There would be no fireworks or explosive demarcation between the final night of my 40’s and the start of my 50’s, which is precisely how I wanted it. After we returned to the condo after dinner, I finished a couple of thank you letters I’d written for early birthday presents and told Andy I was going to mail them. I headed out into the night – the last night as a 49-year-old.
The short length of Braddock Park was finished too soon for my mind’s wandering. I pushed the letters into the mailbox at the end of the street, and continued on. I was not quite ready to end the evening, not quite ready to leave my 40’s. It was silly, but the heart sometimes overrules the mind, and the evening was so beautiful I kept walking.
At every happy crux in my life, I’ve found myself alone and in solitude for some small piece of time. It’s happened at various birthdays over the years, and most notably on my actual wedding day, when I found myself on my own in the Public Garden after everyone had gone to their hotels for a break before dinner. Andy was sleeping in our suite, and I stole off to the Garden to be with myself and mark the moment in my mind.
In some small way, I suppose I do that as a little reassurance and reminder that we are all, only and in the end, alone – even when we have loved ones near. It will one day be that way, hopefully nearer the end of my life, and I want to be ready and prepared for it.
On this night – the night before I turned 50 – I walked the streets of Boston – no longer haunted by my past, no longer haunted by my future. Beside me, I suddenly felt the unexpected yet reassuring presence of my father and uncle, as if they were walking me back home. Both had been with me at various times on Braddock Park, and both were with me now, as if they were telling me to carry the Ilagan name forward. I looked up to the glowing light from our window, where Andy was preparing for bed, and I let the last fifty years go.
The fragrance for the start of the day was a simple and deliciously peppery design by Jean Claude-Ellena, one of my favorite fragrance experts for the house of Frederic Malle – Angéliques Sous La Pluie. It’s informed a few Boston adventures over the years, and I welcomed the chance to make a new scent memory.
The Boston Public Garden felt fresh and vibrant, despite the late August hour – a testament to the mostly gentle summer we’ve had weather-wise. Flowers were still in bloom, and the colors were as bright as they were in June – a strange and happy circumstance.
We walked our usual path along the pond, along with others out for such a delightful day. The waterfowl were putting on a show for everyone – geese and ducks making their way in and out of the water. Squirrels playfully roamed the grassy expanses, disappearing into the trees then reappearing like little magicians.
A favorite vista.
At mid-day, the heat rose a few notches, so we made our way toward a cooling sweet treat, and the place I’d found an elusive peach ice cream last year.
Restored and rejuvenated by cream and sugar and peaches, we headed back the way we had come, but taking a different route through the Public Garden once we reached its iron-gated border.
One of the most recently renovated sections of the garden was open – this lovely fountain by the Arlington Street entrance – a restoration from the past, a step toward the future.
We walked along Newbury Street and had a couple of mocktails at the Lenox Hotel and the new Willow & Ivy restaurant there. A hotel bar provides delicious respite at the height of a summer afternoon. Andy walked to the condo while I made one more stop to procure a special gift.
Tom Ford’s ‘Oud Voyager’ – available a bit earlier than originally announced from my favorite TF contact – was my 50th birthday present to myself – because sometimes you have to be your own hero. This birthday weekend was seeding lessons I already knew but rarely employed. It was good that way, and it felt like the way things should go. When you follow the whispers of the universe, and you stop forcing things, the world shares its secrets with you – secrets of ease and comfort, secrets of calm and peace.
A sneak-sniff of this autumn’s theme, ‘Oud Voyager’ would be my fragrance for the last dinner of my 49th year. Andy ordered a fine vehicle to transport us to Prima in Charlestown, where we had secured a table in their gorgeous Rose Room. It was romantic in every sense – sumptuous and cozy, with hints of velvet opulence and lampshades whose light was softened with fringe – the ideal dining vision for the eve of 50.
Later that night, as I climbed into bed, Andy gave me his birthday present – a magnificent gold Bulova watch that I’d been eyeing for a while. It was a gift of time, and as we drove home in the night, I thought of the previous decades. My fiftieth year coincides with our twenty-fifth anniversary – meaning that I met Andy when I was only twenty-five. In all those years, the gift of time – of being together – is still the best gift.
Simplicity and solemnity were the orders for my 50th birthday weekend in Boston, and with just Andy and I in town for the festivities it was an order we happily carried out. This August’s weather has been good to us, and a sunny and comfortable few days without excessive heat or humidity kept that beauty going. We arrived early in the afternoon, dropped our things at the condo, then had a stroll through the Southwest Corridor Park, which was resplendent in bloom, starting with this vibrant zinnia.
Upon waking, the sun was slanting into the bedroom – a favorite moment of the day in a favorite room. The fragrance for the evening was Tom Ford’s ‘Fucking Fabulous’ – a gift from Andy a number of years ago – something light and sweet to christen our Boston weekend.
Decked out for dinner, Andy ordered a car to take us to the seaport, where some delicious sushi awaited us at LoLa 42. We walked along the harbor for a bit, then headed to the restaurant. Despite our cramped and noisy seats by the bar – both of us are way too old for that scene, our eyes and ears failing us in the dim light – the food was amazing, and Andy’s cocktail was divine.
The light was already changing, hinting at fall – the enchanting sort of transformation that is both sad and sweet at the same time.
August anemones danced in the sunlight, as if cheering on those lucky enough to pass their way.
A sign of impending fall, as much as they signified a summer that was not quite ready to yield…
This year marked the tenth anniversary of the first time Skip and I traveled to Boston for a Red Sox game, and it feels like a good point to encapsulate as many of those adventures as possible into one post for posterity. The first five years of adventures were wild and crazy; these were weekends of escape and getaway, and maybe we both went a little harder in some vain attempt to hold onto our youth.
When COVID hit, and I stopped drinking, we crossed deeper into our forties, and the tone and atmosphere of these adventures shifted. These were big changes, and they took some adjusting. The last few years brought further issues and loss, but we were changing with the times, and this past weekend it felt like we were finally comfortable in our skin in ways that didn’t seem possible just a couple of years ago. Perhaps we are a little wiser too. Check out our progression in the decade of links below.
Some BroSox Adventure weekends are so epic they demand two blog posts – and this ten-year anniversary of the tradition was epic on every level, and a few new ones to boot. We extended it by one day, allowing a more relaxed pace, so by the time Sunday arrived I had entirely eased into the weekend vibe, and had one belated surprise birthday gift to give Skip: a golf shirt to go with a scheduled round of miniature golf at Puttshack in the Seaport. It was designed as the one new element to hallmark this trip, but we had started some other new things, including jaunts where I went off on my own to try more cologne or Skip went out to the local convenience store for a sweet treat.
After a Sunday brunch at Metropolis, we were back at the condo, and Skip wanted to chill there while I went for a walk on my own. The heat of the day was on the rise, and I found myself back at the Boston Public Garden, lost in happy memories of the place where we had recently spent a wonderful anniversary weekend.
I returned in time for an early afternoon siesta and some snacking on the remains of our charcuterie dinner, then it was time to head to the golf course – or in this case Puttshack at the Seaport. Donning a striped golf shirt of my own, I was ready to meet the moment and whatever shredding Skip had planned for me on our first mini-golf match. As someone who’s played real golf many times, he had the edge going in, but the last time I played mini-golf I beat my whole family (including two children, thank you). I can’t take all the credit – I really think the fuchsia golf ball that I selected to play with that day made all the difference.
Nine holes later, a winner was crowned.
Yes, you read that correctly – I won, with 4 holes-in-one. (Including one Supertube, whatever the hell that means – and if it’s sexual harassment, I’ll take it.) While in the Seaport, we had dinner at Pink Taco, which was apparently a euphemism unknown to me. As Skip explained it, I’m not sure how appealing it sounded to my decidedly-gay nature, but the food was stellar, and Skip’s Michelada (a beer-based Bloody Mary that sounded ghastly to my ears) was his favorite drink of the trip.
The evening was still very young, the sun was still out in its golden hour splendor, and we decided to take the long walk back to the condo, stopping along the way to hit some places that played parts in previous BroSox Adventures over the years. We’d already paid respect to a pirate-themed adventure with our stop in the Seaport to honor this sea-themed trip. Crossing the bridge back toward downtown Boston, we weaved our way through a mostly-closed Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market, a nod to this infamous song and dance moment from last year.
From there, we stopped for a drink at the bar that kicked off our 2018 hunt for a serial killer. This time around, as I was reaching into my pocket for my ID, the bouncer just waved us in saying he didn’t need to see it. Rude! And a telling sign of how much has changed in the last ten years. We’ve gone from stoop gazing to wild Chinatown jaunts and back again, and on this tenth anniversary of our very first trip to see the Red Sox we honored our past, while peering slightly ahead to what might come next.
At one point in our talks over the weekend, Skip mentioned candidly and somewhat in passing that he was a bit of a mess – and there was something poignant in this admission, especially coming from someone whom I’ve always sort of viewed with a certain awe in how he managed his children and life (second only, and by a long shot, to his wife). Meanwhile I still wasn’t quite ready to voice aloud how much of mess I could still be, but it didn’t need to be said to be understood – and in our joint failings over the last decade we found some solace in not being alone in being perhaps less than we thought we might one day be.
The next morning, we returned to where we started with a quick breakfast at Charlie’s, and a road trip home. Before we even made it to the Mass Turnpike, I already missed Boston. Until the next adventure…
I HEARD THAT THERE’S A SPECIAL PLACE WHERE BOYS AND GIRLS CAN ALL BE QUEENS EVERY SINGLE DAY
The mark of a good trip is best measured by how you feel about the place once you’ve returned home. Upon stepping into the usual routine and taking a deep breath before the shortened work-week began again, I found myself feeling homesick for Boston – and for the relaxed and easy way the mostly sunny days passed last weekend. This was a good trip, with a good friend. We honored the past ten years of fun trips, and forged a new laid-back style fit for someone about to enter his fifties, and for a pair of pals entering the autumn of their lives.
My intentions and vibes for the tenth anniversary of our BroSox Adventure, which I texted to Skip the night before we were set to depart, were as follows:
Casual, relaxed, and unrushed
Embrace the downtime, the quiet, and the rain
Enjoy the company
Be interested in everything, and everyone, in Boston
Those were met, and then some. On the morning of our departure day, I picked up some market items and had this run-in with one of my very first directors. Somehow it set the stage for a trip that found us looking forward as much as we were looking back.
We began in usual fashion – after a road trip with French sandwiches and a coffee stop, we made our first motions along Newbury Street, then backtracked through Eataly with food stuffs for a charcuterie dinner at the condo. Gone are the days of multiple pre-game bar hops and extravagant multi-course dinners. Skip and I haven’t been to many movies lately – we could barely figure out the last time we’d actually seen one together – and catching up without the distractions of servers and loud fellow diners was its own luxury. As dusk descended, Skip was beat, but the night was so nice I took a solo walk in case there wouldn’t be another nice night (rain had been forecast off and on the entire weekend). It was a change of pace for us – we usually don’t go our own way unless it’s a quick trip to 7-11 or something nearby – but it made sense for our extra-long weekend. A little of me can go a long way, and in his own estimation Skip has acknowledged he can be a lot.
Happily, Skip and I don’t usually veer into seriously annoyed territory despite our tendency to talk smack about each other. Over the years, Skip has become like a brother to me – a brother who actually enjoys my company and wants to hang out, no matter how infuriating and extra I might be. That is refreshing, which speaks of something sad in its own way, but it makes a sound argument for the importance of a chosen family.
Walking on a beautiful summer night is one of my favorite things to do when I’m alone, and it’s been a while since I’ve been on my own in Boston. It no longer feels as haunted as it once did.
The next morning was spitting a bit of rain, so we walked the single block to Charlie’s for a simple diner breakfast. Casual simplicity was the order of the weekend, and our only plan for the day was some cologne sampling before the Red Sox game that afternoon. While hopes were high for adding another Louis Vuitton to my cologne cabinet for my 50th birthday, there wasn’t a single one that stood out for me. Skip was partial to ‘Afternoon Swim’, which most people love, until they realize its lacking of longevity and staying power. My attention shifted to the Amouage line we sampled at nearby Neiman Marcus (and their glorious ‘Purpose 50’ bottle), and with Skip all but confirming the bold selection (“It’s… something.”) I understood I’d found this birthday’s Holy Grail. After an all-too-brief siesta at the condo, it was game time.
The past few years have not been kind to our Red Sox games – this one got rained out and several simply stunk because they lost. Win, lose, or rain, Skip and I have always managed to have a good time at the game (hello Fenway Franks!) but it’s always better when they’re kicking ass. With a 14-1 spread this was a very good time – with runs coming in regularly and the usual delights. For some inane reason, I never noticed the dance-offs that were on the big screen, or maybe there weren’t any that were as impressive as the one we saw on this day. The crowd was getting very into Chappell Roan, and suddenly the park was filled with the joyous beat of ‘Pink Pony Club’ as everyone danced along.
It was a great game, made emotionally powerful by the opening pitch, thrown out by the son of someone from Niskayuna that Skip and I know – a boy who had survived a scary bout with cancer – and as the crowd rose to its feet and the roars for this youngster grew, it felt like the world still had the power to heal.
We walked back to the condo, then headed to the South Street Diner, closing out the night in strange, vibey ‘Twin Peaks’ fashion. Normally this would be where our BroSox Adventures end, with only a quick breakfast and trip back the next morning, but we’d scheduled an extra day and night because these weekends just fly by too quickly, and there were still surprises to be had, even ten years into this favorite tradition…
The weather for this past weekend in Boston was predicted as rainy, but as Saturday dawned the sun was still out – so much so that the temperatures reached up toward the 80’s – the first glorious weather we’ve had in quite some time. Andy and I took our traditional jaunt to Shreve, Crump and Low for the washing of the wedding rings, and then made our way to the Boston Public Garden, where we met our group.
It was similarly fine weather to the atmosphere we had on our actual wedding day. On subsequent anniversaries, we’ve had rain and cool weather, but we’ve always managed to make our way to the Public Garden at least once around this time of the year.
Time marches us all onward, whether we like it or not, but here in the Garden it seems to slow and still for a moment, pausing to honor and remember what we’ve lost over the years, what we’ve found, and what we’ve managed to keep.
Spring was still a little behind here too – the leaves were just coming out, and there were no wedding cake flowers in bloom yet (Viburnum) but the tulips were at their peak, and the green that was on display was that glorious chartreuse shade that signals the earliest spring days – when all is hope and possibility and summer right around the corner.
Fifteen years ago we stood in this same space, taking our vows in front of the people we loved most. All this time later we’ve somehow managed to keep those vows going, by remembering to be kind, remembering to be patient and forgiving with each other, and remembering the love.
Elaine took us to lunch across the street at Bistro du Midi, the same way we lunched at the Four Seasons right after our original wedding ceremony. After that, we had the afternoon to lazily enjoy the city, and a nap, before we met again in our hotel before dinner. This had already become a quick little tradition, and was one of those jewels of time with our favorite people that somehow meant more than we anticipated. I already understood how much I was going to miss it.
For our final dinner, courtesy of Mom, we chose Mistral. It was the only restaurant from the original slate fifteen years ago that was still in operation – and deservedly so. We’ve gone back several times over the years, for anniversaries and birthdays and other special dates, and it remains one of the best dining experiences in Boston. (And entirely worthy of this coat.)
While it had finally rained during our ride over to Mistral, by the time dinner was done the rain had stopped, the moon was a crescent nestled in a few clouds, and it was still warm enough to walk back to our hotel.
All these years later, Andy still likes being silly when I’m trying to take a picture, and I still laugh when he does.
Happy 15th Anniversary to my husband – and many thanks to all our family and friends who joined in our celebration this year.
Fifteen years ago today, Andy and I were married in the Boston Public Garden, and this past weekend we made our way back there with some special guests from that original wedding weekend. Mom arrived first, as she and Suzie were preparing the arrival reception at the condo. We arrived shortly afterward, dropping our bags at the Fairmont Copley Plaza, then making our way along the Southwest Corridor Park, where just about everything was in bloom. The weather would prove fortuitously lovely for almost the entire weekend, something that hadn’t always been in the predicate cards, so we welcomed every sunny moment as it came.
Suzie and Elaine arrived next, with Chris shortly thereafter, and the arrival reception began with a charcuterie spread that rivaled the beauty of the gardens outside.
We decompressed and relaxed into the weekend, beginning a run of amazing food and indulgent dining.
The Fairmont Copley Plaza texted when our room was ready, so we headed back and checked into the Public Library Suite, which was my gift to Andy for our 15th.
The Fairmont was sweet enough to send up some chocolate-covered strawberries to a Mr. and Mrs. Ilagan, which gave everyone a chuckle.
Our group reconvened in the suite to have some quiet quality time before dinner.
Now, a word on the fashion. I’ve been embracing a more casual and relaxed silhouette these days, which actually echoes our actual wedding ceremony outfits (we wore jeans and polo shirts). Still, my past outfits were very much colorful and outrageous, so to bridge that with where I am today, there was one outfit that was designed to be frilly and fanciful and over-the-top. To that end, this winter I found myself sewing a multitude of silk flowers onto a pink linen jacket I’d picked up on last year’s Broadway trip to New York. It was inspired by cherry blossoms and peonies – both of which have meant a lot to Andy and I over the years.
Dinner at Mooo was a delicious experience, decadent and divine, and so filling that Suzie and Chris and I decided to walk back while Andy and the Moms hopped into a car – an homage to our last night as bachelors fifteen years ago.
A walk on a beautiful Boston night brings back the history – our own and the city’s.
We meandered through the Boston Public Garden – a sneak preview of the next morning’s anniversary stroll.
These two took good care of me, seeing me back to the hotel in safety and style.
We reached the Fairmont, and found the peonies – a mainstay of most of our anniversaries.
And just in case we didn’t find them, they were on my jacket.
A Boston spring is always one of the best springs, and there is something more magical about making my way home through the Southwest Corridor Park when the apple blossoms are sweetly scenting the night air, and spring bulbs are blooming resplendently against the dark earth.
At the corner of our building, an American dogwood enchantingly begins its leafless blooming period like a flurry of white butterflies alighting on its branches. A Chinese dogwood was planted several years ago in the square in front of our entrance – the perfect choice as it extends the blooming season by several weeks, coming in right after the American variety finishes.
This little section of Boston, with a few benches, its flowering trees, and the verdant explosion of spring in full effect, works its charm quietly. For many years I took it for granted, brushing quickly by its subtle beauty in the rsh to get home or somewhere else.
These days it is a destination in its own right, my own ability to find the attractiveness in the smaller and quieter scenes a welcome and intentional shift to a new perspective. The second half of one’s life, already well underway should I be so lucky, is about such a change in perspective.
As if on cue, the lilacs have begun their blooming season – nostalgic and new all at once.
Preparing for this year’s wedding anniversary, our fifteenth if you’re counting, I made a quick trip to Boston last weekend to drop off some outfits and accessories, and pick up some food for our arrival reception this coming weekend. Maybe it was the fact that fifteen years had already passed, or the deeper foreboding idea of my fiftieth birthday coming up, but whatever the case I found myself engulfed in a strange sea of nostalgia.
That compelled me to wind my way to Quincy Market, where my Mom brought us on our very first trips to Boston when we were kids. The world had changed a lot since then, and this part of Boston was no exception.
What was once a bustling tourist trap, filled with bull market carts, shops and restaurants, this surety of cobblestone has slowly and steadily declined, with more empty store fronts and deserted carts than filled places. It was a reminder that you can’t go back, that you can’t recapture the magic of the past. There are newer and showier spaces now, but every once in a while I’ll return to this place, so steeped in history – mine and this country’s – and so riddled with memories.
Following this problematic incident at the Newbury, we went on the hunt for a new hotel for our 15th anniversary weekend in Boston. A few years ago, while Sherri and Skip’s family were staying at the condo, Kira and I booked a room at the Fairmont Copley Plaza, and it was one of the best hotel stays I’ve had in Boston. On that windy April weekend, the Fairmont was a welcoming beacon of warmth, steeped in beautiful history, and bound to Boston tradition.
Rightly billed as ‘Boston’s Most Celebrated Address’, the Fairmont Copley Plaza has been the Grand Dame of Boston since opening in 1912. Whenever I’m in town I will take a stroll through the opulent lobby, checking out whatever magnificent floral arrangements they have on display, and catching a glimpse of the majestic golden lions that stand sentry at the main entrance.
While the scale and atmosphere of the Fairmont Copley Plaza is indeed grand, those working at guest services make every stay an intimate and individual experience. No matter how glorious the surroundings may be, the mark of a good hotel will always and only ever be found in the staff who make the stay feel like an extension of home.
This was also the site of my Easter bunny trauma resolution, so it holds a special space in my heart. Andy was there for that, and he’ll be by my side for the next set of events scheduled there.
When looking for accommodations for our upcoming anniversary celebration in Boston, we considered a few places that played a part in our original wedding weekend, but none checked all the boxes that the Fairmont Copley Plaza did, so I reserved a suite as my anniversary gift to Andy. It has all the markings of a new set of memories about to be made in these hallowed halls.
Dreams dissipate in daylight, but a dreamy quality pervaded the entirety of this return to Boston. After splurging on a dinner at La Padrona on Friday night, I kept things simple on Saturday, starting with a very early lunch at Pho Pasteur in Chinatown. Spring might have been in the air, but so was the remaining chill of the night and morning. A solitary adventure allows one to be more observant than if one was to be regaling a friend with stories. I miss alone time sometimes.
Play this record for a dreamy vibe.
After finding some possible anniversary shirts and collecting some food items from Eataly, I spent most of the day walking and planning – finalizing anniversary dining plans and texting them to Andy for his approval. There was magic in the air, and Boston held its usual allure.
I bought some food items at Eataly and had a dinner of nibbling various things at the condo, then headed out to try some cologne (my wished-for anniversary gift) and close the night with a lavender vanilla latte at Jaho. It reminded me of my early days in Boston, when walking around was its own reward and destination, when I thought I was trying to find someone to love but was really just trying to find myself.
The next morning I got up extra early to get back home – because Andy is home – and I had a quick breakfast at Charlie’s Diner. It was an easy and quick goodbye, because we will be back in May…
Whenever I’ve been away from Boston for any substantial stretch of time – which for me means a couple of months – I feel inexplicably shy when I return, like some innocent schoolboy who makes in-roads with potential friends by Friday, only to have them forgotten over a weekend. I also feel like I’ve lost track of the city with all the changes – new restaurants opening, old restaurants closing, new shows playing, old stores moving, and the latest alleged racial profiling incident at the Newbury Hotel. It’s a lot to process.
Somehow, I always feel more innocent in these moments, like I felt when I first moved into the condo way back in 1995 – yes, we are approaching thirty years of Boston life, and still I have moments of feeling like I don’t completely belong. There are benefits to being a novice, a sense of openness lacking from those of us who border on the jaded and wise. To think we already know a place, to think we have mastered anything on this earth, is the surest way to lose sight of seeing, and seeing so much when we think we’ve already seen it all. There is a thrill to taking in a city as if for the very first time.
There is also a thrill to revisiting places that once held significance and meaning, such as this sepia-shaded corner of Copley, where I once kissed a man – the man who was the first man I ever kissed – and it feels more like a dream than a memory, but maybe that’s just a protection device, a mind-trick to ease any residual hurt.
Boston has its memories and mysteries and dreams, all waiting to be discovered, then probed and solved, and sometimes resolved. It just takes a day or two of adjustment, and the discomfort of being an outsider fades away. This trip felt more like a dream anyway, tinged with the romantic notion of finding anniversary places to celebrate – places that appeared only in the night, and only in the spring. Maybe only in my imagination, which lends a danger and a freedom all at once.
Spring was just beginning, and only these snowdrops and some witch hazel bushes were in bloom. It was enough – hope comes from the tiniest places and spaces, while its existence signals something far more powerful and soon-to-be-pervasive at work.
When I arrived at the condo, I was greeted with all the Christas decorations still up, and there is something terribly sad about seeing Christmas decorations in spring. My first act, before even unpacking my bags, was to take all of that down. As I did so I cursed myself for putting it all up in the first place. Such a silly thing to do when so many other things after so much more. It’s how I usually feel, and the summer erases the annoyance so that when. late fall comes I’m ready to do it all over again. How foolish we humans can be.
With the holiday decor put away, and the holiday curtains taken down, the condo opened up, feeling lighter and brighter and ready for spring, along with all the happy things that can happen in the season. My favorite hour was at hand, and sunlight began pouring into the bedroom bay window. Winter already felt far away.
My friend Chris is one of those enviable people who try to make the most of every moment, packing in action and events into every single hour of living. He’s the guy who books his flights at the last hour possible in order to extend the weekend for its full duration. I’m the opposite – I prefer to hear out early to get home and get back in the head-space of the daily grind so as to allow some decompression time. There are merits to both, but on this Sunday following our Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, I decided to give Chris’s way half a chance. When he mentioned he had never been to the Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum, I went against all my Virgo grain and decided to join him on an impromptu Sunday morning jaunt to one of my favorite places in Boston.
My usual time to visit the Gardner is deeper into the winter, when I’m starting to feel the despondency of the season really start to drag us down. Maybe we’re already in such despondent waters, as I felt the pull of needing to be around beauty and warmth and greenery. Orchids against a snowy backdrop will always remind me of the magic that is humanity.
This is the original birthplace of my love-affair with tree ferns, where a quartet of them anchors the central garden courtyard. Scarlet accents of poinsettias, amaryllis, and flowering maples provided a new view for me (I don’t recall ever visiting during the holidays – shame on me for such negligence).
Something was producing an exquisite perfume, but I never could determine its origin – one of those beautiful mysteries that will have to remain unsolved for now.
With the chaotic conundrum that is Christmas buzzing in the city around us, this sacred bit of tranquility and calm, charm and verdant beauty, provided a respite and relief. Shared with a friend, it came with a solemnity that hinted at the real meaning of Christmas.
Chris and I, both approaching our mid-century mark next year, found ourselves contemplative and still able to laugh at life. Our concerns are wildly different from what they were a quarter of a century ago, when a weekend in Boston meant drinking, partying, and losing mornings and often days – absolutely no regrets, for then or for now.
When our time at the Gardner was done, Chris went on to Harvard, I was back on the dreaded Mass Turnpike, and somehow Christmas was back in my heart.
One of my favorite Christmas traditions for the past seven or eight (?) years has been the cumbersomely-named Boston Children’s Holiday Hour. It was originally scheduled as a quick one-off gathering when a few of us found ourselves in Boston on the weekend or two before Christmas. I opened up the condo for an afternoon “hour” of hot cocoa as people were winding around the city on their holiday touring. That original hour turned into several, and we ended up ordering dinner in and making night of it.
Since then, we’ve managed to make some assemblage of friends and family throughout the years, and now that we’ve reached 2024, most of these ‘children’ are teenagers and young adults. That doesn’t mean they aren’t still someone’s child, or that we need to change the premise at all. Some years simply make us work harder for it, such as this one, which found me stuck on the Mass Turnpike as a poorly-predicted snowstorm made driving hazardous.
A major accident involving trucks and multiple vehicles occurred just before I reached Worcester, shutting down that section of the Mass Turnpike. In all these years of driving to Boston, I’ve never once driven there any other way than on that turnpike, but suddenly we were all being re-routed off I-90. A holiday stranglehold of traffic ensued, which found us standing still for about an hour as snow piled up around the cars. I contemplated the empty bottle of Vitamin Water as a urinal should things come to that point. Eventually, things moved a bit, and after a five-and-a-half hour drive (which normally takes me two-and-a-half) I arrived in Boston, where the snowy scene was almost enough to make up for the ordeal. Almost.
Braddock Park is magical after a snowfall, and this was one of the first holiday gatherings that had a backdrop perfectly designed for the cozy theme at hand. Chris was arriving that first night by train, and he sent me a picture of an iced-out train door straight out of the Polar Express. I looked out at the street below and watched as the light changed from hour to hour. The wind passed over us, allowing the snow to settle and stay on the tree branches.
The next morning dawned with skies of blue and sunlight to show off nature’s wonder. The day of our children’s holiday hour had arrived again, with family contingents from Suzie and Kristen due to arrive that afternoon.
Chris and I headed out for a brunch at Metropolis and some last-minute shopping, and an impromptu holiday stroll of our own, where we happened upon some free Levain cookies at a luggage store – that alone made the chilly walk worth it.
I headed back to the condo while Chris finished up his shopping excursion, pausing to take in this glorious sunny scene from the Southwest Corridor Park. Winter has its enchantments.
Our cozy Christmas gathering was at hand, and I got to meet George and Ruby, enlarging our happy circle. Just a few days before Christmas, I finally felt a twinge of Christmas spirit – or maybe it was just the love of lifelong friends, and is there all that much of a difference? Both are healing, both are soul-enriching, both fill the heart with warmth powerful enough to see us through the rest of the winter.
This little family of friends, ensconced in a little pied-à-terre in one of my favorite cities, has become the saving grace of my Christmas season, always managing to turn around whatever bah-humbug mood or real family strife that may be waiting for me in my hometown. The night closed around us, but the festivities were not quite finished for the weekend…
