Category Archives: Boston

This is a companion piece to a previous post that espoused the hidden objets d’art that can be found on the street. I wasn’t planning on following up with a similar post so soon, but when you see a razor entwined in a chain-link fence, you stop and take notice. Or, in this case, you take a photograph.

The stories one could spin about this have no limit. The first one my mind entertained was a girl bringing this razor to school for a friend who was going to shave her legs for the first time, and trying to hide that fact from her mother. Strange that that should be the first possibility that comes to mind, over a boy who might be shaving his face for the first time, but I suppose relating to girls has always been my province.

Some cheap purses belong on the street. I’m hoping that the person to whom this once belonged suddenly came to his or her senses, threw it down in a fit of sudden fashion-sense, and never looked back. More people with bad accessories should be so bold.

Finally, this dirty yet shiny lollipop spoke to me in a David Lynchian whisper. It wasn’t quite a severed ear, or the blue-tinged body of Laura Palmer, but it carried its own eerie mysteries.

The main thing I’ve always wondered about the raising of children is this: what’s with all the fucking Cheerios?

Having had more experience with my niece and nephew in recent years, however, along with the explanations of helpful friends who are now parents themselves, it seems that Cheerios are an ideal snack: not too heavy on sugar, not too messy (though kids will find a way to pulverize anything and make a disaster area), and convenient enough to stuff into any plastic baggie. (Yes, I just wrote the word ‘baggie’ for perhaps the first time in my life.)

Personally, though, I like the Cheerios were utilized in these home-made bird-feeders, seen around the corner from my place in Boston. Ingeniously constructed by some geometrically-shaped pipe cleaners, this looks to be the work of the day-care on Columbus Avenue.

I have no idea if the birds actually like Cheerios, or if such processed food is all that healthy for them, but the sentiment is pure, and the design is simple yet effective.

I’d employ the technique and give these a whirl in my own backyard, but it’s more than likely that the squirrels would get to them first, then go around wearing pipe-cleaner necklaces and mocking me from afar. I get enough abuse without giving them additional cause for ridicule.

The sign on Tremont alerts passers-by to something special down Pembroke Street. A couple doors down, the windows of the store-front offer tantalizing glimpses of overflowing gift baskets in various states of filling, and all sorts of mouth-watering objects. This is the world of Olives & Grace {A Curtsy to the Makers} ~  a small artisan shop that sells a variety of goods, from the culinary to the pretty, and everything in between. The first thing that catches my eyes is a tall, colorful stack of cooking salts – everything from an elusive Fennel Thyme Salt (for which I’d been searching over the past several months) to an Aleppo Chile Salt. A bottle of Honey Chamomile Bitters is ripe for winter cocktailing, and containers of tea and cocoa stand ready to banish what remains of the frigid season.

Not limited to the savory, there are an equal number of scintillating sweets, including a stack of flavored sugars to rival the stack of salts. Chocolates of all sorts, honey, and several interesting syrups – along with canisters of cocoa – mean that  there is something for every sweet tooth as well.

There are non-edibles that are meant to be worn and seen, such as some intricate metallic jewelry for the ladies or a few softly-hued pocket squares for the gentlemen. Everything is carefully crafted with pristine care, the time and effort apparent in each stitch of fabric, every curve of metal.

The emphasis is on what is local, ensuring a continually rotating stock of specialty items, worthy of frequent stops and regular browsing. While the unique stock alone is worth the stop, it’s the customer service that stands above and beyond any mainstream chain, and Olives & Grace boasts some of the friendliest and most helpful staff in the South End (which is saying something substantial.) I only wanted one of the salt blends (a chicken recipe has been calling for fennel salt for a while now), so the woman helping me looked up the supplier online, and saw that it was available in a fennel version. She wrote the name on a card, in case I wanted to order it on my own. That’s what keeps a business in good standing, and the customers coming back for more.

Olives & Grace is right off Tremont, at 81 Pembroke Street. 

This past weekend in Boston began the slow march to spring. It’s going to take some time – there is still so much snow – but as these photos attest, hope is in the air, and poking through the ground. There’s a familiar thrill when the first daffodils and tulips begin tentatively telescoping from the earth, scoping out whether it’s really safe to fully rise. These are dangerous times, and they sense that. There is still the likely possibility that a snowstorm with dump a foot of crushing ice crystals on top of them, leaving tattered tips, if not killing them outright.

Yet this year I can’t blame the tender shoots for being so ready to emerge. It’s been a difficult winter, and many of us are similarly anxious to let it go. Even with whispers of another impending storm on the horizon, I still wouldn’t draw back and hesitate now.

Making use of the free wifi at Copley Place, I’m testing out whether this blog can be done by satellite, so bear with me if the format is slightly screwy or the usual perfection is in short supply. At the time of this writing I’m still in Boston. It’s a sunny but brisk Sunday morning, and the sky is a very deep and brilliant blue. I’m patiently awaiting the noon opening of retail stores – particularly John Fluevog, which has a pair of wingtips that caught my eye in the ‘Improper Bostonian.’

While I’m not exactly in need of new shoes, I’ve been saving a bit of money, and it may be time for a little reward. I did splurge on a scarf earlier, and a silk pocket square, but I put back an Armani coat (even though it was half off!) and declined a leather Coach tote that screamed my name. More difficult was saying no to a new Tom Ford Private Blend – ‘Oud Fleur’ – and a long line of Byredo Parfums at Barneys. Yet somehow I did it. That’s will power.

This concludes my test of the blog’s satellite capability. I’ll attempt to put up a Boston pic to see how that works, or doesn’t work, but for the most part it seems to be possible. This is a very good sign.

This weekend I hope to find myself back in Boston, where I’ll be meeting my friend Alissa and her daughter for a catch-up dinner. There is much to tell – we only see each other every few months, and these last few months have been action-packed to say the least. Along with this recent lifting of a haze, I feel a renewed desire to reconnect with those people who matter the most to me – the friends who have been in my life for a decade and a half, some even longer.

These are the ones who know me inside and out, and are able to see certain patterns and changes that sometimes not even I have been able to discern. They’re often better than a mirror or a counselor, and they offer honest insight and tough truths, because that’s what good friends do. They will also be there for me no matter what may come. We will be there for each other. That sense of comfort confounds any sense of loneliness.

Given their respective size, it’s strange that I should feel so much safer in Boston than in Downtown Albany, but such is the case. Even on dark evenings, passing by alleyways like this, I feel a greater comfort and security than if I were to pass similar spots in upstate New York. Of course it’s all in my head, but sometimes that’s where the power of safety resides. It helps too that the Back Bay/South End area of Boston is relatively benign when it comes to crime, at least in the hours that I frequent the surrounding streets. (No more 2 AM strolls for me.)

Far from being spooky or haunting, these scenes delight with their subtle air of mystery and timelessness. Echoes of Europe, for which I’ve always loved Boston, sound off the cobblestone walks, whispers of a past life sharing secrets shrouded in a dusty veil. No more than a whisper can be heard tonight, not above the rising wind and a growing chill. Shadows fix themselves in place beneath street lamps, where they will remain until the first light of day washes them away. In the summer, a stray skunk might be seen waddling amid the garbage, seeking out sustenance, or a raccoon, that pesky night bandit, bold in its natural mask. Tonight, however, in the dead middle of winter, there is nothing to be seen.

In the morning, the sun streams in through the front windows of the Boston condo. By afternoon, it has shifted to the bedroom bay window, but thanks to the gigantic mirror of the John Hancock Tower, it also pours in through the front windows again, until the leaves of Braddock Park fill in come the spring. This has always been a favorite, and fleeting, space to be – in that zone where sun pours in from both sides. Along the Southwest corridor you can actually step into spots where it feels like two suns are shining upon you at once. It’s nothing short of magical, and I’ve often stopped still in my tracks when I realize I’ve stepped into those ethereal pools of shifting light.

The photos here play with the fading light of a winter’s day, and its reflections. As the sun slowly descended, a chill crept in with the dusk. The wind picked up a bit and I pulled my coat more tightly around my chest. A dinner of pho had momentarily warmed me, but it drained quickly as I hurried along Massachusetts Avenue down to Columbus, catching the last of the day’s sunlight on the dome of the Christian Science Center.

This isn’t an area I typically traverse. Most errands or walks take me in the opposite direction, so it’s been at least a year -“ probably more – since I’ve been this far down Columbus. At the dimming of the day, there was something sad about it, about how much I had been missing.

Luke Adams Gifting Co., a new shop on that stretch of Columbus that I rarely frequent, had opened up in the last few months. They had a neat selection of unique gifts, and a nice assortment of letterpress cards. I spoke with the shop owner who said they’d only recently had a soft opening, and were offering some glass-blowing classes to get word out that they were there. I purchased a few cards and went back into the quickly-darkening afternoon.

Right next door was a coffee shop that I didn’t stop in that moment, but I will on my next trip. The old neighborhood has come a long way, and is still evolving. I have missed that – the new stores and cafes that open up a few blocks away, the excitement of trying out new things. I don’t do it when I’m in upstate New York, and not only because there are less things happening. That just means there is more to explore whenever I get back to Boston.

After our dinner, we decided to walk back to the condo, by way of the Public Garden. It will always be a place of comfort for me, no matter what. At night, it holds a different sort of enchantment, especially at the end of winter. The first spot of color on the willow offered a bright bit of hope. The line of ducklings made its way toward the water. The foot-bridge glowed in the midst of a sea of snow. And Washington stood sentry atop a very high horse.

We are forecast to possibly be buried under snow again, so I’ll lay low and stay in upstate New York this weekend. That doesn’t mean my mind and heart won’t be elsewhere, and I’ll put a suitable salve on such hurt by revisiting last weekend in Boston. These photos were taken as evening fell over the city – part of the shoot can also be seen in the slider on the main page of this website. My friend Kira was meeting me at The Liberty Hotel after her shift at Mass General, and the evening was nice enough for a leisurely walk from the condo to our rendezvous.

We tried a Japanese restaurant, Ma Soba, which was right up the street. Kira had had a hectic day, and I was looking for something close by and soothing. Perhaps it was too soothing, as there were only two other tables occupied, and it was only 8 PM on a Friday night. No matter, it made things more conducive to talking and catching up – and there was a lot of both to do, as I’ve not seen Kira since the holidays, and much has happened since then.

It’s good to talk things out with an old friend, especially one who brings wise counsel and personal experience to the table. Mostly, though, it was just good to be with someone who’s known you for sixteen years – who remembers what you were like back then, and who knows whether or not you’ve really changed. We can hide so much from ourselves, but we can’t hide everything from our friends. In this case, she saw things as I saw them, and it was that reassurance that warmed my heart more than anything.

On the trail of Freedom…

First, a disclaimer: I’m not an expert on scones. For the most part, I avoid them, as they all too easily turn out dry and dull. A number of years ago I found myself in a pinch at an Au Bon Pain, and I tried one of their orange scones, which had a delicious orange glaze (if questionably bright in color), but the scone itself was dry and brittle, crumbling in the worst possible way, and made only half edible by its glaze. Since then I’ve tended to stick to a muffin or a croissant if I need a dose of carbs for breakfast.

This past weekend, however, I found myself at one of the South End Buttery satellite locations (which was pleasantly less jammed early in the morning than its popular flagship residence), and a chocolate orange scone was calling out my name. Based on the fact that every single thing I’ve ever had at the Buttery has been out-of-this-world good, including their scones, I ordered one (and a chocolate chunk cookie, just in case). It is another secret of Boston that I hesitate sharing because I want it all to myself.

Here was a revelation. Here was a scone that managed to be moist and flavorful, with just the right consistency of crumble to it. The chocolate mixed divinely with the orange – always a favorite combination of mine – and the multitude of tiny air pockets kept things light and less dense than most other scones I’ve had. Which isn’t to say it wasn’t substantial – it was – but in the best possible way. I sat in the window, slowly enjoying every bite, watching a sunny Sunday morning leisurely unfold in the South End.

I might have to go back to Boston next weekend just to get another.

When we were kids, we used to stay at the Copley Marriott in Boston with my Mom. Sometimes Gram would join us, sometimes it would just be my brother and myself. Back then (this was the late 80’s and early 90’s), the elevators of each floor were situated around a large window that looked out onto the Charles River. (On the 4^th of July, locals and hotel guests alike would station themselves at these windows to get the perfect view of the fireworks – yes, I did that one year before word seemed to get out.)

High above the city, the view of Boston always thrilled me. I felt its magic and pull, and envisioned a day when I’d be out on my own, exploring the city and reveling in its romantic twilight. It was a glimmer of independence, coupled with the safety of having a hotel room to which I could return at the end of the day. The crux of adolescence and childhood, and the bit of freedom afforded us walking through Copley Place without parental guidance was exhilarating. (We were allowed to stay out late and walk around the mall, as it was attached to the hotel.)

A few weeks ago, I was walking through the Marriott and on a whim took the elevator to one of the upper floors. I looked out to this view again, remembered when the world was filled with possibility, and felt the same expansive thrill. This weekend I’m in Boston, and feeling the magic all over again.

This marks the first weekend in some time that I am not heading to Boston – mostly because we have running water in our kitchen! (I don’t like using exclamation points unless I’m being intentionally ridiculous, but this is genuine excitement and giddiness.) Last Sunday, however, I was still in that beautiful city, made more resplendent on that particular morning from the sun breaking through the aftermath of an extended rainstorm. Though I was departing on that day, I did not hop immediately in the car and hightail it home as it my usual routine. Instead, I had a cup of tea, then walked to one of my favorite places to grab something for breakfast: the South End Buttery.

The original location still bustles with activity and occasional lines, but there’s a satellite location, much closer to home, that serves some of the same delicious goodies. On this day I had an orange-chocolate scone – deliciously moist (scones can often be so dry) and substantial but still light enough to not feel gluttonous. (It was the almond croissant that might have pushed me into that territory – still, it was worth it.) Somehow, I refrained from taking a chocolate chip cookie on the road with me (they do make some of the best in Boston).

As I sat at the counter eating all the scrumptiousness, I slowed down to enjoy the morning and the unfolding day. The sun peeked through the clouds, and the faintest notion of spring – the first hint this year – thrilled the heart. It doesn’t always hurt to get your hopes up.