Category Archives: Boston

The light in Boston changes at this time of the year, and every day it’s a little bit different.

The days shorten while the evenings elongate.

It’s a treacherous slide until winter begins and we head in the other direction, and while that still feels rather far off, it’s the next season in line, and not as far as it seems.

For now, I’m enjoying the light as long as it lasts.

One day I hope to spend a number of retirement days here, enjoying the light, studying it more closely when all I’ll have is time. It’s the one thing that proves elusive on my quick weekends away. Still, I must make room for it, as no tomorrow is ever promised with absolute certainty.

The days won’t be as vibrant or sunny as this for quite some time, and I’ll never get accustomed to their departure – the way the sky drains of color, the way the sun loses its potency, the way the greens will just gradually fade until they disappear completely beneath a blanket of snow.

I’m jumping ahead – something we shouldn’t do when fall is still aflame… as on the bricks of a former church.

Mr. Oud has been here.

It’s in the air, but it won’t be for long.

The faintest detection of those golden threads of oud.

That little bit of bad in the heart of an agarwood tree, that little bit of danger in a night that might otherwise have gone off without a hitch.

A bit of mood music to set the scene, courtesy of Angelo Badalamenti. Noirish if ever there was such a thing as noir. Walking with fire…

Mr. Oud vanishes behind a cloud of smoke.

If he was ever there in the first place.

Scents have often proved misleading, no matter how liberally-perfumed the object of your search may be.

Such an impressive feat, to vanish like that.

To simply drop off the radar and disappear.

Mr. Oud is most adept at the vanishing act, and an act is all it’s ever been.

Thirty years ago, on a balmy October day, immediately after getting the go-ahead blessing to begin the quest from my Dad, I embarked upon the search for our Boston home – some place to stay while I finished my matriculation at Brandeis University, and for the family when they visited Boston. We didn’t know then that it would be the single greatest investment our family ever made (well, I had an idea, because all the gays were then flocking to the South End, and where the gays went, the real estate market followed – and exploded).

Still, nothing was guaranteed, and on the night I visited the very last of the three options our real estate broker showed to me, the chains hanging off the door at the next brownstone over seemed a somewhat ominous sign. As I traipsed up a simple but substantial staircase of solid wood, and paused at a marble nook with a single curved stone sculpture in it, I wondered if this would be the one.

Opening the door to the second floor unit, the broker clicked on the overhead lighting, lighting the golden amber floors with a warmth at delicious odds with the suddenly-cold October night. A sad, lumpy, once-cream leather couch sat in the corner like an embarrassing afterthought, but the rest of the expanse was empty.

I wouldn’t realize what a world of difference there was between the light on the first floor of a city brownstone compared to the light of a second floor dwelling – but this was a happy discovery that would wait until years later. On that initial dark night, I slipped silently and almost imperceptibly into a space that might be home.

The broker passed into the bedroom, trying but failing to locate a light until he reached the bathroom. I stood near the entryway alone and felt for my future. A wooden built-in wet bar with an embedded mirror afforded me a quick, dim glimpse of myself; I can’t remember how I looked or what I was wearing. I recall the vague feeling of not being alone there, and there was something joyous and relatively unfamiliar in the sensation. It felt right, it felt safe, and in that moment my heart decided this was the way forward – the first steps of creating my own home.

It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks after I’d first moved into the Boston condo. Night had fallen sooner than expected and as I rounded the corner onto Braddock Park I realized that my windows were one of the few that remained dark.

Because no one was there.

Dried leaves rustled beneath my feet as I approached the row of brownstones. Looking up at my darkened windows, I knew instinctually at that moment that I couldn’t do in to an empty room. Not right then. Something in me understood that if I went in then, that space would be tainted with loneliness, marred by the seemingly-insurmountable sadness and sorrow I suddenly felt. Some inner-sanctum of self-preservation surfaced, and I stopped abruptly mid-stride.

Once in a while, the body leads the mind, the way a forced smile settles some minor bit of ease into a tense situation, and intuitively I let the body lead. Turning around, my physical self knew it couldn’t face the empty rooms, and I walked back the way I’d just come. Heading toward the Copley Place mall, to where there was light, and warmth, and people. It didn’t matter that they were strangers, only that I wasn’t entirely alone. And it made me feel a little less lonely.

That’s not something I ever admitted until now. Even in all the ensuing years where no night was ever spent alone, I never wanted to admit how lonely I once was. It wasn’t shame (I always took pride and comfort in solitude) and it wasn’t embarrassment – it was the absolute refusal of myself to admit to loneliness at the time, because I understood on some level that to admit it would make it real, and that might destroy me.

Carrying that fear with me through the years has been, I see now, an unnecessary burden – and I lay it down here at last as I put the words onto paper, exorcizing another demon after half a century of being haunted. Letting the ghosts go is an integral part of growing up – and even at this ancient age of fifty, there is still more growing up to do. Happily, the heart is more settled now, and part of that has come about with a home in Boston, where once I felt lonely… until I didn’t – and having that home in that favored city is its own charm against loneliness.

Scene: Southwest Corridor Park ~ Autumn 1995

A few blocks from the corner where I once kissed a man.

The very first man I ever kissed.

Boston would be haunted in the best and most ravaging ways.

A long line of fallen brown leaves emits an aroma filled with life and decay, betraying a state between two worlds.

Dusk, slowly and insidiously draining color just before it drains the light, falls sweetly or sorrowfully, depending on the mood of the afternoon.

The danger of a whim or a capricious nature.

Falling prey to both before I ever learned to hunt.

Boston would be the one to raise me as a killer.

Boston would build me into a survivor.

And Boston would become my forever beloved.

Sumptuously ensconced in an Emerald Suite at Raffles Boston, the view of the former John Hancock Tower (and I won’t learn its not-so-new name anytime soon) was new to me from this vantage point – one of those moments where a city I’ve known and loved for forty years takes on a new aspect, opening up in thrilling fashion. Rather than plan anything elaborate or fanciful for this day, I’d decided to make the most of our stay, padding about our rooms and perusing the spa while Andy took a nap. 

Sometimes, such as on one’s 50th birthday, it’s best to simply be – to exist in the moment at hand, to breathe slowly and deliberately, to find the quiet and to make the space for being wholly present to whatever is at hand. Surrounded by such luxury and comforts, it is simple to be mindful in the midst of beauty, comfort and ease. 

Down in the spa, I indulged in all their Eau Imperiale bath products, testing out the sauna, steam room, and ice showers – then trying out the fragrances at the Guerlain perfume bar, where the ‘Herbs Troublantes’ spoke volumes to me and a trio of Oud offerings hinted at future fall scents. The last thing I need is another perfume house obsession, so I merely perused casually, not on the hunt for anything particular, and the lightness and ease of the moment went well with the intentions of the day.

Back in the suite, Andy was still asleep, so I sat in the living room area and watched as the sun began to lower itself over the Charles River.

We had dinner reservations at La Pedrona, which is in the same building as Raffles, which means I could wear this lounge-like ensemble and pop in straight from our room. My definition of luxury.

My birthday dinner was a much-welcomed exercise in hilarity, as our server was straight out of a Kristen Wiig SNL sketch, only she was entirely earnest about it. I thought it might just be me and my silliness, but when she did the same thing with the table across from us, and they seemed as flummoxed as we were, I knew she was an experience unto herself. Even Andy almost lost it when I had to put my head down and stop making eye contact with her for fear of busting out laughing. It was a fun dinner, just me and my husband, in my favorite city. We didn’t need anything else.

The next morning came too soon, and with it another beautiful day. On the 17th floor of Raffles, we got a seat on the outside balcony, and life as a 50-year-old began in quiet earnest – brilliantly, beautifully, contentedly.

From my now-somewhat-extensive experience with birthdays, I can say that most of them are disappointingly anti-climactic. In so many ways, they are just another day, unremarkable for the vast majority of the rest of the world. It’s supposed to be about you and only you, but it is really just a reminder of how insignificant it is to everyone else. That may be why I prefer to spend them quietly and out of town, or buffer them with vacations to Boston or New York or Rehoboth Beach. Anything to distract from their intrinsically non-momentous nature. Even one’s 50th birthday, which for me dawned on a beautiful Boston morning, felt more like a day off before a vacation than any holiday or occasion of itself. A number of Virgos have felt similarly about their birthdays, or so I’m told, being somewhat despondent on the day we are supposed to be celebrating.

Lowering expectations has been my typical mode of addressing the tendency to indulge in melancholy on this day. And so it was that after waking, I quietly padded out to the front room and looked over Braddock Park’s fountain before rousing Andy and heading to brunch at Aquitaine.

On the way back, we passed a few Nike hearts – and the one that called to me was this one, with its little feather in the lower right corner of the picture.

As Mom’s main gift, she had gifted us a night at Raffles in Boston, so we packed our overnight bags and wardrobe and I sprayed some of my latest fragrance.

After almost thirty years of owning the condo, there are always new establishments coming to Boston, which keeps the city thrilling.

The new Raffles knows how to welcome a birthday boy.

A review of our stay is up in the next post…

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.

My final day as a 49-year-old dawned beautifully in Boston. A blue sky accented by drifting clouds, none of which blocked the sun, was the gorgeous backdrop for our late morning ambulations. We headed to the Four Seasons, where we had a brunch echoing the wedding lunch we had fifteen years ago. Alas, that towering chocolate cake was nowhere on offer, so I decided to wait on a sweet treat.

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.

With dinner reservations later that evening, we had ample time for my favorite thing in Boston: a siesta. I picked up some bites at Eataly then returned to the condo for a little snack and a not-so-little nap.

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…