Category Archives: Boston

When my lifelong friend Missy asked if I wanted to join her and her two sons – Julian and Cameron – for a performance of ‘Some Like It Hot’ on the week she was touring schools in Boston, I eagerly jumped at the chance. I didn’t realize until later that this would be a full-circle moment, one that would bring us all the way back to the winter of 1989 in New York City… but I’m jumping ahead, and when I arrived in Boston on an early Thursday afternoon, our only goal was making it to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

For the first Thursday evening of every month, the Gardner Museum usually offers free tickets for entry if you reserve in advance, where there is music and merriment much in the tradition that Ms. Gardner herself would have enjoyed. It’s a lovely feature I usually don’t partake of since my typical arrivals happen on Fridays. When tickets came online I reserved four for us, and after a quick reunion at their hotel we were soon on our way to the museum for our slotted entry time. Dusk had descended, and the enchantment of being in a place I’d only ever visited during the day made it feel more intimate and private, as if Gardner herself had invited us to a clandestine rendezvous in her gloriously scandalous form. 

The central garden courtyard glowed softly and music was about to fill the air, the way it did when the museum’s namesake threw her parties and gatherings. The effect that night had on the museum was magical – even with the music it was somehow more hushed and reverent in the most exquisite manner, the religious elements giving off a vibe of veneration I’d not accessed or experienced during the day. Life was a mystery, after all. Upon retirement, I plan to become a full-fledged member of the museum and make regular visits to such a calming and inspirational space, especially on cold winter nights. 

We got a car back to the condo as it was too cold to walk even to the nearby T stop, and we returned to the cozy home still decked out in holiday splendor because I hadn’t been back since December. A make-do dinner of fried rice, charcuterie, French fries and fried chicken nuggets constructed our plates of comfort food. While the kids hung out in the bedroom, their voices and laughter carrying merrily through the place, Missy and I caught up looking out over Braddock Park. The dream vision of a retired life with visits from friends in Boston opened itself up to the realm of possibility as I simultaneously felt the rush of time, and how it wasn’t going to wait or slow for anyone or anything. As the night closed around us, I also felt the importance and sustenance of good friends – for getting through the winter, and walking through life together. 

The next day, after Missy and the kids toured another college, we headed to Faneuil Hall for dinner, before returning to the hotel to watch the opening of the Winter Olympics (my request). As we enter and adjust to our 50’s, this was the extent of our exertions for a Friday night – it was all that we needed, and all that we wanted. 

For our final day in Boston, Saturday dawned with an unexpected snowfall that arrived right before we set out for  pre-show brunch – the wild environs of a Boston winter unleashing their unpredictable charms for our visitors. Large, fluffy snowflakes – lots of them – fell as we sat down to a brunch spot right by the theater, and a snowy winter day in 8th grade tugged at my memory strings…

The light in Boston changes at this time of the year, and every day it’s a little bit different.

The days shorten while the evenings elongate.

It’s a treacherous slide until winter begins and we head in the other direction, and while that still feels rather far off, it’s the next season in line, and not as far as it seems.

For now, I’m enjoying the light as long as it lasts.

One day I hope to spend a number of retirement days here, enjoying the light, studying it more closely when all I’ll have is time. It’s the one thing that proves elusive on my quick weekends away. Still, I must make room for it, as no tomorrow is ever promised with absolute certainty.

The days won’t be as vibrant or sunny as this for quite some time, and I’ll never get accustomed to their departure – the way the sky drains of color, the way the sun loses its potency, the way the greens will just gradually fade until they disappear completely beneath a blanket of snow.

I’m jumping ahead – something we shouldn’t do when fall is still aflame… as on the bricks of a former church.

Mr. Oud has been here.

It’s in the air, but it won’t be for long.

The faintest detection of those golden threads of oud.

That little bit of bad in the heart of an agarwood tree, that little bit of danger in a night that might otherwise have gone off without a hitch.

A bit of mood music to set the scene, courtesy of Angelo Badalamenti. Noirish if ever there was such a thing as noir. Walking with fire…

Mr. Oud vanishes behind a cloud of smoke.

If he was ever there in the first place.

Scents have often proved misleading, no matter how liberally-perfumed the object of your search may be.

Such an impressive feat, to vanish like that.

To simply drop off the radar and disappear.

Mr. Oud is most adept at the vanishing act, and an act is all it’s ever been.

Thirty years ago, on a balmy October day, immediately after getting the go-ahead blessing to begin the quest from my Dad, I embarked upon the search for our Boston home – some place to stay while I finished my matriculation at Brandeis University, and for the family when they visited Boston. We didn’t know then that it would be the single greatest investment our family ever made (well, I had an idea, because all the gays were then flocking to the South End, and where the gays went, the real estate market followed – and exploded).

Still, nothing was guaranteed, and on the night I visited the very last of the three options our real estate broker showed to me, the chains hanging off the door at the next brownstone over seemed a somewhat ominous sign. As I traipsed up a simple but substantial staircase of solid wood, and paused at a marble nook with a single curved stone sculpture in it, I wondered if this would be the one.

Opening the door to the second floor unit, the broker clicked on the overhead lighting, lighting the golden amber floors with a warmth at delicious odds with the suddenly-cold October night. A sad, lumpy, once-cream leather couch sat in the corner like an embarrassing afterthought, but the rest of the expanse was empty.

I wouldn’t realize what a world of difference there was between the light on the first floor of a city brownstone compared to the light of a second floor dwelling – but this was a happy discovery that would wait until years later. On that initial dark night, I slipped silently and almost imperceptibly into a space that might be home.

The broker passed into the bedroom, trying but failing to locate a light until he reached the bathroom. I stood near the entryway alone and felt for my future. A wooden built-in wet bar with an embedded mirror afforded me a quick, dim glimpse of myself; I can’t remember how I looked or what I was wearing. I recall the vague feeling of not being alone there, and there was something joyous and relatively unfamiliar in the sensation. It felt right, it felt safe, and in that moment my heart decided this was the way forward – the first steps of creating my own home.

It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks after I’d first moved into the Boston condo. Night had fallen sooner than expected and as I rounded the corner onto Braddock Park I realized that my windows were one of the few that remained dark.

Because no one was there.

Dried leaves rustled beneath my feet as I approached the row of brownstones. Looking up at my darkened windows, I knew instinctually at that moment that I couldn’t do in to an empty room. Not right then. Something in me understood that if I went in then, that space would be tainted with loneliness, marred by the seemingly-insurmountable sadness and sorrow I suddenly felt. Some inner-sanctum of self-preservation surfaced, and I stopped abruptly mid-stride.

Once in a while, the body leads the mind, the way a forced smile settles some minor bit of ease into a tense situation, and intuitively I let the body lead. Turning around, my physical self knew it couldn’t face the empty rooms, and I walked back the way I’d just come. Heading toward the Copley Place mall, to where there was light, and warmth, and people. It didn’t matter that they were strangers, only that I wasn’t entirely alone. And it made me feel a little less lonely.

That’s not something I ever admitted until now. Even in all the ensuing years where no night was ever spent alone, I never wanted to admit how lonely I once was. It wasn’t shame (I always took pride and comfort in solitude) and it wasn’t embarrassment – it was the absolute refusal of myself to admit to loneliness at the time, because I understood on some level that to admit it would make it real, and that might destroy me.

Carrying that fear with me through the years has been, I see now, an unnecessary burden – and I lay it down here at last as I put the words onto paper, exorcizing another demon after half a century of being haunted. Letting the ghosts go is an integral part of growing up – and even at this ancient age of fifty, there is still more growing up to do. Happily, the heart is more settled now, and part of that has come about with a home in Boston, where once I felt lonely… until I didn’t – and having that home in that favored city is its own charm against loneliness.

Scene: Southwest Corridor Park ~ Autumn 1995

A few blocks from the corner where I once kissed a man.

The very first man I ever kissed.

Boston would be haunted in the best and most ravaging ways.

A long line of fallen brown leaves emits an aroma filled with life and decay, betraying a state between two worlds.

Dusk, slowly and insidiously draining color just before it drains the light, falls sweetly or sorrowfully, depending on the mood of the afternoon.

The danger of a whim or a capricious nature.

Falling prey to both before I ever learned to hunt.

Boston would be the one to raise me as a killer.

Boston would build me into a survivor.

And Boston would become my forever beloved.

Sumptuously ensconced in an Emerald Suite at Raffles Boston, the view of the former John Hancock Tower (and I won’t learn its not-so-new name anytime soon) was new to me from this vantage point – one of those moments where a city I’ve known and loved for forty years takes on a new aspect, opening up in thrilling fashion. Rather than plan anything elaborate or fanciful for this day, I’d decided to make the most of our stay, padding about our rooms and perusing the spa while Andy took a nap. 

Sometimes, such as on one’s 50th birthday, it’s best to simply be – to exist in the moment at hand, to breathe slowly and deliberately, to find the quiet and to make the space for being wholly present to whatever is at hand. Surrounded by such luxury and comforts, it is simple to be mindful in the midst of beauty, comfort and ease. 

Down in the spa, I indulged in all their Eau Imperiale bath products, testing out the sauna, steam room, and ice showers – then trying out the fragrances at the Guerlain perfume bar, where the ‘Herbs Troublantes’ spoke volumes to me and a trio of Oud offerings hinted at future fall scents. The last thing I need is another perfume house obsession, so I merely perused casually, not on the hunt for anything particular, and the lightness and ease of the moment went well with the intentions of the day.

Back in the suite, Andy was still asleep, so I sat in the living room area and watched as the sun began to lower itself over the Charles River.

We had dinner reservations at La Pedrona, which is in the same building as Raffles, which means I could wear this lounge-like ensemble and pop in straight from our room. My definition of luxury.

My birthday dinner was a much-welcomed exercise in hilarity, as our server was straight out of a Kristen Wiig SNL sketch, only she was entirely earnest about it. I thought it might just be me and my silliness, but when she did the same thing with the table across from us, and they seemed as flummoxed as we were, I knew she was an experience unto herself. Even Andy almost lost it when I had to put my head down and stop making eye contact with her for fear of busting out laughing. It was a fun dinner, just me and my husband, in my favorite city. We didn’t need anything else.

The next morning came too soon, and with it another beautiful day. On the 17th floor of Raffles, we got a seat on the outside balcony, and life as a 50-year-old began in quiet earnest – brilliantly, beautifully, contentedly.

From my now-somewhat-extensive experience with birthdays, I can say that most of them are disappointingly anti-climactic. In so many ways, they are just another day, unremarkable for the vast majority of the rest of the world. It’s supposed to be about you and only you, but it is really just a reminder of how insignificant it is to everyone else. That may be why I prefer to spend them quietly and out of town, or buffer them with vacations to Boston or New York or Rehoboth Beach. Anything to distract from their intrinsically non-momentous nature. Even one’s 50th birthday, which for me dawned on a beautiful Boston morning, felt more like a day off before a vacation than any holiday or occasion of itself. A number of Virgos have felt similarly about their birthdays, or so I’m told, being somewhat despondent on the day we are supposed to be celebrating.

Lowering expectations has been my typical mode of addressing the tendency to indulge in melancholy on this day. And so it was that after waking, I quietly padded out to the front room and looked over Braddock Park’s fountain before rousing Andy and heading to brunch at Aquitaine.

On the way back, we passed a few Nike hearts – and the one that called to me was this one, with its little feather in the lower right corner of the picture.

As Mom’s main gift, she had gifted us a night at Raffles in Boston, so we packed our overnight bags and wardrobe and I sprayed some of my latest fragrance.

After almost thirty years of owning the condo, there are always new establishments coming to Boston, which keeps the city thrilling.

The new Raffles knows how to welcome a birthday boy.

A review of our stay is up in the next post…