Category Archives: Boston

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…

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. 

Somewhere along our Holiday Stroll last weekend, both Kira and I remarked that this year didn’t feel very Christmas-like, so it was reassuring to know that I’m not alone in not feeling the holiday spirit. We’re not very upset or sad about it, and we had a fun weekend together – it simply didn’t feel very much like the festive celebration our holiday strolls have taken on in previous years. Some strolls are like that – maybe we need an itinerary again… or maybe not. 

To be honest, I don’t even recall what our stroll actually consisted of – often I’ll have an idea and we’ll proclaim it as we’re walking – this year we just did our usual routine like any other weekend visit. Friday night we ate in, while an emerging full moon swelled in the sky. Dinner was a pomegranate rosemary mocktail paired with a tamarind fish curry. 

The next day we started with some shopping and walking downtown, including our customary winter treat of a bowl of pho in Chinatown. Pho Pasteur opens early, so a little after 11 we had a hearty lunch, fueling ourselves for the shopping madness. 

The weather was clear, if a bit windy. We agreed that we’d take a bit of wind if the sky remained blue, and after a several rainy holiday strolls, this one at least had the weather on our side. 

An unfortunate incident at the Newbury Boston put a damper on our spirits, but only for a moment. Kira and I are resilient to many of the ills of the world because we’ve had to be. Still no word from the hotel on any sort of amends for an episode that reeked of racial profiling. 

On our way back to the condo for our afternoon siesta, we paused for fries at Saltie Girl, because a batch of French fries is always a welcome bit of sustenance to see us through to dinner. 

Back at the condo, the afternoon light was just beginning to dim, but there was still some sun being reflected through the front windows from the former John Hancock Tower. It’s a magical time of day when sunlight pours in from the front and back windows at the same time. 

The evening before a full moon found the heavenly body herself preparing for full splendor, seen here on the right, peering over the row of houses across the street. Instead of some fancy, dress-up holiday dinner at an elegant restaurant, Kira and I went out for a few slices of pizza just around the corner. It was delightful.

On Sunday morning, we were walking back from breakfast and about to say our goodbyes when I asked Kira what the most fun part of this year’s holiday stroll weekend had been. She immediately returned her answer: “Your craziness, I guess.”

I accept the criticism. 

The energy of a full moon doesn’t simply dissipate the very next day. Some of it lingers, and when the moon rises that next night, it looks just as full, and exerts almost as much influence. Such was the status of the evening of our Friendsgiving festivities this year. The day had been beautifully sunny, and our reservation at 75 Chestnut wasn’t until 8 PM, so we took our time chilling at the condo before starting a leisurely trek on foot to Beacon Hill. 

It was already dark as we passed through Copley Square, and the moon hung between buildings where I once worked. The past peeked back at us – the building formerly known as the John Hancock Tower is the office where Kira and I first met a quarter of a century ago. We ate lunch on the steps of this church when spring was in the air. On this night, a warm one for November, I felt safe precisely between the past and the future. 

We reached the edge of the Boston Public Garden, and Kira hesitated, but I walked right in – it was early enough that others were still walking the paths. In many ways, this space is more magical at night, especially the night after a full moon. 

It hadn’t been cold or windy enough to remove the wardrobe of the trees; cloaked as they were, the trees acted like a maze in the dark, meandering beside the walkways, waving in the slightest breeze, tricking us into thinking there was something constant about this world. 

We traveled along the Arlington Street side, and emerged near Beacon Hill, walking toward the river and entering Chestnut Street from a place I’d never been before. It felt like we had gone very far back in time, aside from the cars lining the cobblestone streets. It was quiet here, eerily so, and somewhere above us but out of the sight the moon was reflecting sunlight. 75 Chestnut appeared and welcomed us in for a cozy Friendsgiving dinner. It was my first time there, and it was delicious: a neighborhood joint with amazing food and friendly staff, ideal for a warm and intimate, if lively, scene. Before the coziness could became cramped, we finished our meal and walked back into the night, taking the more crowded way through Beacon Hill before rejoining the Public Garden from the other end. 

This angel had seen us in and out of the Garden, and we crossed Arlington onto Commonwealth, where we took the middle mall walkway, covered by trees and enchantingly dark between rows of brownstones. History whispered to us, our own, and the history of Boston for centuries before us. The past was a guide, but we were forging a new way, having never taken this route at this tie of the year. Usually we are beneath the Commonwealth trees in summer, or after they are lit for the holidays. On this dark night, even with the not-quite-full moon glowing between the branches and buildings, the darkness enveloped us, but, linking arms, we made our own light, and it carried us safely back to the condo.