The Boston Museum of Fine Arts has been doing their ‘Art in Bloom’ annual exhibition for fifty years (just like me!) and it’s one of the most whimsical scenes if you’re lucky enough to see it. Floral designers come up with arrangements and floral displays that are inspired by works of art in the museum. It’s a neat floral twist on classic artwork, and most of the time the artists, and their inspiration pieces, are so indelible that you can guess it without the captions.
The accidental iPhone shot seen above – blurred from the late-night lighting – reminded me of that concept – life imitating art or vice versa. I love the way it appears as some pastel or watercolor, an effect that isn’t easy to do with the autocorrect nature of phone cameras these days. Imperfection is life, imperfection is beauty, imperfection is genius. The actual intended photograph of a chartreuse-leaved bleeding heart plant is seen below. Which do you prefer? My heart leans toward the abstract, the wonder, the accident.
The trees hadn’t fully leafed out yet, aside from the brilliant chartreuse of the weeping willows, but this always give the area the look of possibility, room to expand and fill in as the summer season ushers herself in.
On this morning, we walked around the Garden, surveying the beds of tulips and flowering apple trees. Families of ducks and Canadian geese patrolled the water, but no signs of the swans this year.
This little Boston oasis is one of my favorite parts of the city – a space that completely takes you out of the concrete gray surroundings, and a welcome relief of green tranquility seen through the curtains of elderly willows.
We had a lunch at the Four Seasons, still missing the Bristol Lounge and its heavenly burgers and 12-layer chocolate wedding cake that brought us so much joy over the years (happily we were told a new restaurant was opening in that space in the next year or so). As we made our way back to the condo for an afternoon siesta, the rain returned – nothing heavy, just enough to keep us happily indoors for an afternoon nap until it was time for dinner.
For our second and last dinner of the weekend, we had reservation at Avra Estiatorio, where a crazy-good Greek menu found us partaking of the best octopus appetizer we have ever had – and so generously portioned that for the first time in decades we couldn’t quite finish it all. (I was hellbent on saving room for dessert, and they had a 16-layer chocolate cake that rivaled the elusive one we had at our wedding lunch in the Bristol Lounge 16 years ago).
It was a very sweet ending to a wonderful weekend of meals, and as the night had turned into a lovely one, we walked some of it off as we made the journey home.
The next morning, our bunny friend stopped by to see us off – a fond adieu from a favorite denizen of my favorite city.
Another anniversary weekend in the books, as a peony bashfully winked at us from behind its pink petals…
Boston bedecked herself in her usual May splendor – and all the city seemed to be in bloom – big, puffy clouds of Kwanzan cherry trees, all sorts of sweetly-scented ornamental fruit tree flowers, and mysterious lilacs that couldn’t always be detected but for their delightful perfume around every corner.
While our lilacs at home were taking a year off, Boston’s lilacs were putting on a proper show. Along the Southwest Corridor Park, all the flowering trees seemed to be conspiring to join in the parade of beauty, beginning with the American dogwood, showing off its sepals against bare branches for an ethereal effect that only the American dogwood can pull off.
Echoing its white elegance, the Korean spice viburnum perfumed the proceedings. Caught on the slightest breeze, this fragrance embodies spring, joining the lilacs for an olfactory explosion of merriment.
After decompressing at the condo for a while, it was time for an early dinner – early being the only available time lot for reservations at Maple & Ash in the Seaport. It was worth the change in schedule because the meal was fantastic – and this personalized menu joke was hysterical.
A lavender lemon mocktail fronts Andy’s more traditional cocktail – a match made in splendor.
The filets were melt-in-your-mouth delicious, tender enough to cut with a fork, and Andy said it was one of the best he’s had in years. Capping it off with dessert (I chose an elongated slice of chocolate cake that wouldn’t fit in a single photo no matter how much I tried) and Andy had this strawberry Chantilly lace cream concoction.
A sweet early ending to the first part of our anniversary weekend found us back home, cozily ensconced in warmly-lit rooms looking out over the fountain at Braddock Park… Boston’s enchantments enshrined once again in their magic…
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…
My brother led us deeper into Chinatown to a place he and Noah had gone before, where an enormous crab covered in ocean dust guarded the entrance and lorded over a collection of lobsters in a fluorescently-lit tank. It was already after eleven o’clock but a large table of at least ten sat in a corner finishing their meal, and another group of six was coming in behind us. Chinatown has traditionally been the place to grab a late-night meal when other places have shut down.
We ordered family-style – some soup, some duck, some pork, some Chinese cabbage, some rice – and as we filled ourselves I recounted the first time we had Peking Duck – at the wedding of our cousin in New Jersey when we were just children. Telling Noah about it, we realized that I remembered it better than my brother, though the reminder brought back the way the dish was served. We didn’t delve too deeply into conversation as it was nearing midnight, and really, it was enough just sharing a meal together.
The wait staff were starting to get antsy too, so we finished just about everything on the plates before us, piled on our coats, and made motions to head back into the cold night, reasonably warmed and fortified. Before stepping out, we came up with a game plan for getting home: we would walk out of the traffic entanglement of Chinatown, head down to the Four Seasons overlooking the Public Garden and splurge on an Uber from there to the condo.
Three Ilagan gentlemen weaved their merry way through Chinatown, over a hundred years of living between the three of us – and soon found ourselves skirting Boston Common and a stretch of trees lit in various Christmas colors. My brother asked about Kira then, saying he had seen I’d written something about it but hadn’t read it, and I was suddenly touched by his remembering, as well as by the return of my old friend to this holiday season, if only by reference and recall.
It struck me then as we crossed the midnight hour, that this was the Holiday Stroll. Without planning or fanfare or even the most rudimentary understanding of how it all happened, we were in the middle of our very first Midnight Holiday Stroll, and my brother and nephew were part of it. Sometimes tradition finds a way of happening even when you’ve given up on it. As we walked past the Boston Public Garden, site of our very first Holiday Stroll – we ducked into the Four Seasons and looked at Uber rates. They were starting at $30 for just a few blocks, which seemed criminal, and, truth be told, I wasn’t quite ready to end our walk, so we continued on, my brother and my nephew and me.
When left to our own devices, my brother and I usually get along quite well, and I was just starting to see how other family members have inadvertently set us up in adversarial roles over the years, through various expectations and unfair comparisons. Comparison is the thief of joy, especially when used among siblings. We may not have realized that in time, but we were together now, and there was still the love of two brothers between us, and that’s all that mattered on this night.
It’s been years since my brother and I spent any time together in Boston, which seems a little sad given how much we each love the city and how easy it would be to meet up here. Alas, the years went by and nothing ever lined up until this day, when he and my nephew Noah were in town for a show at House of Blues, and I was preparing for a holiday gathering the following weekend.
With Kira off the grid, I welcomed the presence and distraction of my brother – and if you know my brother at all you know there is no greater presence or distraction. On this Saturday afternoon, it was precisely what I wanted – and as I returned to the condo after a few more errands, I was happy to find him and Noah there, where Christmas lights twinkled and holiday music played on the little stereo. The decorations I’d put up hadn’t been totally wasted then, and as I lit a few candles the afternoon glowed inside as the outside grew dark.
The three of us sat around the table overlooking Braddock Park, a random assorted of cheese, crackers olives and soda on a board messily assembled without rhyme or reason. An atmosphere of holiday coziness settled around us, and my brother recalled his and Noah’s late-night Chinatown dinner tradition; they’d spent several post-show/post-game nights over dinners in Chinatown – one of the things I used to do with Kira. He said they would do it again that night and invited me to join them after the show. I said that would work, and asked them to text me when they were done, at which point I’d meet them at the Boylston stop since they’d be coming from Fenway – we could walk from there to Chinatown and have a late dinner.
While they headed out for their show I brought my notebook to a nearby cafe for an hour or two of cafe culture, whereupon I began the ramblings of this recounting (and yesterday’s posts). By the time I returned to the condo to get ready for dinner, it was beginning to feel a lot more like Christmas. ‘Meet Me In St. Louis’ was playing on the television and I decided to get a head start to the Copley T station while soaking in the festive fireplace environs of the Lenox Hotel lobby.
Pulling a hood over my head and letting a long coat billow behind me, I hurried down the stairs to the street below and made my way through the Southwest Corridor Park then down Dartmouth toward the Lenox and its fire-lit warmth. Merry-makers decked out in holiday finery sat around the fireplace, but a chair was open for the taking, and I sank it, quickly warming to the picturesque scene. Soon – too soon, really, as I was just slipping into a relaxed state for the first time that weekend – my brother was calling, telling me they were on their way. I pulled my coat back on and headed out, arriving at the Boylston station a few minutes before they got there.
We walked to Chinatown, recalling that holiday classic ‘Gremlins’ and its opening scenes of pricing a Mogwai. I told Noah the story of how his Dad and I saw it in the theater when it opened, and how sick I got, either from fear or summer heat – and almost didn’t make it home without throwing up in our neighbor’s caravan. Ah, to be a kid in the 80’s…
Decades later, and after several years of distance, my brother and I were back in Boston, walking to dinner in Chinatown with his son, and uncertainly completing a circle, one circle of several on our journey.
The idea of a solo Holiday Stroll was formulating in my head as I stood in the cold wind outside Fanueil Hall. What, after all, was the point of traditions? Why did it feel important to maintain them? In some way, it was one of the only things of reassurance in a year that found nothing assured or safe. There was comfort in tradition, but maybe coming out of one’s comfort zone was the only way to grow and evolve. I still wasn’t sold on the idea of carrying this one on solely for the sake of tradition; I also wasn’t against ending this still bit of holiday folklore I’d created so many years ago and starting over, or not starting again at all. Some endings should stand on their own. I resumed my solitary walking, nearing a lone bull market stand where sausage sandwiches were being assembled, and the aroma of peppers and onions smoldering beside them made for a deliciously cozy smell at the late lunch hour. Music played from the proprietor’s phone, and though the song that was playing, ‘Fire and Rain’ by James Taylor, had never been a favorite of mine, today I listened, and it spoke in a new way, opening up like classic songs tend to do when you are ready to receive them.
I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend But I always thought that I’d see you again
In that moment, the grayish sky began dropping large but mercifully-spaced-out snowflakes, more pretty than menacing, more beautiful than annoying, at least at this initial stage. Our very first Holiday Stroll happened on a snowy morning of similar loveliness, and suddenly it struck me how close the word ‘loveliness’ is to ‘loneliness’.
My mind travels back to that snowy stroll through the Boston Public Garden with Kira, and as snowflakes instantly melt into tears on my eyelashes, I understand that I carry her with me. More snowflakes fall into my hair – silver piling upon silver, simultaneously stinging and tickling when they reach skin. Hastening my steps, I pass the building I used to work in, and those hilarious days of retail flood forth from the memory bank, along with the years of finding solace in my retail family – Barrie, Suzie, John, Ginette, Spencer, Jose, Ola, Simon, and Kim – all of them come rushing back. At a time when I felt out of place at school, they gave me one of my first glimpses of what it was like to be accepted, and adored, for being nothing but myself. My own family hadn’t always made me feel like that, and to find it with people who started as strangers was somehow more poignant. It brought back the upstate New York retail family – Dawn and Matt and John and Justin – and I realized I carried them with me too. Memories of my John Hancock office job – with JoAnn, Kira, Tamekia, and Bettina – and the whole microfiche community crossed my mind, and my last long-term love in Boston – Paul – and our time together, reminded me that even absent, they were a part of this.
Nearing the front entry of Faneuil Hall, I recalled the side-splittingly funny episode Skip and I shared listening to a man sing a rather catchy song about diarrhea – and all the riotously comical BroSox Adventures rushed into my mind – as did a stormy but sweet night with Sherri and their kids at the Boston condo. I thought then of my current co-workers, and the friend who brought me into my longest office home – Marline – as she and Gretchen had seen ‘Plaza Suite’ in Boston (a show we were scheduled to see just as COVID hit)- and more co-workers past and present who have become friends in their own right – Lorie and Sue and Doris and Betsy – they were all there with me as I climbed the stairs up past City Hall.
Andy reached out a hand from memory then, and the many moments we have shared in Boston – from the day we secured our wedding license at City Hall (strangely moving) to our wedding day at the Public Garden, and all the anniversaries and visits before and since. Every step of every stroll I’ve ever taken or will ever take in Boston comes with an accompanying loved one, often several, and even when I’m alone they are still with me.
Been walking my mind to an easy time My back turned towards the sun Lord knows, when the cold wind blows It’ll turn your head around Well, there’s hours of time on the telephone line To talk about things to come Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground
Back on the T, I remember the first time my brother and I rode the green line from Copley to Government Center when Mom thought we were just walking around Copley Place Mall. Our fledgling motions toward independence – it was a thrill as much for its illicit nature as for its empowering glimpse at what it would be like to be on your own in Boston. And then I thought of Mom’s first visits to the city with us in tow – she introduced me to the magic of the city, and its access to all that was beautiful in museums and stores and history – and then I thought of Dad, who literally gave us our home on Braddock Park many years later, and so many years ago. They were with me now too, the way they would always be.
As I rose from the T stop near Copley, the snow was falling more heavily. The afternoon was beginning its turn. Passing the area where I met the first man I kissed, I thought of our brief time together – not the damaging, darker part of it, but that sunny September day when two young men walked along the Charles River together, unsure of anything and everything other than a shared spark of attraction, an empty and beautiful afternoon, and the possibility of a promise of an entire world and lifetime in the air. Walking deeper into the South End, I remembered my friend Alissa’s first apartment, and a photo shoot we did there, and all the ensuing years of friendship that found us reconnecting in Boston at every major interval in our lives. She was with me too, and so was Chris, who introduced her to us just as they started dating. Chris and Suzie and Anu and Kristen and Tommy and Janet – and all the love we shared through these past decades – the holiday children hours, the weddings and births and deaths – I felt them and our shared history there, strolling beside me, linking spiritual arms and charging through life, always together.
I was hurrying a bit now as the sun was coming down, and I thought back to one of my earliest Boston memories of my Uncle Roberto, tying a scarf around his head as we ran back to the condo after watching a James Bond movie on a frigid January night – parts of his original painting job remain – the gold accents and green stripes – and I knew he was with me as well, even though he’s been gone for over twenty years. All of my loved ones – whether near, far, or sadly departed – walked with me as my snowy stroll neared home.
Maybe there is no such thing as a solitary stroll. Maybe all of our ghosts walk with us once we’ve experienced and amassed a certain amount of living. Maybe this wasn’t My Holiday Stroll for the year – maybe this was Our Holiday Stroll.
Oh, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend But I always thought that I’d see you, baby One more time again, now Thought I’d see you one more time again There’s just a few things coming my way this time around, now Thought I’d see you, thought I’d see you, fire and rain, now
Trudging up the final steps and unlocking the door, I stepped into the room and remembered that I was no longer alone. A backpack and sweatshirt were thrown on the couch – my brother and nephew had arrived in town for a concert that night – and they were about to turn the solitary stroll I’d just reconciled in my mind on its head…
I haven’t quite decreed because I haven’t quite decided. As I sit here in a Copley cafe on a Saturday night (hello cafe culture!), sipping on a delicious lavender latte like the fancy fucking princess I imagine myself to be, I contemplate whether this was an official Holiday Stroll, or if it would be better to close off another ancient tradition and make room for something new. Nature does so abhor a vacuum, and I tend to follow her lead. My heart and head would genuinely be all right with either.
As Holiday Strolls have historically gone, this wouldn’t be a bad one, but it was the first without another friend to join me in the journey, which made for some mixed emotions. If we were to recap a proper stroll, we would begin with yesterday’s landing in the city, whereupon an early solo dinner at House of Siam set a quiet beginning to the weekend in motion…
By the time I returned to the condo, light had drained from the sky and the remains of a super Cold Moon rose behind the bare branches of a tree outside the front window, lending a magical backdrop to the holiday-decorating scene taking place in my underwear. That was written poorly, but I like it so I’m leaving it. (A bonus wardrobe aspect of not being burdened by company is running around the place in whatever I want, or don’t want, to wear.)
With each decoration that went up, and each strand of garland that got hung, I felt little pangs of sorrow in the absence of my usual strolling companion. Kira haunted this business of decorating, as she was such a traditional aspect of being in Boston during the Christmas season. When I was done, I sat on the couch as Christmas music played, and as I surveyed the surroundings in their glowing warm lights, I felt a small sense of loneliness – but the atmosphere was warm, the memories were sweet, and overall it wasn’t completely heartbreaking. This is how people move on, I thought – from loss, from change, from tumult – and we just keep doing this dance until it’s over.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when I sat alone in Pho Pasteur and a glorious bowl Pho Tai arrived, that I looked across the table, saw the empty seat, and had a moment of sadness. The pho was hot and filling, and I finished the entire bowl. Walking toward Downtown Crossing, a cold wind blew past me, and I thought how much like ghosts we all were, the way the world could go right through us, leaving us empty.
Haunted.
And in that very moment something else presented itself in my mind – the idea that I might make this the first solo Holiday Stroll – and that it might not have to be so sad if I chose for it not to be. We do have a choice and say in such matters, if we allow ourselves to take such control of our emotional narrative.
There is always a choice.
Emboldened by this, my steps gained in purpose and power. My confidence returned, and I found myself, yes, strolling.
Was this then the new version of our Holiday Stroll? You and me, dear reader, because no one else was there. Would a solo rendition be the path forward for ensuring the survival of a cherished tradition? It felt for a moment like that might be the case. Certainly that was a sustainable twist – I could always count on myself, as the previous half-century had proven; other people had always been the questionable part – the messy, life-affirming, disappointing, and vital part – the part that every once-in-a-while made all the heartache worthwhile.
I was passing through the shortcut I used to take when I worked at Structure, a lesser-known side entrance to Faneuil Hall, and a silly lunch with Kira at the Sugar Factory came to mind, followed by memories of a fortuitously-timed holiday stroll years ago when we happened upon the very day the Christmas was being lit here… and then a summer day by the waterfront spent watching a group of young men playing a volleyball game on a patch of green grass…
Yes, perhaps solo strolls would be the route to move forward, I thought somewhat sadly, because I was sad. I felt it. It was hurt. It was loneliness. It was sadness. And at the same time, it was somehow ok. I felt that too. It was ok to be alone, to be lonesome sometimes, even on a Holiday Stroll intended to celebrate the season. Not wanting to shade this new tradition, however, if that’s indeed what I was inadvertently creating, I decided to turn things around with a sweet treat of chocolate chip cookies.
I held the bag of them in my hand as I sat down on a bench near the North Market building, feeling indulgently sorry for myself as I settled in between two men whose wives or partners would soon return for them. One by one they paired off and departed, leaving me along on the bench, which was better anyway. By the time I finished the last cookie, the brief sense of feeling ok with my present circumstance of a solo stroll had departed, and that dull sadness, that gnawing emptiness of having lost a friend, came back.
Slowly, with the requisite creaks and cracks of fifty-year-old bones that lately hadn’t been accustomed to this much walking, I rose to my feet. Thought briefly of going through the scant smattering of shops that remained on the North Market side, then decided against it, opting to round the far side of the market, by the exit that would lead to the waterfront if I’d taken it. On a warmer day, perhaps… Turning back along the South Market side, I took in the expanse of the cobblestones, and once again marveled at how long they had been there, how many feet had tread upon them, how many people they’d seen pass by – a thought of history that attends many places for me in Boston, and always a good realignment of time and perspective.
There were those whom I had lost – Dad, Uncle Roberto, Gram, Alissa – who were here for meaningful stretches that have continued long after their physical departures, and there will very likely be others I will lose before I leave this earth. I walked with them now as I continued this lonely holiday stroll as hints of snow started falling from the sky…
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.
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.
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.
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.
On the early Sunday morning of departure, I made my way to the diner nearby, Charlie’s, which has been in existence long before we moved in thirty years ago, and continues to provide comforting diner food for all early hunger pangs. On this morning, I opted for the Charlie’s Breakfast sandwich, and added some hot sauce for zing.
If I ever manage to retire and am able to spend more than fleeting weekends in Boston, this is the sort of thing I look forward to doing – hanging at the local diner with my favorite server, who welcomed me back to town and engaged in some early-morning banter amid several groups of misbehaving children.
“On Sunday morning we have a lot of hangover people or kids. I don’t know which is worse,” she whispered conspiratorially to me.
“Oh, kids,” I declared without hesitation. The hangover people just want some greasy food and to be left alone, and are thrilled with anyone who helps them accomplish this mission. Kids, and their indulgent parents, are rarely so easily satisfied, even with chocolate chip pancakes and powdered sugar.
She laughed at my instant response. “You just made my morning,” she said, setting off for a pair of youngsters still in their pajamas and jumping from empty diner stool to empty diner stool. She smiled at them and left them to their merriment.
It seems on this particular Sunday morning, Cholula wasn’t my only friend.
It was a delightful ending to a weekend in my beloved city, where other enchantments held me rapt for the days prior…
Suzie and I celebrated my 50th birthday in Boston this past weekend – the last of my half-century celebrations – and it was the sort of charming and enchanting weekend at the end of summer that only Suzie could pull off. It began with an afternoon entry into the city, whereupon we procured provisions for dinner from Eataly and Trader Joe’s. As has been my wont these last few years, an opening charcuterie dinner at the condo is the easiest and most economical ways of starting things off for a Boston weekend. When the weather cooperates, and the breeze is divine, we open up the windows and listen to the fountain of Braddock Park send soothing sounds of water, accenting the dreamy soundtrack of a summer’s afternoon.
The summer wind came blowin’ in from across the sea It lingered there to touch your hair and walk with me All summer long, we sang a song And then we strolled that golden sand Two sweethearts and the summer wind
Boston was still very much in bloom – the roses giving an impressive second showing after their first flush of color in June – and the skies would remain blue through Sunday. We assembled a dinner platter, dined looking out over the street, then took an evening stroll to a matcha ice cream place that Skip and I had tried a while back. We chose the matcha and ube twist, and I took mine in an ube cone.
We took our time walking back and making the most of a beautiful night at summer’s lush end. Suzie is a game walking partner, and if the weather is decent I’d always rather walk than take the T, even if the journey would constitute several stops. Summer nights will be done within the week – make the most of them while they’re here.
The next morning, we traveled to Beacon Hill for brunch at The Paramount. It was my very first time at that institution, as I’m usually not out early enough to get there before the line begins. We timed it perfectly, snagging a table just as the rush began in earnest. After that, our main purpose was to peruse the Beacon Hill Book & Cafe, another popular stop I’d never bothered to visit, and one which I’ll definitely be visiting again.
The definition of charming, it was made for the small of stature and the whimsical of mind, and the magical environs reminded us that there was still enchantment in this world. I was introduced to the story of Paige the Squirrel, and her friends proved a happy motif for books and decor and all flights of fancy. It segued nicely into our walk back through the Boston Public Garden.
Like painted kites Those days and nights they went flyin’ by The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky Then softer than a piper man One day it called to you I lost you, I lost you to the summer wind
Beacon Hill has always been one of those sections that I don’t often frequent – in part because I don’t want to exhaust or run through it so much that it becomes commonplace. For now, it holds a special allure because I save it for a treat – a holiday stroll or a singular summer visit – but if I spend more time in Boston (and the light of retirement’s door has finally begun to glow in the grand distance) I’d like to make this area a regular part of my daily habits.
We would return for a birthday dinner at 1928 – another Beacon Hill first for me – and the meal and atmosphere matched the winsome weekend vibes. Spending time in my favorite city with one of my favorite people is one of my favorite birthday gifts this year – and the very best way to close out a summer season.
After a meandering search for a post-dinner sweet treat, we took the long way home along the Charles River, which held its own bewitching allure. That day we walked over 11 miles, according to Suzie’s fit-bit calculations, and the happy exhaustion indicated a day well spent.
A quick breakfast at Charlie’s finished our time in Boston, and it was so lovely we ate outside, where the bees barely bothered us. I didn’t want to leave, but this kind of perfect weekend wouldn’t be perfect if it lasted too long – and summer is the same way.
The autumn wind and the winter winds They have come and gone And still the days, those lonely days, they go on and on And guess who sighs his lullabies Through nights that never end My fickle friend, the summer wind
