Category Archives: Boston

I saw these BoSox shorts on the internet the other day and thought they might be perfect for our BroSox Adventure in August. (Yes, that’s the official name I’ve given to the annual Boston Red Sox trip that Skip and I have been making for the last few years.) I like them because they are absolutely ridiculous, but the integration of the red socks is subtle enough to escape outright obvious notice for those unfamiliar with the logo. A few questions:

• Are they a dead give-away that I’m not a regular baseball fan?
• Will the flowers get us beat up?
• Are they beer-repellent? (I ask mostly for my own shenanigans.)
• Will these shorts make my ass look big? (Not that that’s a bad thing, mind you.)
• Should I get a matching pair for Skip?

This time of the year sees the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum unleashing her long hanging drapes of orange nasturtiums – an annual tradition that marks the arrival of spring in happy floral fashion. I love the idea of that. My own spring traditions have been pushed back due to weather and health issues, but they’ll arrive, just a little later than usual. The Gardner Museum is right on track, and all the more beautiful because of it. 

The wonder that Ms. Gardner conjured in her home, and the vast, sumptuous, gorgeous collection of artwork that she amassed, always inspires me to do better. Not merely artistically, but in everyday life – the way I arrange our home, the design of our garden, or the simple set-up of a sitting corner. 

We paused where she may have paused, stood in the same sunlight she may have stood in, and basked in the beauty all around us. 

Giving good face…

We exited the museum and made our way back to the condo, where we awaiting the arrival of Mom and Emi for pre-dinner snacks and cocktails…

The same weekend that Suzie and I were in Boston for the ‘Cigarettes After Sex’ show, my Mom and my niece were opening a girls weekend in the same city, which meant it was a family weekend in every sense of the world. Susie and I walked from the Paradie Rock Club all the way back to the condo because the night wasn’t to brutally cold. The legendary Citgo sign was illuminated, and I’ll return to the vaunted intersection when Skip and I make our Red Sox sojourn in August. For now, it was the cap on a magnificent evening of music. 

The next day dawned in semi-sunny fashion, and since we weren’t scheduled to meet up with Mom and Emi until dinner time, Suzie and I found spring at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. We both needed a fix of green. And beauty. And art.

It reignited my ongoing quest for a tree fern, and upped my antsy for pink daffodils.

The magnificent center courtyard was the balm for the crappy spring weather we’ve had of late. We soaked it in upon entrance, then returned to it at the end of our tour because that’s where the heart is made whole. 

{More to come…}

Suzie and I were in Boston this weekend for the ‘Cigarettes After Sex’ concert, but spring, alas, was not. We drove through a snowstorm in the Berkshires (always a fun place to be when it’s snowing) and dealt with a snowy/rainy entrance into a city that found its daffodils valiantly trying to stick their heads upward to the sky. Everything is behind this year because it’s been so cold, but Boston’s making a beginning in spite of it all. 

More exciting were the first glimpse of cherry blossoms – those iconic harbingers of spring and hope, here set off against a sky that wanted so badly to be blue. Will we ever have warm weather again? I’m beginning to wonder… Monday morning demands something better. 

It used to be our last-resort for late-night feeding when everything else had closed down (and before we stumbled back upon this long-lost 24-hour diner). A last stop because Boston rolled up the sidewalks so early, and it was more or less close to some of the clubs people used to frequent. This was Chinatown, and in the ensuing years it’s become a dining destination of its own that forms the first stop more often than not. It’s especially helpful for when Kira and I need soup at the start or end of a wretched winter’s day.

On a recent trip, it also formed the backdrop (or foreground as the case may be) for my new project. Hush-hush on that top-secret endeavor for now – but it’s getting exciting. Just like walking through Chinatown in the middle of the night can be. There was only one sketchy section; chasing a shadowy shot, I took us down a narrow alleyway, which opened up into an enclosed little section of garbage and stair grates. A pair of men stood in the center, and the only way to the other side was to walk by them. Normally we’d have turned around, but then I saw that they were filming, hunched over a camera on a tripod, so unless it was some sort of snuff film I figured we would be ok. Kira struck up a conversation and they said they were working on a student project. We scooted by and found our way out.

We would return the next morning, in the rain, to enjoy a bowl of noodles at Pho Pasteur. There’s no better way to slide into a late-winter late-morning Sunday.

Even when the events of a weekend blur together, there are moments that rise above the rest – the ones that get remembered on the Monday morning when you’re sad that it all had to end. These are just a couple of the favorite ones we had last weekend in Boston, little jewels encrusted on the time-clock of life, when we’d managed to still its ticking hand.

The first was a stop at the Avery Bar in the Ritz Carlton. JoAnn and I had been here for a cocktail on a winter night a few years ago, so I knew there was a cozy fire inside. Though technically the Avery wasn’t set to open for a few hours, the super-friendly gentleman standing at the front desk said we could grab a drink at the adjoining Artisan Bar and bring it back to the fire place area. We really just wanted to be close to the fire, so we thanked him profusely and followed through with the recommendation.

I’ve spent some of my happiest times sitting idly in a hotel bar, and this one proved no different. We dropped our things and leaned back into a leather couch. The fire flickered in front of us, and the place was gloriously empty. When the world pauses… that is the time I like best. What happens afterwards gets swept away in the usual maelstrom of motion and activity that typically characterizes a quick weekend in Boston.

The other moment that came to mind as I recollected highpoints from the visit was a much simpler one that happened on a Sunday morning. Usually we are out and about early enough to avoid any brunch lines. On this day it was too cold to find the energy to move. The sun was streaming in so gorgeously and everything was looking especially clean after clearing out the holiday decorations that I didn’t want to leave. We pulled a blanket on and watched the rest of ‘Heathers’ on TV.

The ZZ plant arched happily in the sunlight. A pile of folded towels stood neatly on a shelf. The sun crept slowly along the shiny floorboards. In the corner, a Muji air diffuser dispersed a small plume of fragrant water vapor: their ‘Winter Bouquet’ edition, weighted predominantly with the slumber-inducing scent of lavender. It was certainly seeing us through the winter.

Sometimes you don’t need to travel further than your own bed to find what you’re looking for.

When you’ve been in Boston as much as I have, the weekends tend to blur together. Only certain memorable visits stand out above the rest, whether by the singular nature of their purpose (such as a wedding or birthday) or by the seasonal aspect or traditional slant of their occurrence (such as the Holiday Stroll or the Children’s Hour). Much of the time, however, nothing terribly special happens. Such was the case last weekend in Boston, when I rode into town in the midst of a raging rainstorm (that so soaked my clothes I actually had to put jeans and coat into the dryer – a first in all these years of dodging rain and snow). That didn’t mean Kira and I didn’t make our own moments. Every visit, no matter how typical or seemingly-mundane, carries some magic. It’s Boston, after all. This time around, however, much of the magic was garnered from staying inside.

A brief January thaw was coming to an end in dramatic fashion, as high winds and rain slashed through the city. Fortunately, after an early run to the market I had everything we needed – fresh limes and cilantro, and the bulk of a Mexican dinner that I’d prepared the night before: carnitas and a Mexican chipotle fried rice. Kira arrived, wind-battered and bedraggled, but a Paloma cooler soon revived her. She brought a single plantain for frying, and we set to work heating things up, cutting limes, and assembling a proper dinner.

We fell asleep to ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel‘ while the winter weather returned in the night. All vestiges of a January thaw had frozen and disappeared as the wind wailed and the window screens rattled. By morning, the sky was beginning to clear, but in the treacherous way that always seems to bring colder temperatures.

We found a few good sales along Newbury Street before pausing for a lunch at Roost: two burgers with fries. On a cold winter day, a hot hamburger and side of fries is almost as good as a bowl of pho (and that would come later). Fortified for a few more hours, we meandered to Boylston where I found my Mom’s birthday present, then headed back to the condo for a siesta.

I cannot extol the virtues of a siesta enough. It seems to be a sadly-forgotten tradition in our hustle-and-bustle lost country, but other nations still embrace the mid-afternoon rest session with gusto – and whenever I’m away from home I do too. Traveling takes its toll, and a mid-afternoon break from whatever you’re doing is a welcome method of rejuvenation. It’s also one of my favorite times to be in the condo – just as the sun is pouring in through the bedroom window.

We settled in to start ‘Heathers’ – a movie I’d never seen, much to Suzie’s great chagrin. As long as it wasn’t as wretched as ‘Dirty Dancing’ I didn’t care. A quick cat-nap, and then it was time for dinner at Buttermilk & Bourbon. (Not to throw out any additional hubris, our Mexican meal was better than what we ended up getting at B&B. Just saying.)

We wrapped things up with a drink and snack at Douzo, then it was back to the warmth and coziness of the condo. It welcomed us with open arms and comfort, and a bed thick with heavy blankets and lots of pillows.

Scene: 3 AM, on a squeaky pull-out bed in the living room of the condo, Kira is coughing next to me. The street light from Braddock Park spills in through the high windows, and my body is rebelling against such sleeping conditions at such an advanced age. My mind races to decipher the unlikely predicament in which I find myself, and a Christmas song plays quietly on the stereo. How did we ever get here? I haven’t been this disoriented in the condo since the party days of my youth, following a holiday get-together that found various friends strewn about the place, groggily waking in various states of togetherness.

On this morning, Chris and his four-year-old slept soundly in the queen bed of the bedroom. Kira had insisted we give it up after the boy went in early and we stayed up to talk. Now we were stuck on the wire-springs of the pull-out couch, not getting any quality sleep, and doing our best to stay warm. Another coughing fit woke Kira, so I got up and put on some tea; she swears that a hot cup of the stuff, along with some honey and cinnamon, quells any cough. I poured her a mug, then dove back under the heavy winter blanket and prayed for sleep to return.

Sleep did not return until the baby was already up, but he stayed in the bedroom peacefully occupied with headphones and a cartoon while his Daddy slept. I was in no rush to move, so we stole a few more moments of fitful shut-eye before finally giving up the ghost of meaningful rest.

Kira and I rose, and eventually everyone joined us so we could head off to brunch. The day was brilliant – sunny with blue skies – and after brunch we saw Kristen and Julia off, then Chris wanted to take Simon to Harvard. There’s something very touching about a father showing off his Alma Mater to his son.

Thanks to the Red Line issues on December weekends, Kira and I had foregone what had become a favorite component of our Holiday Stroll: a trip to Cambridge. We hopped in the car Chris ordered and averted any T snafus, thus enabling us to keep the tradition alive. We would be able to browse the shops between Harvard and Porter Squares after all.

On good days, the universe will deliver an unexpected gift to those of us who may have thought such a delight had passed. On that morning, we arrived in Cambridge, bid adieu to the last child of the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour (which had somehow lengthened into a weekend), and Kira and I set off in the direction of Porter Square.

We stopped in our usual haunts, then had a final pho meal to close out the weekend – a neat little bookend to mirror the start of the whole thing. I reminded Kira of how our soup time on Friday had kicked it all off, and how we would look back at its quiet and calm with fondness when things were hectic and crazy. We had a second moment of similar quietude now, and embraced it. We lingered there, not wanting to go back to our real lives just yet, trying instead to stretch Sunday just a little longer. It turned out that our Boston holiday adventures were not quite over for the year.

Ever since she returned from Florida to the winterscape of Boston, Kira has been wanting to go ice skating. Still traumatized from an ice skating incident at Schenectady when I was a child, I’ve always politely encouraged her to do so, with someone else. On our first few holiday strolls, we would somehow end up passing a make-shift skating rink, where people were giddily gliding by, enticing Kira with their fluid motion and seemingly-easy turns on the ice.

I was never fooled.

On our most recent holiday excursion, we passed a rink at Government Center. Entranced, Kira watched the skaters go by, while I looked around for some sort of hot toddy stand (to no avail). We didn’t get into the skates then, and I thought we had escaped the scene for the season.

After making our way to the Red Line, knowing we would need to shuttle-bus it beyond Kendall, we did that damn thing and rode the bus to Charles MGH, where we hopped off and took a leisurely walk along the antique stores and gift shops near Beacon Hill. The best holiday strolls are the impromptu and unplanned ones. We crossed into the Boston Public Garden, and the little pond in the middle had not been drained. A thick layer of smooth ice lay darkly and expansively before us, and a few people rushed by on skates, and off them. Kira squealed with delight, and I knew this was her destiny. She hastened onto the ice, carefully sliding along in her sneakers and begging me to take a picture. She beckoned me to join her, but when I looked at the edge, I could see water coming up through cracks in the ice, and the thought of crashing through and having to walk all the way home in freezing wet shoes kept me off of it. Kira didn’t mind – she took a few spins and had her ice skating moment.

We crossed the bridge and looked at the lights beginning to come out as the sky dimmed. It was a perfect holiday afternoon, and a lovely end to our holiday weekend. We traveled along Newbury for a bit then crossed over to Boylston. At the Lenox, we paused for a fireside break and one last moment of peace and holiday contemplation.

That night, I would return to my quiet life: a still house, a Christmas tree that Andy had installed while I was away, and a comfortable bed.