Almost every summer affords at least one quiet, still, uneventful Boston getaway, when I take a weekend for myself and spend it without seeing a show or having a fancy dinner or seeing any friends in the city. Something magical happens when you find yourself in your own company and no one else to entertain or rely on, and I’ve always been someone who appreciates his alone time – probably more than most.
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.
Following my usual trajectory, I found some good charcuterie items at Eataly, then returned to the condo for an early supper. A bit of Cole Porter was my only accompaniment, as I sat at the table merrily munching my meal and watching the fountain in the middle of Braddock Park. At last, I could exhale, let my shoulders fall down, and ease into the weekend.
Still entertaining the idea of spending a full week here at some point this fall, I envisioned the luxury of having time here – and time is our greatest luxury these days. The older I get, the more I realize that. The idea of filling it feels slightly misguided – the idea of appreciating and simply inhabiting it means more now. Maybe that’s just age showing, and maybe I’m ok with it.
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
