On a brilliant fall afternoon, and early dinner at one of my favorite dining spots: the South End Buttery. Like Dorothy in Oz, I begin my journey with a Ruby Slipper, but there’s nothing wicked or sinister about this yummy brick road. The halibut sounds delightful, and before I know it I’ve devoured the whole thing.
These little nooks of Boston are what I love most.
I love an unexpected pop-up, and I love sushi, so when I heard the news that a sushi stand was visiting the Mandarin Oriental in Boston I made it the next reason to visit that favorite city of mine. Set in a pretty corner of its handsome lobby in cozy proximity to the fireplace, the bar area is manned by a very capable sushi chef. A few seats are available for those who like to belly up to the bar, but guests are also welcome to sit at the lobby tables, which is where I ended up, taking in the warm wood and extravagant orchid bouquets on display.
I’ve said it many times, but it bears repeating: happiness is a hotel lobby and bar, particularly when it’s as fine as the Mandarin. This is the perfect stop for anyone who is slightly peckish, but not quite ready for a full-blown meal.
There are half a dozen maki selections, the majority of which clock in at $10 for 8 pieces – surprisingly reasonable for such fancy surroundings. I splurged on the Mandarin Oriental Maki, which is $18 for 10 pieces, but they are packed with crabmeat, avocado, and cucumber then topped with salmon, tuna, shrimp and more fresh avocado. Suggested wines are available by the glass as well, most hailing from France.
In the midst of the bustle of Boston, this was another exquisite respite fashioned by the expert powers-that-be at the Mandarin Oriental. Well worth a stop if you need a break.
Along with myself, fall arrived in Boston this past weekend. Not in a dark and stormy way, but in a brilliant sunlit mash-up of blue skies, brisk breezes and pumpkin spice lattes. As the days waned, the sky grew softer. A few clouds rolled in – high and light and non-threatening – while the descent of the sun made everything look a little richer.
The start of the season is always a colorful thrill, even if the known and inevitable end is dismal, gray and dim. We don’t want to remember that now, and the good thing is that the change is so gradual that it goes almost unnoticed.
Boston is beauty, especially in the fall.
The search for a Boston bathroom contractor continues, and this weekend I’ll be making my first fall trip to the condo this year. Having spent much of the summer in upstate New York by the pool, I haven’t been in Boston as much as I usually like to be, but that will change in the coming months, when the focus returns to my favorite city.
I don’t have much lined up, other than some relaxing alone time, and the lack of plans and expectations, while at odds with my comfort zone, is not unwelcome or jarring. I think it will do me well. There is no greater feeling than fall in Boston. Let the magic begin.
On one of the last weekends of peace, before the deluge of returning college kids, I make one of the last trips to Boston for this summer. It’s been so nice and hot, I haven’t been here much this season, preferring the comfort and ease of alternating between pool and central AC.
This past weekend I returned for some walking and fall wardrobe shopping – the best of both worlds.
Turning onto Columbus, I passed the first lilac tree I sniffed this season. Thanks to the heat and humidity, it was now a powdery mess of gray and white mildew – a far cry from its shiny chartreuse foliage a few short months ago. Such is the effect of summer on some of us. It can wear the prettiest down.
The city was quiet, as is typical at this stage of the season. The locals have hightailed it out of town, while the coming college crew has yet to arrive. It’s absolute heaven for a shy guy who prefers the peace and stillness. It’s much too warm to be surrounded by hustle and bustle. The streets are deliciously sparse, the walkways wondrously clear, and the bother of a college town has yet to be wakened. I pause to take it all in. The madness will ensue shortly, and all this peace soon will cease.
I’ll put on my guard then. For now, ease and tranquility – for just a while longer.
Every time I say anything remotely critical of parents and children, some Mom or Dad gets all riled up and defensive, as if I’m attacking their own kid. This time, I’m going to reserve my personal feelings on the matter at hand and simply leave this out for interpretation and private discussion: this double-wide stroller was parked in the middle of a T car the last time I was in Boston. As you can see, it was impossible for anyone wider than 18 inches to pass by it. I genuinely want to know if this is acceptable to others. (I’m not proffering an opinion one way or another, so there’s no need to go crazy on my ass.) What is the best way to travel with such a stroller on public transportation (it didn’t look like it could be folded into a more manageable size)?
The annoying, obnoxious little kid in me (who takes up far more space than I’d like to admit) just wants to yell ‘Ooooh! I’m so hurt by this!! WAH-WAH!!!’ but the adult in me would like to seriously address the fact that the Primark store in Boston has banned ALANILAGAN.com from its WiFi access.
This is not a pornographic site, despite what your research or online filters indicate. There is no full-frontal nudity and there are absolutely no depictions of sexual acts whatsoever. Sorry, I know you may be offended by hot guys in various states of shirtlessness and undress, and the naked butt might be racy and NSFW, but it’s not pornography, so get over your prurient nonsense.
I had the same issue with Amtrak, which eventually saw the light and unbanned ALANILAGAN.com from their train service, so I’m hopeful Primark may do the same. (Not that it matters much to anyone else, but if they want me to frequent their store I’d like to see what I’m up to online.)
A community garden is a thing of beauty. Its beauty is more than what you see – it’s the underlying notion of people working together that instills something greater. The stories behind each plot, the neighbors that strike up conversations with any passing stranger, and the sense of genuine community add to the overall enchantment of such spaces.
It certainly helps that along with the vegetables and vines there are flowers that exist solely to delight with their dress.
I’ve passed this way before, but whenever I need a respite from concrete sidewalks and skyscrapers, I take a turn and wander along the verdant path. To recharge and reconnect with the living.
Some of the plants along the way are grand and bold, while others require up-close examination to leave an impression. All are worth a look.
Like some charmed Harry Potter platform, this secret library at number 10 ½, is fronted by a pair of red doors. A red door is a lucky sign, warding off the evil eye and serving as a talisman of protection. I’ve always wanted one.
Sculptures glow before the backdrop of an overcast day.
An inspiring setting in which to read or write, or simply ward off the rain.
On a side-street off of Tremont, this little market offers fresh local goodies for those lucky enough to stumble into its charming, tiny space. Outside, buckets of sunflowers and lilies and sweet peas spill onto the brick, while yummier treats beckon inside. This is the relatively unseen side of Boston, at least for non-locals, and I always get a secret thrill when I happen upon such jewels.
The root vegetables here have been dusted off to reveal a rich rainbow of color. The bounty of summer reminds me that the season is not quite half over yet, and I’m glad there is still more time for sun.
These robust radishes are crying out for some sea salt, and a crusty baguette with butter. The greens want only for a thorough washing, or maybe a quick sauté. Summer calls for something simple.
From the rich dirt of the earth come various edible sundries. Some beneath the ground, some above it – all precious in their own way. Fungi and foliage, root and stalk.
And flowers – oh such glorious flowers – signifying summer, spreading happiness, and reminding me how beautiful this world can be.
A nocturnal animal meandering around at the noon hour is a thing of worry. Rabid or worse, they should be avoided at all costs. Of course, when you see a raccoon right outside Copley Place in the middle of the day, you can’t help but gawk a little and take some pics. Besides, there were two women between me and the animal, so if it charged they were my safety buffer. (I’m an equal opportunity scaredy-cat, and I’ll gladly hide behind man, woman, or child if it means saving my ass from rabies.)
Fortunately, this critter seemed less inclined to charge and more interested in escaping our prying eyes by climbing into a nearby tree. Of course, from here on out I’ll have to watch above me as I pass this particular stretch leading to Dartmouth. There’s always something.
It’s my brother’s favorite store, and he used it as inspiration for his own current brick-and-mortar endeavor. This is Ball and Buck Outfitters, a rustic yet charmingly elegant collection of mostly-men’s gear and accessories, and a throw-back to a by-gone era, where shaves and haircuts are given old-school style. Located on Newbury Street, it provides a badly-needed foil to all the high-end holier-than-thou fashion neighbors whose glossier goods sparkle and shine out of the average person’s reach.
Some men’s stores have fizzled and faltered in this vicinity (Jack Spade, Marc Jacobs) but others are thriving thanks to their unabashed embrace of traditionally masculine rituals with a modern-day twist. There are jackets and coats that offer both form and function, a selection of colognes and soaps and beard oils for everyday manscaping and pampering, and various goods and sundries that should fulfill the pickiest male on any wish list. (I tend to go for a gift certificate and let my brother do the work.)
Subtle earthy shades and sturdy fabrics comprise most of the pants, while softer offerings are on hand to cover what’s above. A definite dose of Americana imbues the place as well; the American flag is a recurring motif that somehow doesn’t overwhelm.
Don’t be put off by all the guns and shooting paraphernalia – the friendly staff is genuinely interested in making your shopping experience a good one, and will happily engage or disengage with customers as they read fit.
As mentioned, there is an on-site barbershop like your Dad or Grandad used to frequent, and well-worth an afternoon’s stop to go back to a time when guys indulged in taking care of themselves. (Some of us never stopped.)
Lobster Eggs Benedict at the Four Seasons’ Bristol Lounge. And a glass of orange juice.
Across the street, the Boston Public Garden.
The best of all possible worlds.
Though small by some standards, the Boston Public Garden has secrets and scenes that open up anew every season. No matter how many times I have visited the Garden, I always manage to find something I’ve never seen before: a different tree at a different stage of development or bloom, a different set of ducks or geese, or a different group of squirrels. In addition, there are different angles and vistas that change with the seasons and the hour and the weather – and you could be standing in the same exact spot every day for a year and never see the same exact thing twice.
These views of the pond banks are proof of that. While everyone gets the classic footbridge shot, they often miss shifting to the left or the right of the centerpiece. That’s the magical frame that makes the bridge so glorious.
While I don’t believe in looking back very often, sometimes I get lost in looking unflinchingly ahead. It’s good to pause and look from side to side, to take in a larger picture, to broaden one’s perspective. Beauty is all around us.
Pizza was ordered, a submarine sandwich arrived, and either an American Express card or a tantrum was thrown on the kitchen floor, but that’s all in a night in Boston. A brief sleepwalking bout and a late-morning rise done, we made our way into the city to procure a treasure: Andy’s wedding ring, which was at Shreve, Crump & Low for resizing.
The city was in the early stages of Pride week, with rainbow flags billowing from the Public Library and events starting to shape up in celebratory fashion. The previous evening had been the Red Sox Gay Game, which, had we known in advance, would have been a great game to attend. But we were installing things at that time, so the Saturday game would suffice.
First, however, was an inaugural ride to the new Government Station T stop. What once was dark and dank and decidedly dreary was now flooded and filled with light. A troop of Filipino dancers, none older than twelve or thirteen, awkwardly moved in a circle formation, resplendent in traditional festival garb. The whole city, it seemed, was in the mood to dance.
I hadn’t been to Faneuil Hall in a while, but since it was a favorite stop for Skip we walked across its cobblestones and ate an early lunch beneath its historical dome. A tutorial run-down of the famous-in-certain-circles cute guy at the Chipyard, and the resulting bag of chocolate chip cookies, gave us impetus to walk back to the condo. The day was still early and bright, and the walk was brisk but easy.
There was even a bit of time left over for a quick nap. That’s what men on the verge of middle-age do.
The game itself was a grand one. The very first professional baseball game I’d ever seen, way back in 1986, had been the Boston Red Sox vs. the Toronto Blue Jays. Since that day, both teams have held a special place in my heart (with the Red Sox obviously trumping the Jays, which is exactly how the game played out after an early inning volley that saw both teams trading a run or two until the Sox pulled ahead and pulled it off). We left with a crowd in high spirits, walking back along Boylston before a sushi dinner.
Having spilled most of my fun-and-energy reservoir the night prior, I had no objection to returning to the condo for the night. Neither did Skip, who wanted me to try out his Oculus. This is what it looks like on him. Which means you’re never going to see how it looks on me. As ridiculous as I may have appeared, the thing was pretty cool, and Skip knows how to call the future, so get ready for this on everyone.
The next morning we woke to rain. It was light at first, and we managed to load the old air conditioner into the Mini Cooper without incident. The rain grew heavier as we traveled westward and into New York State. Skip recounted the high school prank that he and his friends had pulled off during their senior year. It was, in so many respects, the perfect sort of prank ~ harmless but funny, safe but entertaining, not the least bit irreparable, but wholly unforgettable. That’s all I’m going to say about it, as it’s his tale to tell. What I got out of it was a new insight into a friend I suddenly realized I’d known for over ten years.
There, at the tail-end of our Red Sox weekend, was the kernel of friendship that formed the heart of the trip for me. Not the excitement of a win against the Blue Jays, not the fun and laughter of a gay bar crawl, not the successful installation of a summer-saving air conditioner ~ but the deeper connection to a friend, and a better understanding of the boy he used to be.
