Category Archives: Boston

Rainy Sunday in Boston

Sunday morning. Gray light through the half-closed blinds. When I awoke, the drops had not yet started hitting the air conditioner, so I thought we’d be safe to walk around the city for a bit. After a cup of tea, and some morning chit-chat with Kira, I stepped into a hot shower, but by the time I finished drying off, the cadence of water was already beating rhythmically on the metal unit.

We stalled at the front table, looking out onto the street. Above the John Hancock Tower, the light grew brighter. Maybe the day would turn around after all. These were the moments I loved – the extra time with a dear friend, unexpected and welcome – and I put my usual plans to make an early departure on hold.

There were honey sticks to find, and honey to go along with them, at the SoWa Market. There was a brunch to be had at Cinquecento, and lavender water to locate afterward. There was a red umbrella held over both our heads, and a quick change into new boots for Kira and her open-toed shoes. As the day got progressively worse, and the wind and rain toyed with our shared umbrella, we ducked into hotels and shops, drying off between wind-blown wetness, partaking of bits of sustenance here and there, but mostly just browsing and enjoying the time together.

Slowly, I’m learning to embrace the moment, even in the rain, and even if it only delays the inevitable good-bye.

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The Sunset Room

Somewhere in a sunset room
Oh, somewhere in a sunset room
We’ll share our new religion
Dine on rose and apricot
We won’t count the hours or days
And we’ll dance until we can’t

It is my favorite hour, and I am in my favorite place. The last light of day streams in through the bedroom window, bathing the bed in rays of sun. This is where I will read, or sleep, or simply look around – at the walls, at the ceiling, at the curtains framing the window. It is a place of quiet, and repose. A glass doorknob acts as a prism, throwing off shards of rainbows, and a robe hangs, eerily empty, beside it. I will wrap myself in it later, when the sun has gone and the evening has cooled. For now, we remain separate.

Ah, somewhere in the sunset room
It’s like a portal to another world
We have no need for clothes or shoes
And without words
Convince me you’re not counterfeit
And I’ll show you what I’m made of

There are tangible textures and objects in the room – wood, cotton, and paper – and then the more intangible things too – light, air, and heat – and somewhere between the two is me. We are both present and absent at all times, but for this moment I feel more present, more alive, than is customary. Feel the softness of the sheets, feel the ply of the pillow, feel the lightest pricks of the sun on my arms. I touch – the corners of a blanket, the pages of a book. I see – the subtle ridges of the rug, the swirling knots of the wood. I smell – the faded hints of cologne, the remnants of sleep. All of it feels like home.

We’ll have breakfast of chocolate and velvet
Brush off the dust of sleepy memory
We’ve awakened in a sunset room
We own, we own the sun and the moon

In this room, the years of my life pass in shifting light.

In this room, a state of perpetual arousal piques all senses.

In this room, the sun sets and the day ends.

In this room, the moonlight peeks.

In this room, the day begins again.

In this room, I have been happy.

In this room, I have cried into the night.

In this room, I alone have dreamed of not being alone.

 

Oh, somewhere in a sunset room
We’re craving winter, we’ve lost the afternoon
We’re dreaming on clouds of saffron silk
Bathed in a golden light, defying gravity
 
Oh, so completely
Oh, oh, so completely
 
Oh, somewhere in a sunset room
It’s like a portal to another world
We have no need, we have no need for clothes or shoes

The memories of our limbs intertwined, at the very beginning of when you were first getting to know me, and will we ever truly know each other? All that you see here, all that I’ve allowed you to see, can never reveal what I’m made of, but you draw it out, against the years, against the hesitation, and in this room my heart opens anew.

My hands are open, I stand before you, and I will show you…

I’ll show you
Yes, I’ll show you what I’m made of
Yes, I will
I’m gonna show you what I’m made of
Yes, I will
Yes, I will
I’m gonna show you what I’m made of

They try to say what you are, spiritual or sexual?

They wonder about Solomon and all his wives.

In the body of the world, they say, there is a soul

and you are that.

But we have ways within each other

that will never be said by anyone.

~ Rumi

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Boston Day, Boston Night

I like how the clouds have changed in the sky in these two photographs.

A day can do that.

A day can make all the difference.

And a night can make even more.

 

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Stairway to Heaven

The Bunker Hill Monument stands as an impressive edifice marking one of the significant battles of the American Revolution. In all my years visiting and living in Boston, I never made it over the Charles River to visit this historic site – until last weekend. When the skies above are so beautiful, and a breeze is dancing in from the shore, it’s good to go somewhere you’ve never been – to make a memory and mark the moment. The vantage point from Bunker Hill proved the perfect point on which to begin.

Getting there, one must cross the bridge into Charlestown, another place I’d never been. Ever since Suzie took me across Ithaca’s gorges, I’ve been a fan of bridges, simultaneously thrilled and slightly frightened of being so high above the water, like the exhilaration one might get at the top of a Ferris wheel. I stood looking out over the river as a boat passed beneath, its red-and-white-striped roof causing dizzying effects as seen through the metal slats of the bridge.

After walking all the way to get there, the prospect of climbing to the top of the monument can seem rather daunting, no matter how nice the day. There are no elevators, only a stern warning for people with medical conditions or in bad shape that the stairs are not for the faint of heart. Usually I heed those warnings (though in my case it’s mostly for laziness). This time I was impelled onward – and upward. All 294 steps upward, steps that were supposedly-helpfully marked every 25 or so, which was more depressing than encouraging, especially around Step #150 when, winded and sweating, I realized it was only the half-way mark.

Spiraling higher and higher, the dim stairway offers barely enough room for two to pass at a time. In a way, it’s a very intimate experience. There are no breather spots, no roomy demarcation points, and no lounge in which to pause and get a second wind. When you start something like this, you simply have to finish it.

At the top, a small circular room with cloudy plexiglass windows barely opened up. The claustrophobic among us, if any managed to survive the tight stairway, would have probably fainted. For me, it was enough to stop walking and try to calm my shaking legs. The wind whipped through the open top-half of the windows, a welcome bit of cool air to dry off the sweaty countenance that comes from walking up all those stairs. (Did I mention there were 294 of them?)

There, ensconced high above the city I so loved, unseen and unknown to all below, I enjoyed a private moment of revelry, a spark of secret joy. The view of Boston is indeed a good one, and it’s always nice to see one of my favorite cities from a new perspective. It was also amusing to watch other people just coming up, soaked in sweat, more winded than me, and displaying both disappointment and awe at their destination.

The way back down always seems shorter, less onerous, even if the walk up has wiped you out. Perhaps it was because I didn’t quite want to go back to earth, back to the things that needed to be done, the battles of daily living that paled to the battles of Bunker Hill. Step after step, the tower receded further into the sky, the rarified air out of grasp, the moment and the memory distant and suddenly forlorn. But the sun still shone down, the breeze still danced, and the journey continued.

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Look at Me

Look at me,
I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree
And I feel like I’m clinging to a cloud
I can’t understand
I get misty just holding your hand

I used to hate this song. It played on one of my grandmother’s music boxes, and I never liked the sadness and melancholy of the melody. Her other music boxes played happy waltzes or cheery standards – this one was a depressing dirge, even if you wound it up as tightly as it would go, trying to speed it along and bring about a livelier rendition.

Thirty years later, I have discovered a new appreciation of it. When sitting in Copley Square last week, I listened as a trumpeter played it, without accompaniment, just like the lone notes of a music box. I looked it up again and listened to the words, and when I found this version by the great Ella Fitzgerald, I was hooked. That change of heart doesn’t happen very often, especially with a stubborn coot like myself. Sometimes, though, something different happens, whether by chance or circumstance or the simple act of Ms. Fitzgerald working her vocal enchantment over a deliciously languid piano.

Walk my way
And a thousand violins begin to play
Or it might be the sound of your hello
That music I hear
I get misty the moment you’re near

Yes, it’s over-the-top, and perhaps romantically overwrought, but now and then it’s okay to indulge in that. In fact, sometimes it’s a necessity. We are too quick to stop the possibility of love, too closed off and guarded to simply let it happen. And why should it be so? As the lone trumpeter played the last lingering notes, the square resumed its chatter and noise – cars beeped at pedestrians, tour buses called their carriage back aboard, and sea gulls cried from the turrets of Trinity Church.

Can’t you see that you’re leading me on,
And it’s just what I want you to do?
Don’t you notice how hopelessly I’m lost?
That’s why I’m following you

I took out some paper and began to write. It’s what I do when I begin to feel lost. If I can find my way on paper, it usually translates to life. Not always, but most of the time – even if there are messier things than can be solved by a few well-chosen words. I wrote to a few friends, to some family, to a loved one, and then I wrote to myself – things that I didn’t want to forget, things that were too valuable to lose, things I couldn’t afford not to remember. And as tends to happen when it got fleshed out on paper, I felt a little better.

On my own when I wander through this wonderland alone
Never knowing my right foot from my left
My hat from my glove
I’m too misty, and too much in love
Too misty, and too much in love.

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Flowers for a Boston Weekend

The prospect of a weekend in Boston is always a happy one, particularly if one is fortunate enough to make it a very long weekend, starting on Thursday and ending on Sunday night. Such was the case last week, but thanks to the pre-programmed nature of this blog, I’m only getting to the recap now.

It begins, as all good things do, with a collection of flowers. As we enter the final stretches of summer, their colors are stronger, deeper in the lower afternoon sunlight. It’s as if they are preparing for the final send off, especially since the ones you see here are annuals; they will not live beyond the first hard freeze. But oh what color and beauty before that sad fall.

There is something to be said for such a riotously-exuberant blaze of glory, this brilliant bit of fire before the final burn. Perennials can hold their passion, subsisting in softer fashion, muted through the heat of summer in their efforts to last through to the next year. For the most part I tend to be perennial in nature, keeping things quiet and stable so as to last through another year – but every once in a while something will shake me up, and shake me to the core, and I’ll go all annual on your ass, throwing caution to the wind, defying sense and sanity, and gleefully giving in to every animal impulse.

And once or twice in a lifetime, if we’re lucky, some of us are able to combine the two – the short-lived excitement of a colorful cacophony coupled with the enduring life-sustaining and quiet stability of something that lasts, something that will go on. It’s a tricky balancing act, but a worthy one. You don’t give up on that kind of beauty, or the chance of having it endure.

It’s something that is exquisite and tender, but in the best circumstances also hardy enough to last – and if you can harness the vivid but finite with the lasting but stalwart, it’s a magical bit of alchemy that is too rare to let go.

And so we hold these August flowers a little closer to the heart, shielding them from impending frosts, hoping that somehow, some way, they will survive the winters to come. We are more protective of them, and love them just a little more because of it. Life is too fragile to be so careless.

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BOS Departure

By the time you read this, another weekend in Boston will be coming to its close. Since I’m writing this in anticipation of that, who can say what turns the time will take? At the moment of this writing, all is hope and possibility, perched precariously on the winds of chance, and fate. The best weekends are like that – without plan or agenda or expectation – and Boston has never let me down. Especially Boston at night.

 

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Night View from the Garden

Boston, as seen from the Public Garden, at midnight.

 

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Beauties of Boston

If it seems like I just got back from Boston, that’s because I did, but I’m returning this evening because it’s just too damn fun. And pretty. Case in point, this collection of wide-ranging subjects, taken on a single walk with my friend Kira. We started in the afternoon light of the South End. Kira was with me for the first time I tried oysters, so whenever we need a quick snack, we tend to go for a dozen. These were expertly selected by the folks at B&G Oysters.

“He was a bold man that first ate an oyster.” ~ Jonathan Swift

A pair of balloon flowers peeping through their iron gate.

Hey Pee Wee! I found your stolen bike! It’s in the North End!

There was a religious festival going on in the North End, hence these colorful religious artifacts.

August light in Boston has a way of transforming the city. We don’t have too many summer weekends left. Best to make the most of them and soak it all in. Fall will bring its own enchantments, but summer is special.

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A Boston Mystery, Unsolved

Two years ago this month, I had made my way to Boston in search of something. That is, once I arrived in that fair city, I felt certain I was about to find something. I wasn’t sure what it was, or what it would turn out to be, but it was the first time I felt an almost physical push towards something, a force stronger than suspicion, more focused than a gut feeling, and it impelled me to seek something out.

Would this be a person, or a place, or an object? I couldn’t tell. Would this lead me to something that unlocked a mystery from the past, the opening of a memory gate I couldn’t access before? Or would it simply be the beginning of a journey, the start of something brand new? I did not know. All I felt was that I was supposed to be there, at that moment in time, and I was supposed to find something. It remains one of the most pronounced premonitions I’ve ever had, even if it was so abstract and unclear.

Being that I’m headed back to Boston this weekend, I was reminded of that time two years ago. I also got around to adding the tales to the archives, and you can find the strange, if ultimately fruitless, adventures in the following posts:

1. Remembering the First Man in My Life, Circa 1994

2. Books Among Bricks

3. Faces of Pain

4. Hollow Sidewalks

5. Bond in Boston

This weekend I have more concrete plans and goals than I did two years ago: sampling the new Tom Ford Private Blends and a pair of new Hermes fragrances, and meeting up with my dear friend Kira, whom I haven’t seen in many months. Oh, and it’s a tax-free holiday weekend for clothing and shoes. That has more significance than any whimsical premonition ever could.

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Boston Florals

This weekend I’m headed back to Boston, partly for Pride (though I’m not sure I’ll do the parade this year) and partly just to get away. I have some plans with a long-time friend and her daughter (my how times have changed) and need to scope out some new summer spots. The last time I was in town the spring floral display was at its height. Hopefully there are some pre-summer delights in bloom now.

 

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Sailing Through the Market

The SoWa Market in the South End of Boston is one of my favorite Sunday things to do when in town. Last weekend was no exception, and I stumbled upon a few choice finds (in addition to the four brownies from the Yummy Mummy – including a mint one, and a salted caramel one).

No, the items depicted here were not among my purchases. (Those will be revealed at a later date.)

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A Bunny in Boston

The Southwest Corridor Park, which runs right past our place in Boston, is the place of many an unexpected evening confrontation with wildlife. Usually it’s just a few squirrels or birds, but earlier this year I came upon a skunk on his/her nocturnal wanderings, and last weekend we found this bunny enjoying a midnight snack. Coupled with the fauna of the Boston Public Garden (geese, ducks, swans, and all their plentiful offspring), I see just as many animals in Boston as I do in upstate New York. They’re also much friendlier, and less skittish. City living makes social creatures of us all.

 

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Anniversary Stroll

As per tradition, Andy and I strolled through the Boston Public Garden in commemoration of our wedding day. It was as gorgeous as the original, if slightly cooler and breezier. This time, though, there was music – and not only the honking of agitated geese at the presence of one too many ducks, or the excited squeals of youngsters at the line of tiny ducklings in the wake of their parents.

As if we’d been transported to another continent, the sounds of an erhu carried on the wind. We traced its origin to a gentlemen sitting on a bench before the pond, and we sat down on a neighboring bench to listen. The music traveled throughout the park, perfectly complementing our walk, and the fluttering of cherry blossoms along the way.

On this particular morning, a straw boater hat provided both aesthetic pleasure and practical function, shielding a bit of the sun from my eyes, and allowing the cool breeze to travel through its woven structure. Though it was Derby Day (an unplanned happy coincidence), the denizens of Boston did not yet seem ready to embrace the hat, at least according to Andy’s tracking of puzzled reactions. No matter. It worked wonders.

The hat was a bigger hit with those at the Bristol Lounge of the Four Seasons. It’s where we had our wedding lunch, and is the only place we return to when revisiting our anniversary spots (I’m saving the original restaurants for a special one – maybe ten or twenty).

As the day unfolded, we walked around the city, enfolded by blooms soft and bold. Another year, and another season, were under way.

 

 

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