Category Archives: Boston

Two of my favorite worlds collided last year when the Beekman Boys started this little pop-up in the Lenox Hotel in Boston. I’d always been enamored of the delicious lemon verbena soaps they had on hand, but the Boys brought their Fresh Air line into the hotel and refreshed this elegant boutique hotel. It’s the perfect match, as the Lenox has become one of the most impressively environmentally-conscious hotels in the area, and the Beekman Boys are all about supporting local goods on a global level.

The collection of lions, named coincidentally after Boston’s own airport, is a whimsical touch. Say hello to Logan.

Turning down several holiday invitations and Victorian Strolls, I spent last weekend in Boston, taking a badly-needed pre-holiday mini-vacation in a last-ditch effort to prevent a complete loss of my mind due to work and holiday stress. I’d been saving a gift certificate to the Mandarin Oriental Spa for just such a weekend, and had scheduled a session on Friday afternoon. The thought of their vitality pool was enough to see me through the work-week, and as I walked through a chilly but sunny Boston afternoon, I began to drop my shoulders, to let go of the regular seasonal stress, and to finally relax.

Everything was as I remembered it, and the Mandarin doesn’t mess around when it comes to client care and the utmost in professional service. A warm cup of tea paired with an orchid and a hot washcloth greeted me at the spa, as I undid my shoes and slid into a pair of slippers.

Inside the spa, the light was soft. Soothing music blended into the peaceful environs, and the hush of the setting was exactly what I’d been craving. It was the hush of gratitude and peace. The antidote and the real reason for the season. The slow and deliberate cadence of meditative quiet took some adjustment, but soon I was back in the serene groove.

A quick shower in the deliciously-fragrant Quintessence body wash and shampoo was followed by a deep soak in the vitality pool, where hot water bubbled and pulsed away all the worries of the world. Across the expanse, a steam room glowed warmly, its immense corner crystal emitting whatever peace could possibly come from a crystal, while the steam pulled out toxins and poisons, eliciting a deeper sense of relaxation. By the time of my massage appointment, I was already enjoying the bliss of physical ease and contentment, and the windy chill of Boston was but a distant memory.

In the relaxation room I reclined in a fluffy robe. A selection of fruit and teas stood in the corner. Curtains surrounded each spot of repose, giving privacy and seclusion to the meditative mode on hand. When my massage time arrived, the stage of tranquility had been set.

I’m relatively new to getting massages, but they are now one of my most favorite things in the world (so if you’re looking for any last minute gift ideas, please take note). It’s like yoga without having to exert any effort whatsoever. (My favorite part of yoga is that last ten minutes of repose anyway.)

Many thanks to the wonderful staff at the Mandarin Oriental in Boston for a luxurious afternoon of bliss.

Kira and I will be celebrating our very belated birthdays this weekend in Boston, a somewhat impromptu get-together just as the holiday shopping season gets underway. We will hopefully be solidifying plans for our annual Holiday Stroll, but as I was contemplating things to do this weekend, I realized that some of our most-fun moments have been the unplanned events that simply unfolded as they casually came into being. Though my Virgo nature will always appreciate a plan, especially if there’s an itinerary involved, sometimes it’s best to fly by the seat of your pants.

Our very first Holiday Stroll was a spur-of-the-moment event, and only half-way through that holiday walk did we christen it a Holiday Stroll, setting a precedent for all the ensuing years. I love that it’s become a tradition, but after last year’s itinerary became a blueprint for almost everything that we didn’t do, I realized that too much structure isn’t always a good thing. Of course, changing one’s nature is not such an easy thing.

I was thinking this weekend might be the start of an annual pre-Thanksgiving jaunt, such is the strength of my ties to organization, but I’d rather not bind us to anything just yet. For now, the city is a sprawling land of possibility. That’s how we’re going to keep it.

Kira looked at her train schedule and we decided to head out on a last-minute gift-shopping run to Downtown Crossing. I wanted to go to Cambridge but she was not sure there would be enough time, so we rather clumsily darted into a few lackluster stores before postponing the first train and having a lunch of noodles. It’s that time of the year when our stomachs turn to soups and noodle dishes, mostly in Chinatown. Kira remembers one of the first jaunts like this, though it has gone from my memory: we supposedly sat on a second floor restaurant overlooking Chinatown, sipping soup after a day of work at John Hancock. We’ve spent years searching for the restaurant and haven’t yet been able to find it. Personally, I’m not sure it even happened because I never forget things like that, but I’ll let Kira hold onto her memory.

On this day, the steaming bowls of ramen perfectly complement the flood of sun spilling out over the cobblestones and fallen leaves. Fall in Boston is magical, and though my mind is already on the ride home, I stop myself from thinking too far ahead and focus on the moment at hand. It’s not wise to take such sunshine for granted when it’s about to go away for a while.

We pick up a few cookies and hop back on the T. Kira needs to pick up her bags before meeting her Mom. I’m already packed, but it would be unwise to leave at this early afternoon hour. That’s just a traffic jam already in process. With a hug and a promise to keep in better contact, Kira leaves me alone in the sun-filled condo. That frightening but reassuring silence in the aftermath of a friend’s departure is always a little sad, but I’ll never regret a weekend in Boston with a good friend.

Walking into the bedroom, I survey the way the light lifts the space. It is too pretty to leave, so I settle onto the bed and let my legs stretch out. In the quiet, there is contentment. The peace will depart as soon as I enter the maelstrom of bumper to bumper traffic on the Mass Turnpike, but I will take his moment with me.

Waking to a frigid room, I pulled the heavy robe around me, and an extra blanket around my shoulders. (Some pictures are better left unseen.) I put on a pot of tea and groggily greeted the morning. The sun had returned, but did little for the chilly start of the day. I remembered how one of my Literature professors at Brandeis had explained that she always waited for that really cold first snap of fall, the way it jolted you into awareness of the season. This could be that morning.

A Sunday of departure has the potential to go a few ways. There’s the early start to everything, in which I could beat traffic and be well on the way home before the stroke of eight or nine. Then there’s the late morning drive, when most people are starting to hit the road, and the first crush of traffic pushes you forward. The early afternoon departure is tricky traffic-wise, and this runs until about four or five. For the most part, I try to avoid leaving between noon and five as there is always backed-up traffic issues then. I didn’t manage that this time, but it was worth it.

We set up a make-do breakfast, with leftover fruit from the night before, along with some toasted bagels and crackers. A berry Echinacea tea warded off the cold, even if I’m not a big fan of the berry teas. The sun slowly began to warm the outside, and I opened the blinds to the bedroom. Light poured in, and I decided to forego an early departure. You can’t put a price on that kind of light. It fills the soul.

 Before we batten down the hatches and close the windows for the season, I like to give the Boston condo a good airing-out. I’d have burned some sage if we had any, but this would have to do for now as the day was too perfect to wait (a windy but not too terribly cold day is ideal). Upon opening the front and back windows, a strong breeze blew through the entire place. Curtains billowed in the moving air, and candles fluttered as the day slowly turned darker. It was dramatic weather, fitting for fall and change. Kira and I sat at the table as our wine breathed, taking a breather ourselves after a morning of hustling and bustling. We tentatively planned some upcoming dates for a belated birthday celebration and our annual holiday stroll, and there was something very cozy about the condo as the wind rushed through it – the juxtaposition of the cool air and the candles, the outside and the inside, the recent memory of summer and the future planning for winter.

The wind was strong, and we moved into the bedroom to watch a bit of ‘Practical Magic’ for seasonal appropriateness. Kira was chilled, so we pulled out the heavy winter blanket and lit a few more candles. Turning the seasonal page from white to red wine, we sipped to warm our stomachs, while Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock got all witchy. Soon it was time for dinner, but neither of us was in the mood to walk very far. Flirting with the wind from the safe haven of the condo was one thing; whoring through it unprotected was quite another. I proposed heading to the corner market and coming up with a simple puttanesca, along with some cheese and fruit.

We hurried along the darkened streets, over wet leaves and fallen branches as the wind whipped around us. Apples and pears and crackers made for an opening salvo, while pasta, anchovies, garlic, olives, roasted red peppers and fresh parsley would suffice for the puttanesca. Back at the condo, the kitchen warmed to the boiling pasta water and simmering sauce. Kira was amazed at my culinary abilities. Twenty years ago I could barely make toast, now here I was winging a simple (albeit rough) pasta dish. Like its namesake, a puttanesca is very forgiving.

We sat down to eat as the wind continued to howl. It would go like that all night, and I lowered the windows until they were almost completely closed. Food and friendship mingled with darkness and candlelight. It’s always cozy in the condo during the colder months.

The roving bands of rain continued into Saturday morning. We woke to a new pot of tea, and by the time we were ready to head into the city for some shopping there was a brighter break in the sky. A fine mist was falling, which is sometimes more annoying than an outright rain, and we paused for some French sustenance from Café Madeleine. Eating our croissants as we walked, ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’-style, we made a wet flaky mess of our shirts, but it was worth it.

A bit of early holiday shopping along Newbury turned into some possible party garb for myself (the usual derailment when trying to buy for other people at the onset of holiday season) but mostly we just did a lot of looking, and some deftly-timed ducking into stores to get out of the rain. The mist had morphed into something decidedly more solid and heavy. Careful what you wish for…

We stopped in Zara to find a raincoat for Kira, but they had the usual line snaking through the entire store and so we nixed the idea of even looking. (That store consistently has the worst register service of any place I’ve been – every single time I walk in there are lines and broken registers that can’t take credit cards and all sorts of nonsense. They’ve lost hundreds of dollars of business from me alone based on this and there is no end in sight to such mismanagement. Sorry, rant finished.)

A few birthday cards were procured from Newbury Comics, but the tricky holiday gift for my brother was not to be found. At Sephora, I sampled the new Tom Ford Private Blend ‘Ombre Leather 16’, and tried again to determine if I liked it as much as the original ‘Tuscan Leather’ but walked away still undecided. A spritz of Atelier’s ‘Oud Saphir’ was equally enticing. Too many choices… all of them delicious. And then it was time for lunch.

It had been some time since either Kira or myself had had a proper burger, so we sought out a pub in the midst and mayhem of tourists and college kids. The rain was picking up and places were starting to fill. Settling on the Met Back Bay, we found two open spaces at the downstairs bar and set up camp while the downpour began in earnest. It was a cozy scene, made more-so by the bonhomie of the brunchers (lots of Bloody Marys were being made in front of us) and the martini in my hand. There is no better place to ride out a rainstorm than a bar. The burger was good too, and we once again found ourselves stalling in the hope that the rain would pass or at least slow to a manageable drizzle. It did, but in its place was a front of cooler air, and brutal winds. Still, I’ll take wind over rain any day. As the afternoon ripened, that wish was delivered in gusts and gales that shook the city. We rushed into the South End, found a bottle of Malbec, and hurried back to the condo.

The drive from Albany to Boston can sometimes be quite perilous. Going through the elevated Berkshires always raises the risk of running into weather conditions that don’t affect either end of the trip, which can make for a dicey situation. On this day, the rain began falling halfway along the Massachusetts Turnpike. This was no light rain either – torrents of the stuff was pouring out of the sky like a million ‘Fantasia’ buckets were being spilled by an evil sorcerer. The threat of hydroplaning is very real when sheets of water are sliding all around the road. (I once totaled a car in a heavy rain situation, so I don’t take water lightly.)

Though the going was slower than usual (and I was on a tight schedule to meet with yet another bathroom contractor) I arrived to a break in the Boston sky and managed to make it to the condo in dry fashion. A load of laundry (since there are always towels to wash) and a repotting of a ZZ plant (since it was bursting out of its original container) occupied my time until the long-awaited reunion with Kira took place that evening. We hadn’t seen each other since April, and the summer apart had begun to leave me slightly concerned, but when we headed out into the rain it was as if no time had passed.

It was coming down hard again, and we ducked into the nearby House of Siam rather than make the trek to Chinatown. (It’s soup and noodle season!) As we sat at a table looking out onto Columbus, the rain increased. It was a steady downpour, leaving everyone soaked. Half of the people didn’t even bother with umbrellas – there really was no point. We took our time eating, hoping for a reprieve. Though there wasn’t far to go, a few blocks were enough to soak through the shoes. Eventually, with no end to the rain in sight, we had to make our way back, beneath feeble umbrellas and over puddles that had turned into ponds. As we climbed the steps to the condo, my feet were wet, my sleeves were dripping, and the brown bags holding our take-away containers were mush. None of it mattered though. I was back with my dear friend, and we made a pot of hot tea as Billie Holiday sang ‘Stormy Weather’ in the background. 

My father remembers it better than I do. Apparently I had proposed the idea of finding the family a place in Boston early on in my junior year of college, and the day after he gave the ok to begin the search I was in the city setting up visits to potentials properties. The year was 1995, and the South End was on the verge of taking off. (If you want decent real estate investments, go where the gays are. I wanted to be there for other reasons, but I digress…)

On that fall day, it had rained in the morning, but by the time I got all the way from Brandeis into the South End, the sun was out, the air was warm and humid, and the only remnants of the storm were the wet leaves beneath my feet. On a cobblestone driveway, yellow leaves clung like mushroom caps, muddy and veiny and emitting the tell-tale scent of fall ~ life and decay in one mossy aroma.

My real estate agent was a cute guy with whom I was already illogically smitten, and he brought me along to our first property ~ a small condo just across the street from the real estate office. As tempting as it would have been to live there in such close proximity to the man who would surely wear my wedding ring one day, I held my enthusiasm in check. Despite the charming wall of exposed brick, and the enchanting way the afternoon sun drifted in through the windows, it was just a tad too tiny.

For our second property, we looked at a large, albeit divided, floor-through deep in the South End. Far from any T station (too far, really) what it lacked in location it made up for in space. The problem was that the space was cut into so many smaller rooms that it felt disjointed and cumbersome, even if it was a steal for all the square footage. The distance to any transportation would prove problematic too, and I was reminded of the most important real estate adage: location, location, location.

The third try was the charm that brought us to Braddock Park. Great location ~ right between Copley and the South End ~ decent space (at least for one person, maybe two if they really loved each other) ~ and a steal considering that in the time that we’ve had it it’s probably tripled in value. That cemented the deal, and before November ended we had closed on the condo. I never tire of reliving those months.

The last time I was in Boston, the conditions mirrored those I just described ~ the warm, humid air of a fall day where the sun wins out over the season, the leaves collecting between the cobblestones, and the scent of life and death so gloriously entwined that one doesn’t exist without the other. I thought back to the young man who was searching for love as much as he was searching for a home, and I smiled at his determination.

It is my second favorite time of the year to be in Boston (after spring, of course). Fall carries its enchantment on a brilliantly-colored sleeve of leaves, sprinkling smoke-tinged coziness and seasonal delights along gourd-lined streets. At the start of the weekend, and the beginning of the leaf fall, I walk the roads with the sun at my back. There is just the slightest chill in the air, but it’s not sharp enough to bite. In other words, this is fine weather for any season.

I’m in transit, and Boston is just a convenient one-night stop-over before journeying to my friend JoAnn’s Fall Gathering. Usually, it is the destination in its own right, and I feel a tinge of regret in not being able to stay longer. No matter, there will be other weekends for that. A part of my heart is always here anyway.

As the leaves fall, I’m reminded of old romances. It was my customary practice to fall in love at this time of the year. Not intentionally, it just so happened that a few of my doomed love affairs began in the fall. A telling thing, perhaps, given how they all panned out. (I met Andy at the height of summer.)

Once, I saved a few leaves from the fall in which I met someone I used to love. I pressed them into a thick book, and when they were dry and flat I framed them in glass, in a hanging group of three, and presented them to the man who was not meant to last. I wanted him to remember that fall.