Category Archives: Boston

It’s easy to get along with people when times are good and occasions are celebratory; it’s more of a challenge to raise someone’s spirits when times are tough. That’s the true test of friendship, isn’t it? The test and the reward. I’m grateful that my true friends are there during the difficult days as much as they are there for the fun ones. I’d like to think that they know and trust the same of me. Last weekend in Boston, we put it all to the test, beneath skies of blue, nights of fall, and the soothing fountain of Braddock Park.

SHADOWS ARE FALLING AND I’M RUNNING OUT OF BREATH
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
IF I LEAVE YOU IT DOESN’T MEAN I LOVE YOU ANY LESS
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE

Firmly embedded within the heart of fall, the October weekend unleashed a torrent of sunshine, cool breezes, autumnal beauty, laughter and healing, and it all happened with two of my favorite friends – the very best kind of fall weekend to have. It’s been ages since I’ve last seen Kira in Boston. That’s happened before, when snow or scheduling prevents our seeing each other for months at a time. It always feels a little lonelier when those stretches happen; Kira connects me to a time and a place when things were simpler and more innocent, when our main concerns weren’t aging parents or health issues, but where we would eat lunch during our break at John Hancock, or who we would invite to a work holiday party. We long for such concerns now.

It was June when we last met – before the official start of summer – and while I tend to spend more of my summer days at home by the pool, I was willing to make the trip to Boston if she was able to hang out, but we never got around to it. Then her sister passed away unexpectedly and she was called back to Panama for the services. Suddenly, life threw its seriousness in the way of get-togethers, in the way of summer, and I stepped back in requesting any frivolous weekend gatherings. Knowing when to say nothing is as important as knowing what exactly to say. And Kira has always been on the quiet side, keeping things within and not bothering others with messy emotional mayhem. I can relate to and respect that.

WHEN YOU GET UP IN THE MORNING AND YOU SEE THAT CRAZY SUN
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
THERE’S A TRAIN LEAVING NIGHTLY CALLED, “WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE”
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE

To honor our reunion, I looked up some classic Panamanian dishes she might enjoy and chose a sancocho. (I kept texting her that I made a ‘sancecho’ and she thought I lost my mind.) It was all about the culantro (not cilantro!) and it turned out to be the perfect meal for a fall evening. Patches of rain hovered and moved on throughout the afternoon, the windows were open just a bit to let in the sound of the fountain, and the coziness of fall descended amid the flickering of candles. Those quiet moments before her arrival, as the soup heated up and Shirley Horn cooed her world-weary wisdom, were where I found peace in anticipation.

We had dinner then watched a bit of ‘The Witches of Eastwick’ and ‘Hocus Pocus‘ then slumbered until the early morning. Kira had to work, but we had the first part of the day to explore Boston a bit. The day was beautiful – all bright blue skies and sun-drenched flowers not yet felled by frost – and we meandered through the Southwest Corridor Park up to Copley, where the Farmer’s Market was assembling its shady stands. Vegetables and gourds and flowers spilled out of buckets – there were warnings on the bouquets that this was likely the last weekend for dahlias given the likelihood of a hard frost the next week. Baked goods sat in neat little rows, pots of herbs swayed gently in the breeze, and the very best part of fall was upon us.

SOMETIMES WHEN YOU’RE DOING SIMPLE THINGS AROUND THE HOUSE
MAYBE YOU’LL THINK OF ME AND SMILE
YOU KNOW I’M TIED TO YOU LIKE THE BUTTONS ON YOUR BLOUSE

We passed by the bench where I met the first man I ever kissed. Kira already knew the story and I didn’t feel like telling it so we walked on without remarking. The mark of real friendship is being ok to walk together in silence and quiet. Maybe we both needed that this weekend.

Even with its beauty, fall can be emotionally tricky. After the sorrow of her summer, Kira’s smiles were slightly slower in coming, but we managed a few laughs. I gave her a belated birthday gift of some Vera Bradley bags and a photo of her in this yellow dress from our last time together. Too soon, it was time for her to go to work, so I joined her on the journey to the Charles/MGH T-stop. An old stomping ground that has come to have new meaning over the years, it held memories for both of us. We hugged goodbye and she crossed the street to the hospital. I walked on further, up past the street that held such secrets and confusing sadness. Pausing where such a pivotal time of my life happened, I felt the same wonder at being in this space in the middle of the day. People rushed by, a few construction guys seemed to be on their lunch break, and at the bottom of the street was the very apartment where I first got naked with a man. What part of me did I leave there? What did I really think I would find?

KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
HOLD ME IN YOUR THOUGHTS, TAKE ME TO YOUR DREAMS
TOUCH ME AS I FALL INTO VIEW
AND WHEN THE WINTER COMES, KEEP THE FIRES LIT

Without fanfare or warning, the day turned gray, as if the vibrant color Kira and I enjoyed earlier had been drained by some instant bit of photoshop sorcery. Shades of black and white stilled the clock. Time paused and rewound. I saw myself back in that fall of 1994, some impossibly-thin and gangly man-child making his way down these streets, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder, head down and avoiding the world, simultaneously thrilled and dismayed with having just had his first sexual encounter with an older guy. I wasn’t even out yet, I wasn’t even sure I was gay, and not being able to tell anyone about what just happened left me incredibly – indelibly – isolated and alone. That’s the sad province of so many young gay people. I suppose I never thought about how lonely some of us were.

Suddenly I missed Kira, and then I realized that JoAnn wasn’t arriving until the next day. I had the rest of the day and all of the night to spend alone. It’s been ages since I’ve felt loneliness. At first, it was frightening. There’s such a primal terror in that first brush with feeling lonely, and it had been so long since I’d experienced it that I wasn’t sure what to do. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling. When I realized it – when I understood that I was, at that moment, lonely – I felt an unlikely exhilaration. I’m not sure how to fully describe it. It was almost relief that I could still be frightened by this world, that I could still access the pangs and aches of loneliness, that I could still feel that sense of loss, even if the loss isn’t apparent, even if you never had anything to lose in the first place.

AND I WILL BE RIGHT NEXT YOU
ENGINE DRIVERS HEADED NORTH TO PLEASANT STREET
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
THESE WHEELS KEEP TURNING BUT THEY’RE RUNNING OUT OF STEAM

I walked back to the condo, unsure of what to do with myself, almost paralyzed with the idea of empty hours and empty rooms. As the light waned and the day dimmed, I fired off texts inviting friends to this year’s Children’s Holiday Hour – not until December, but it was all I could do to quell the feeling of panic rising within.

Thankfully, the loneliness did not last. It had found me, like an old friend, and we nodded at each other in acknowledgement and admiration. Yes, we were both still here. Yes, we had both been around. Yes, we both remembered. Honoring what we had been to one another, we reconciled and went on our separate ways.

When loneliness departed this time, I didn’t miss it. This would not be our last meeting, and perhaps next time we will be more at ease. Old friends are like that.

KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
SHA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LO
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE
SHA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LO
KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE

KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART FOR A WHILE

Birthdays are often a meld of disappointment, relief, enthusiasm, ennui, and if you’re lucky a couple of unexpected but happy surprises. My 44^thdawned without fanfare or let-down, on a beautiful sunny day in Boston, with blue skies and gentle breezes.

It began in simple and quiet form: a breakfast at Sonsie’s. Now, apart from a cocktail or two, I’ve never had a proper sit-down meal at Sonsie’s. I remember when it first opened so many years ago, and how popular and crowded it had been, and ever since then I’ve sort of avoided it. Not for any specific reason, it was one of those places that was always there. The older I get however, the more I realize how fleeting our time here can be. No day but today, and so we began with a mimosa, and a panhandler reaching into the cafe area for donated spare change. He was quickly chased off by a manager, and the live theater of Newbury Street resumed.

We made a few shopping stops before winding up at my favorite place in all of Boston, the Public Garden, where a fleet of geese and a few very sociable squirrels crossed our path. By this point. Andy was tired out and headed back to the condo, while I went on to Downtown Crossing for some solo shopping.

On every birthday, and every special day in my life really, I somehow manage to find a bit of alone time. Usually it’s not intentionally-planned, it just happens, and I am always a little grateful for it. I traipsed around the bustling stores downtown, then returned to the condo with enough time for some stoop gazing.

The Braddock Park fountain gurgled in the near distance and I watched the people and dogs walk by. It was a perfect afternoon – sunny but comfortable, and a beautiful breeze kept things cool. We had an early dinner at Explorateur, and though the Avery bar at the Ritz Carlton was closed, we found another place nearby that served a pre-theater cocktail.

Then it was time for Betty Buckley’s penultimate performance in ‘Hello, Dolly!’ at the Boston Opera House. The show was spectacular, so much more than I realized this chestnut of a musical could be, and at the end all the joy and love it exemplified put the perfect cap to my day of birth. A coda at the Bristol Lounge closed us out in the same way that we began: at the Four Seasons (albeit a different one).

The next morning was overcast and windy, the leaves of the oak trees lining Columbus Avenue were turned inside out, and when the host at Petit Robert asked if we would prefer to sit outside or in, we chose the latter, where we could watch the windy day safely ensconced behind a pane of glass. A post-birthday brunch made for an enjoyable Sunday morning, and after procuring cookies at Cafe Madeleine, we were back en route to Albany. Another trip around the sun had begun…

Not every birthday has to be a big bally-hoo, but when it falls on a Saturday, I say why not? To that end, I crafted a long birthday weekend that began with a fancy dinner on Thursday night and carried all the way through Sunday brunch. The highlight was getting to see Betty Buckley on her penultimate night as Dolly Gallagher Levin in ‘Hello, Dolly!’ at the Boston Opera House, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

It began with a Thursday afternoon entrance to Boston, which was super-hot and sticky, and not at all conducive to walking, so we took an Uber around the corner to the new Four Seasons residential building which housed Zuma. Surrounded by construction, Dalton Street looked like it held promise, but it was still a bit far off. No matter. Once inside, it was a different world, and as we dramatically ascended a winding staircase that led from the lobby to the restaurant, I was a happy camper.

Andy was game and generous enough to try the signature omakase dinner of eight to ten chef-curated dishes (or so they told us) and the endless parade began.  We ordered a pair of cocktails: the lychee and rose petal martini for me, and the burning history for him (Suntori Toki whiskey, honey, ginger, egg whites and barrel stave smoke).

Then more dishes came.

And still more dishes.

By the time the dessert boat of molten chocolate cake, raspberry meringue, and a couple of different ice creams arrived, we were beyond full. But you only live once, and this was worth it. (Even if it filled us up for the entire weekend.)

The next day we headed over to the Museum of Fine Arts to see the Gender Bending Fashion exhibit. They seem to be in step with the Met’s ‘Camp’ theme, and did their best with some memorable ensembles that I actually recalled from various red carpet moments.

We also got to try out the newly-refurbished restaurant (formerly Bravo and now 465), which had dishes that looked as gorgeous as they tasted. One would expect no less from the MFA.

Part of my birthday celebration included a visit to the Downton Abbey exhibition at the Castle at Park Plaza, and it was better than expected, as well as perfectly-timed for the release of the movie next month. 

After experiencing the pomposity of that, we headed across the street to Nahita for some pre-dinner cocktails.

It’s my new favorite haunt, with a glorious cocktail menu, including the artfully-rendered ‘Sunset Over Instanbul’ – a perfectly-balanced concoction of gin, lemon, apricot liqueur, and orange bitters.

We ended the night across another street – at Strip by Strega – where a delicious steak dinner granted Andy his beef wish. We returned to the condo, where I spent my last night as a 43-year-old, peacefully convalescing until the clock ticked to #44…

A flash of feathers and a fluttering of brown and gray alerted me to the presence of a large creature right across the street from our brownstone in Boston. It was much too large to be a pigeon or squirrel (both regular denizens of the street) and soon enough a head popped up, then went down, then popped back up again behind a car, and as it traversed the sidewalk I saw it was a turkey. More incredible were the four or five baby turkeys waddling in its wake (turklings?) How this turkey family came to be living across the street from me in the middle of a metropolis is a mystery. There must have been a nest in the shaded little square of bushes, and since I’m told turkeys are highly territorial (kids have been attacked while straying into their supposed territory near school bus stops) I don’t see how one would make a nest on a relatively-well-tread street.

Yet there it was. There they all were. Against all odds and reason, they kept to their corner while curious and amused onlookers whipped out their phone cameras and aimed for the best shot. I watched from the safety of our second floor vantage point, puzzling out what circumstances could have brought them to Braddock Park.

In addition to listening about their rumored territoriality, I heard that they were dumb as rocks. Some are so stupid that they reportedly look up at the sky when it’s raining, open their beaks, and drown themselves. I suppose the validity of that is as suspect as their vicious territorial nature. One never knows quite what to believe these days. We watched them a little longer before leaving for a show; the neighborhood children were transfixed and every passer-by paused in befuddled delight. Turns out turkeys make the people come together.

The next morning we looked for them again. Some of the neighbors were looking too, but the turkeys had disappeared. I saw the nosier of them poking around in the little garden, trying to prod anything to come out, but there was no one there. Maybe something got them in the night – a raccoon or possum or dog. Or maybe they had decided they’d had enough of city life and took off to somewhere more rural. More likely it was the work of humans. We’ve always been the most destructive species.

An early summer night in Boston is often filled with the sweet fragrance of elderly linden trees, and on this late evening the perfume was prevalent as soon as we skirted Boston Common. Following the show, we walked over to the Four Seasons, where we each teetered on the edge of ordering that amazing multi-layer chocolate cake, but ultimately refrained. The server remembered us from last time, and insisted on a second pour of a sparkling rose. Who am I to say no? Across from the hotel the Boston Public Garden was shrouded in the shadows of more linden trees, while in the lobby the post-celebration vestiges of a wedding spilled out from the elevators. Everyone, it seemed, was having a happy night.

We took an Uber back to the condo, where I promptly crashed. We had brunch reservations back beside the Public Garden the next morning; it’s so much nicer in the sunlight. As the air conditioner hummed in the window, and the quiet Boston night settled around us, the next thing I knew Andy was waking me and asking what time it was. I looked at my phone and panicked: it was 10:30 and we had 11:00 reservations.

Luckily, in times of dire need and urgency, I can be ready in ten minutes, and with both of us rushing we walked into the restaurant a minute shy of 11 AM.

A Bellini and Croque Madame made for a lovely pairing while we looked over at the Boston Public Garden. The day was splendid 0 sunny with just a small smattering of clouds to add interest to the blue sky.

On almost every trip to Boston, I try to make a stop in the Public Garden. It holds a special place in my heart, and on this day it was doubly fun as Andy was along for the stroll. We passed the spot where we got married over nine years ago (our 10^thwedding anniversary looms happily within the next year – yes, plans are already being made!) There were fleets of ducks landing in the pond, and the pair of white swans stood together on the island. Squirrels were about, dodging dogs and children, and the lingering bracts of the Chinese dogwood held their white starbursts brilliantly against the sky.

It was a beautiful day.

It’s been years since I first (and last) saw ‘Miss Saigon’ and unlike some of those British mega-musicals from the 80’s (‘Les Miserables‘, ‘Cats‘, ‘Phantom of the Opera‘) this one didn’t show much promise of aging well. Fortunately, thanks to some clever re-staging and earnest performances, the show was surprisingly effective. Most of that goes to the irresistible score, delivered by a company of pros. That helicopter scene is still a bit of a gimmick, but a genuinely powerful one. Andy was impressed, and that’s all that mattered on this quick little trip to Boston as summer officially got underway.

The sun welcomed us back in the early afternoon, and as Andy took a nap to restore himself from a sleepless night (and drive) I made a quick shopping expedition, more memorable for the walk through Boston in full summer bloom than any extravagant purchases. We are not quite to the searing heat that can cripple a city – the kind that comes with the first heatwave and then sticks around until October – but the sun was out and it was on the warm side of things. I stayed to the shady side of the street, where it was easier to notice the little enclaves of cool respite, gardens where hosta and ferns gently swayed in the slight breeze. There are many of these tiny squares, and more expansive vistas along the Southwest Corridor Park, where local denizens have been steadily improving the flora in every available space of dirt. It’s come a very long way from the barely-tended stretch of unkept landscaping standards that once populated that place. A long and beautiful way.

I picked up a few items at Eataly – some razor thin prosciutto and a trio of fresh apricots – then returned to the condo for a siesta and a snack. Andy put some Cole Porter on and we got ready for an early dinner in Chinatown. In keeping with the show, it was Vietnamese, and though I was not planning on a steaming bowl of pho, the air conditioning was blowing directly on my skin so I went for it.

With a little time left over, we stopped at the Avery Bar at the Ritz Carlton – a favorite haunt for a fancy cocktail, and right around the corner from the Boston Opera House.

In the cool splendor of such a venue, we found our seats and the show began…

It’s fitting that this summer post is a day late, as the season seems to be lagging behind sun-wise too. It’s been reported that this weekend may turn that around, and I’m hoping that’s the case because Andy and I are due in Boston to see ‘Miss Saigon’  – and the heat simply has to be on in Saigon.

Summer in Boston is sometimes a mixed bag. There are wonderful days, and there are horrors. We haven’t had a stretch of overheated weather, so it shouldn’t be unbearable yet. (Once that heat gets down into the subway system it won’t let go until October.) For now, there are pleasant opportunities for sidewalk dining and evening strolling. It’s also perfect for walking to Sunday brunch.

I’m not sure where the sudden obsession originated. Probably one of my flippant cockamamie comments on a Peking duck dinner I’d had years ago, or maybe it was something Skip came up with on his own after we toyed with the idea of dinner in Chinatown a while back. Whatever sparked it, the seeds of a proper duck dinner had been planted, and there was no uprooting the stranglehold that the notion had on both our heads, so Peking duck it would have to be. Skip consulted Yelp for a nearby option, and Chef Chang’s came up with a decent body of reviews. It was nearby too, just down the street from Deuxave. I couldn’t even picture a Chinese restaurant there, and I remained skeptical as we walked through the Mall in the middle of Commonwealth, posing for pictures with statues.

A right onto Massachusetts, and suddenly we were there, stepping down into a semi-hidden and completely empty Chinese restaurant that smelled of many good things. Our server spoke little to no English, but we were only there for one dish so it didn’t much matter. Of course, they didn’t have it. Despite what Yelp said, there was not a bit of duck to be had there. We settled for an appetizer of beef tendon, which didn’t sound appealing, but there was beer, and a promise to find a place that had the suddenly-elusive dish. (We tried ordering the beer, but the server didn’t understand, so he ended up taking a photo of menu with his cel phone. That would totally be me as a server. He brought out the wrong beer anyway, so maybe it wasn’t the best method after all.) It turned out that the tendon was actually quite good – and I made a mental note to return at some point to try it out properly. On this particular night, we wanted the duck so we made a hasty exit and hopped on the T to Chinatown.

I knew where the restaurant was, and we were early enough that it was still open, unlike the previous evening when we couldn’t find our way out of a paper bag. (Whatever happened to Chinatown being where all the after-hour eats were available? My how that has changed. Shit was shut down by midnight!) On this evening, however, it was only about 8 PM – plenty of time for a Peking duck sit-down.

This is a dish I’ve only shared with a few special people in my life: my family at the first wedding I ever attended, my Uncle Roberto while visiting him in Washington, DC, and Kira after we were reunited following her decade in Florida. Now a new memory with Skip was being made, and he is a worthy addition to the vaunted folks who have joined me on the ducky adventure. It wasn’t what he was expecting – which is the same reaction I had the first time I tried it. One envisions an extravagant sort of stuffed duck on an elaborate plate that needs to be painstakingly carved in just such a way -which is completely at odds with the simplicity and eat-it-like-a-wrap-in-your-hands method to how it’s served. I think/hope it won Skip over. We took our time, rounding out the meal with a couple of other dishes, downing some Kirin Ichiban beer and happily realizing our ducking goal.

Returning to the condo stoop for a final close-out of the weekend, we looked back on our five previous Red Sox adventures. Each one had its memorable highlights, and we made note of what happened on this trip to add to that memory room. We also looked ahead to next year, making loose plans for what we might do and where we might go, because that’s the best way to alleviate the sadness of bringing such a good weekend to an end.

The top of the Prudential Center was lit in the colors of the rainbow – a nod to Pride Weekend in Boston and a happy illumination of hope. The fountain was in its summer splendor, dripping its tranquil cadence of water, bracketed by a lush carpet of ivy leaves. Braddock Park glowed as part of this enchanting Gatsby-like metropolitan twilight, and this brief sparkling jewel of a weekend lowered its curtain for another year.

On certain days, when the sky is clear and the breeze is both cool and warm, the best place to sit is on the steps of a Boston brownstone, watching the world walk by. It was at such a place that Skip and I found ourselves closing out the last afternoon of this BroSox Adventure, drinking a cocktail and the last couple of beers while shooting the shit and recounting the memorable “moments of demarcation” for this trip. 

Carrying a pair of cocktails outside, not even bothering to slip on any shoes, we began a round of stoop gazing. I used to do this all the time, and I don’t know how or why I’ve neglected it for the past few years. (Well, part of it was the weather – we haven’t had any that would comfortably allow for us to stay out on the front steps until now.) This entire weekend was ripe for the gazing. You see a lot of humanity – the best and worst of it (such as the ridiculously obnoxious, over-the-top guy on his cel phone screaming ‘Copley Square’ over and over to some hapless friend, and the super-friendly woman who lived around the corner, opining these crazy bike groups that always gathered at the end of Braddock Park) while staring out from the stoop.

It’s one of the nicest places to be people watching, because you can quickly step into the comfort of your own home at a moment’s notice. It was also one of the first things that I loved about the South End: on any given summer night you could find at least a few people mingling on their front steps, sharing a bottle of wine, engaging in casual conversation with all who passed. How strange that such neighborly friendliness was easier found in the city than certain suburban neighborhoods I’ve frequented.

A woman who would pass by numerous times smiled up at us. “Morning!” I said brightly, forgetting it was already 5 PM. She laughed. “Merry Christmas!” Skip shouted. (I got body-bagged, as the stupid say.) None of these jokes will land with as much laughter as when it happened, but this is less for everyone and more for my own memory. Fitting, as it was about this time when Skip explained how Jack would sometimes get upset when he neared the end of a vacation weekend or an event that he had looked forward to for a while, even before it was over. I understood the feeling, as this BroSox Adventure is always a highlight of the year, and it always flies by too quickly.

We stayed on the stoop a little while longer. The fountain sprinkled sounds of falling water in the middle of the street. The Chinese dogwood swayed slightly in the flimsiest of breezes. An idyllic afternoon seamlessly shifted into an idyllic evening. In the near distance, the top of the Marriott Hotel and the Hancock Tower still gleamed in the sunlight.

“Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.” – Ogden Nash

Our days and nights of staying out until the wee hours of the morning are somewhat behind us, so anything beyond midnight is a late night. I think we went a bit after that for our first night, but promptly crashed as soon as we got back to the condo. The night breeze, coupled with the air conditioner and fan, kept things comfortably cool, and we vowed to sleep in as long as possible. 

That means different things to parents, and as a non-parent I was happy to sleep a little longer than Skip’s internal alarm clock allowed. He had had the foresight to load some YouTube shows to watch while I slumbered, and once I managed to rouse myself at around 9:30, we were heading out for breakfast and a Newbury shopping expedition for his son Jack. While we struck out on finding Jack’s request from Newbury Comics, we found a decent-enough breakfast at Cafeteria as the rainbow-clad populace of Boston made its way toward the behemoth of its Gay Pride Parade. Having sat for a few hours of the parade with Skip a few years ago, we were happy to side-step it and all the accompanying crowd and noise, staying on its edge along Newbury. We wound our way through the Boston Public Garden before ducking into the relatively quiet corridors of Beacon Hill. 

We walked all the way to the river, which was only moderately populated with sun-worshippers and bikers and joggers on such a fine day. Avoiding the parade allowed us to keep relatively clear of the crowds, and the riverfront was too pretty to ignore. We re-traced the steps we had taken in the dark of night last year– seeing them in the light of day which is far prettier. This is one of the rather hidden parts of Boston that the tourists don’t bother to traverse, and I love it all the more for that. We took our time walking back, passing geese and water iris and kayakers, and making loose plans for an afternoon siesta – the highlight of any proper middle-aged guy at the start of summer. 

Despite its stature as a city, Boston has a few pockets of peace that make one feel far removed from the hustle and bustle one usually attributes to a cityscape. Along the Charles, below the leafy canopy of mottle sunlight, we walked parallel to the insanity of Boylston Street as if in an entirely-other world. Walking across the overpass brought us back into the cobblestone jungle, where we clung to the brick buildings and the shade they afforded from the afternoon sun.

We had a good hour or two for an afternoon siesta. After that, one final chance for a Peking duck dinner, bookended by sessions of stoop gazing…

After a springtime of teasing and crushing our weather dreams, the atmosphere finally conspired to give us the perfect weekend for our fifth annual BroSox Adventure. Skip and I tore out of Albany into a sun-drenched day, timing our arrival for maximum parking options along with enough time to decompress before the game. Despite such planning, not all goes according to plan, and about halfway there the traffic suddenly slowed to a standstill. There are always little pockets of that on a Friday afternoon, but this looked different. According to Skip’s handy Google maps app, we discovered a long delay because of an accident, and Google was advising to get off and re-enter the Mass Pike right before the location of the accident. It said it would save an hour and twenty minutes, and we needed that time, so off the road we went. A couple of sketchy and rather bumpy roads later, we were back on the Pike with no harm done and no time lost. The universe will always help those who need it, especially if you have a good friend navigating in the passenger seat. 

We arrived in perfect time for a visitor’s parking space to opened up right on Braddock Park. As we get older, and our various and often disparate responsibilities become more important and pronounced, a weekend like this is a Godsend. We eased into it quietly and happily, embracing the slower pace, cradled in the air-conditioned hum of the condo. There is something wonderful about stillness and slowing things down. Just one day out of life… we needed a holiday. 

A grapefruit aperol gin concoction and a MacCallan on one big rock later, we were setting about to do the single handy-man task that needed doing. A throwback to the much-more-intensive AC-unit installation from a few years ago, we were going to put up a new mirror in the bathroom. Nothing too major, but major enough that Skip insisted on measuring shit, at one point requesting a level that simply didn’t exist in the condo’s drawer of sorely-limited tools. Of course he put it up in professional fashion, making the right design and placement choices when my own questioning indecision had me briefly wondering about various things. 

That done, we sat down at the table overlooking Braddock Park, finished our cocktails, and decompressed before getting an Uber to the game. We’re still refining the best schedule to keep when it comes to game day/night, but we have honed it down to a night game, preferably on day one, which is what we did this year, and it worked out brilliantly. 

Changing things up was part of the plan. That began with our seats. For the first time, we opted to try out the bleachers. We’d been up close and personal with the players on all of our previous trips. This time we were going to be far out, where Skip assured me there was a more fun scene, with possibly more rowdy fans and a camaraderie that may have gone missing from former locations. Given the Red Sox record this year (and later that night) I wasn’t as keen to see the game all that close-up anyway, so we saved some money and got the cheap seats in the back. They were fine – and the night was glorious weather-wise, so we got a fine view, if from a bit far away.

At one point, a group of four ladies came and sat in the row in front of us. I was only half-listening when I heard Skip say something along the lines of how much they reminded him of the movie ‘Set It Off.’ I promptly excused myself, because that could have gone very, very wrong, so I fled for a couple of draft beers. I returned to find Skip scrolling through the selfies he took with them. Crisis averted. We later ran into them outside the stadium after the game was over and they posed for another picture, which is the featured one that also gives title to this post. Leave it to Skip and the Red Sox to bring the people together. 

We’d not had much to eat, other than a few snacks and a Boursin spread at the condo, so Skip returned with two Fenway franks. Part of our whole Cheap Change Boston experience the time around. Despite much spilled mustard – on my bracelets, on my jeans, on my arm – we survived, and were ready for another round of draft beer. Which is utterly ridiculous, but when in Rome…

Skip had received a text to head toward home plate or something, so we headed in that direction thinking there was some connection he had that would suddenly let us into a glass-fronted box seat or free-champagne-land, but after worming our way through Fenway, and popping back in to sing ‘Sweet Caroline’, we realized with the sudden mass-exodus that the Red Sox had already lost the game. We joined the dejected masses departing and ran in to the ‘Set It Off’ gang, took a quick photo, then doubled back to the condo and a long-promised Peking duck dinner. 

Various stories have circulated over whose idea this was, but somewhere over the years the notion of a Peking duck dinner was a bucket-list item for Skip. I’d had it a number of times and was game to make it happen for him, so after one more cocktail for the road, we took the T into Chinatown, hoping to find either the 24-hour magical diner that is only there sporadically, or the Chinatown restaurant I knew served the dish. 

To be fair, I was not in a totally cognizant state of being able to find much of anything, certainly not an elusive enchanted diner that could disappear at will, nor the Chinatown restaurant that was already closed by the time we got there. I told Skip to pose in front of the entrance to Chinatown, at which point this stranger decided to get in on the act and photobomb the shit out of our night. He appears here because he earned it, and it’s indicative of how our meal went for that night. 

We were left with the last dredges of Chinatown restaurants, so we just took the first thing that said they were open. The entire staff seemed to be sitting at the main table, so if we’d had any sense we might have figured out it was closing time. We didn’t. So we ordered. Some lo mein, some fried rice, some beef satay, and some orange chicken. They didn’t do orange chicken, which we found out after waiting for it after finishing the rest of the dishes. A disappointing attempt at Peking duck. Luckily it was only the first night. Skip would get his Peking duck, eve if we had to leave yet another restaurant to do so. But that’s a story for the next post…

We walked back to the condo as Boston Pride swirled around us. We would skirt the main festivities and parade for most of the weekend, which is exactly how I liked it. 

It is impossible to extoll the benefits and wonders of a proper afternoon siesta. I don’t know why this country hasn’t gotten on board with such a thing, but then again I don’t know why this country is doing much of what it’s doing right now. Following our morning walk and shopping adventures, Kira and I returned to the condo at my favorite hour – just as the sun was pouring into the bedroom bay window. We dozed for about an hour, recharging our batteries for a late dinner and the fun that would form a pre-cursor to all of that.

The fun began with an impromptu fashion show, the kind of thing we typically do after a bout of shopping. For once Kira had something to wear too! She found the perfect pair of shoes to go with her new dress, and a steal on a pair of chandelierious earrings.

Speaking of perfect pairs, I served up a tart grapefruit gin cocktail for Kira (in the pink) and a loose Last Word for myself (in the green). A wise woman once said that pink goes good with green, so who are we to argue?

Filling in the sunny shade of yellow we needed was The Dress. It was the embodiment of a spring day, a virtual sundrop – the jaunty shade of a jonquil in frilly, ruffled form.

Sipping a cocktail and wearing this dress heightened the afternoon. We sat by the open windows looking out onto Braddock Park. The fountain was running – sweet music that would soothe until well after the first whispers of fall arrived. Dogs and their walkers strode by, as did a few neighborhood children. This was usually a magical hour, especially if you wanted to take a glass and sit on the stoop watching the world pass by.

I slipped on a new jacket as the light slowly and reluctantly slipped from the sky. We made our way to my favorite new haunt, Nahita, for one more drink before dinner at Strip.

Andy and I just had an anniversary meal at Nahita, which we instantly adored for its lush tropical feel and peppy bartenders, so I shared it with Kira to bring back a little of that magic. When a happy experience drops into the pool of life, it expands into ever-widening circles. Sometimes they end up bouncing back, criss-crossing upon themselves in happy repetition. At such times memories are shared and revived, and they go to live on in the memories of others, criss-crossing other circles of friends and family until we are all, in one way or another, connected.

Kira and I have been making these memories for over twenty years, looping in and out of each other’s lives sometimes regularly and sometimes quite sporadically, but we always seem to return to these times in Boston, where nothing more than a fancy dress and a blue moon are needed to make it special. The only thing that changes is our hair – hers is shorter, mine is grayer.

Until next time…

How long had it been since I’d seen the sun in Boston? Too long. After a rainy trip along the Mass Turnpike, and a rainy entry into the city, at which point I promptly took a nap while the skies sprinkled, Kira and I were in dire need of some sun. It arrived to greet us the next morning, and we were so thrilled we immediately went outside and spent the morning walking.

Cafe Madeleine provided a welcome croissant for breakfast-to-go, and we messily ate the buttery flakiness as we wound our way through the South End. (I’d have found us a bench, but they would be wet from all the rain the day before. Besides, it’s easier to pretend you’re not making a croissant mess if you stay in motion.)

I paused at this potted Rosa rugosa – the first rose of the season – and I leaned down to inhale its seaside-conjuring scent. It reminded me of Ogunquit, and Cape Cod, and all the summery goodness that this world, at its best, is capable of producing. There in the midst of bricks and cement, the perfume of escape tickled the nose, recalling the beach, the grass, the sand and the salty sea. Summer was suddenly on the tip of my tongue.

Everything around us seemed to show off in the sunlight, such as these purple pansies and fluttering lavender blooms. These were found along Massachusetts Ave, which we followed to Newbury Street. Spring weather, and the need for summer garb, put us in the mood for shopping. Not that it ever takes all that much…

We had reservations for a very late dinner at Strip by Strega, and I wanted us to be extra fancy, so I convinced Kira to buy a new dress at Forever 21. She’s the size of a twig, so those items fit her, and if I can find a robe or wrap in XL, some can even fit me. We ended up with some pool wear and a bright yellow Beyonce dress that was only missing a baseball bat. We crossed over to Boylston and found a couple of coupe glasses at Crate and Barrel, and then it was time for a break. We sidled up to the bar at Earl’s, even though the outside action upstairs seemed to be where all the fun was at on such a perfectly sunny day. Sometimes it’s good to be quiet and away from the crowd.

A lobster tostada and some truffle fries made for a lovely lunch, providing just enough fuel to make is through the second half of our shopping expedition. Through Lord & Taylor, H&M, and Nordstrom Rack we sought out a cheap jacket for me, eventually finding one in light blue that would set off Kira’s dress impeccably.

Shopping feels more draining when there is a goal and objective – I much prefer casual browsing without pressure or intent. Tired-out and ready for a Saturday siesta, we made our way back through Copley, and Southwest Corridor Park – so fresh and bright and verdant in these early days – turned out its prettiest self. It was time for rejuvenation and refreshment…