebratory support for diversity and marriage equality, as well as their unparalleled commitment to environmental ‘green’ initiatives.

A family-run boutique hotel, the Lenox has long been one of those classy bastions of Boston, its regal red sign rising above the bustle of Boylston and calling out a storied past where luminaries have enjoyed the hospitality and elegance at hand.

The final thing that sealed the deal? The Judy Garland Suite. How could I not spend my 40^th birthday in a room named after Judy Garland, especially one that looks so pretty? Some things are meant to be.

When faced with the question of whether to take the T or walk back to the condo following the Red Sox game, the beauty of the evening and the crowds already beating their way to the T stop made our choice a simple one: we hoofed it. With the Prudential Center as our beacon and guide, and Boylston Street easily leading the way, we extricated ourselves from the throngs, for the most part, and made it easily back for a disco-nap.

Along the way, there were more glimpses of the hidden beauty of Boston, often forgotten or simply overlooked, such as in these sunset-drenched photographs of the walk back. There are some better-known landmarks as well, resplendent in the golden hour.

Following such richness, a disco nap in preparation for a wild and crazy night out was needed. For this spouseless weekend, I envisioned a throwback to bachelor times, to harmless but audacious antics and the sort of trouble that would make for a good story that we would reveal at a later/safer date. After a quick nap, we were traipsing through the South End and hatching after-dinner plans.

By the time we finished a meal at The Elephant Walk, it felt late. We paused by the Trophy Room, warily eyed the menu on the wall, then moved on. It seemed that neither of us was up for a crazy night out, as we found ourselves back at the condo, and Skip was teaching me how to play gin rummy. As I knock on the door to 40, this is what has already happened. Playing cards on a Saturday night while the younger folks take on the adventurous mantle of those who don’t know any better.

To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Today I may be plunging into the crowded cesspool of a baseball game in Fenway Park, but last weekend I spent a quiet day of shopping with Kira, and these memories are what I’ll be accessing in the midst of all the hot dogs and beer. Most cities are filled with hidden spaces of peace and beauty, slightly off the beaten path, or simply unknown, unrecognized, or unvisited by the masses. I always wanted to write a story on these secret niches in the midst of all the madness, but I didn’t want to give them all away. For now, a glimpse.

Hat-shopping for me ended up with shoe-shopping for Kira, a strange and unaccustomed turn of events that equally thrilled and annoyed me. Shopping should be a joy and a luxury, not a task, so I turned my bad attitude around and joined in the fun. By noon we were both tired and hot and in need of refreshment, so we stopped at a waterfront restaurant, where we sat in the shade and had a touristy lunch, enjoying the breeze off the harbor. We had our very own ‘Death in Venice’ moment watching the shirtless guys kick a soccer ball around in a nearby park. Kira toyed with the idea of joining them for a bit, but chickened out. Even with a new hairstyle, she will only do so much.

Replenished and refreshed, we made our way back toward the condo, stopping at Lord & Taylor in a last-ditch effort to find a hat, which we eventually did. Nearby, the Prudential Center offered one of those semi-secret courtyards that only one or two people at a time seem to enjoy. We ducked into it, and entered a sanctuary of verdant beauty.

The sweet scent of a pair of fringe trees (Chionanthus) – a favorite of Thomas Jefferson (he planted them liberally around Monticello) – greeted our entrance into the shaded place. We paused, inhaling their delicious aroma, and I recalled another fringe tree I’d sniffed with Kira. The fragrance signifies summer for me.

Flowering plants bloomed in large groups, in the lightest whites and the palest pinks, and the city, as most of us think of it, felt suddenly removed and far away. Kira and I paused there, stilling time as best as we could, but eventually we walked onward, returning to Braddock Park, and the time of the day when the sun was coming in through the bedroom.

We unloaded our goods, and tried on a few items, having fun with this brief siesta. We eased into the five o’clock hour, slouching into the same chairs where we began the day, and briefly looked back on our adventures. Kira had to catch a train, and I wanted to retire early for the morning drive home. When next we meet it will officially be summer. This was a perfect sneak-peek.

You wouldn’t know it from the dark rain clouds and dismal temperatures of recent days, but this past weekend was practically perfect. I spent it in Boston (where I’ll be returning this weekend for a Red Sox game with Skip – wait for THOSE blog posts) and Kira joined me for some project work before we hit the town.

She arrived a little after 9 PM, when her shift was up, and we began the photo/video shoot for the new tour. That in itself was fun and riotous (picture me channeling Norma Desmond on the wooden staircase of the condo and you have a pretty clear picture of the insanity than ensued). Once that was done, it was close to midnight (ok, so there was a lot of catching up and talking too) and we headed to one of the few all-night diners that Boston offers. Last time I was in town we happened upon it, and since then we’ve been planning for this night.

Like an oasis in the dark, it rose all bright neon blue and flaming grills and it was just exactly as I dreamt it. (Yes, I’ve actually dreamt of the place.) We had been going to Chinatown when in need of late-night dining, and though this is right next door to it, sometimes you need a burger and fries instead of Peking Duck.

There’s something truly gratifying and comforting in going to a diner with an old friend, especially when it’s tucked deep into the night and few others are around to mar the atmosphere. While working on a new project, I tend to go somewhat insular, retreating to a place that feels quiet and remote. A trusted friend like Kira keeps me in the world, bringing me back to civilization.

Things are said to seem more sinister in the night, but beneath the lights, and close to a cherished friend, I felt nothing but safety and warmth, and the sustenance of a greasy diner dinner.

Every now and then when I’m riding the T in Boston I’ll catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dirty glass across the subway car. It used to be a youthful guy with a backpack, then it was a young man with a Jack Spade bag, and now it’s just a middle-aged man in a simple black t-shirt with a few more lines and wrinkles, even in the forgiving dirtiness and filtering scratches of the subway window. The digital numbers of the advancing clock glow red between station announcements. The squealing joints of subway cars screech their moans and miseries around each trying turn. We sway as the train swerves slightly, jostled but not mindful of much: the ennui of the commuter.

Next to me is a young man with a hat that holds longer locks of hair. He reminds me of my friend Chris when he was younger. I’m suddenly aware, as happens only once in a while, of the passing of time. I remember visiting Suzie in Ithaca and meeting Chris and the other roommates. We were so young. It was twenty years ago. There so suddenly, like the arrival of a subway train that seems to take forever then is gone in a flash, the relentless rush of it all feels overwhelming. We hurl so quickly to our next destination we don’t realize how fast we are going.

I look around at the people lost in their cel phones, connected to their earbuds and disconnected from the world in front of them. They see but cannot hear each other. They glance but cannot listen. And I am just as guilty.

A small part of me panics at the notion of how quickly it’s all passed. Mostly, though, I marvel that I can still be in the same location after going so many places.

The SoWa Market recently moved across the way into its new digs, and I was saddened to see that they were much smaller and sadder than the endless row of warehouse rooms that previously constituted the scene. It always felt like a magical line of rooms that kept opening up, one after another as in some never-ending nesting doll, but now it’s been reduced to a single expansive basement space. A bit of the magic has gone. Even so, there were objects of enchantment to be unearthed if one looked closely enough, little jewels that sparkled in the right light and the proper angle.

On a Sunday morning, browsing the well-used wares and meandering among the forgotten once-treasures is a happy way to spend the time.

Though I like the way they look, and the order of a full-set (my Virgo tendencies will always trump my Leo cusp) I’ve never remotely wanted to purchase or utilize a second-hand set of glasses or dishes or foodware of any kind. No matter how beautiful or valuable they may be, that holds no appeal.

Most of the time the market is filled with junk, but it’s still fun to look, and I can imagine this as a treasure trove for the young and the imaginative, as junk has a way of casting its own spell. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. (Just don’t bring it into my house. I’m terrified of bed-bugs.)

Every now and then I’ll be riding the subway in Boston and I’ll catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dirty, smudged glass of the window. In-between the passengers sitting across from me, I’ll watch myself lean to the side a bit and stare back at my own visage, slightly puzzled to see myself in such a fashion. (Most of the time when we look at a mirror we are by ourselves, so seeing oneself in a sea of strangers, and from a distance, is always somehow jarring.) It used to be a young man with a nameless backpack, then it was a guy with a Jack Spade bag, and now it’s just a middle-aged gentleman in a simple black t-shirt with a few more lines and wrinkles on his face, even in the forgiving dirtiness and filtering scratches of the subway window. These check-in moments on the T are markers of time ~ not altogether unwelcoming, but not exactly hopeful either.

Next to me is a much-younger guy with a hat that holds longer locks of hair. He reminds me of my friend Chris when he was younger. I think of us in college, and on some crazy spring break in San Juan, then fast-forward to where we are today. Outwardly we’re adults, with homes and families and jobs that make it look like we have our shit together, but sometimes my heart still riots. The passing of time ~ there suddenly like the arrival of a subway train that seems to take forever then is gone in a flash. We hurl so quickly to our next destination and we don’t ever realize how fast we are going. Sometimes there is nothing but a stranger to hold onto, but that would be weird so I fold my hands in my lap and watch the blur of the subway tiles rushing by.