Another successful trip to Boston!
My friend Sal and I like to do odd things in Boston: look at
tall ships, go to carnivals, and watch Corpse Flowers bloom. Today we decide to check out the second annual
WGBH-Boston Globe Summer arts Festival and various other activities competing
with this event.
First let me say that the set up for all of this activity is
kind of strange. There are things
happening on the Greenway, in Government Center, and at Copley Place. These places are about three miles apart,
which isn't very family-friendly as it requires lots of walking or trips on the
subway, neither of which option is conducive to families with small children
and strollers.
For walkers like Sal and me, this is no problem whatsoever.
We park on the waterfront in front of the courthouse where
the trial of the Marathon Bomber and the trial of the infamous mobster Whitey
Bulger are both taking place. We always
park here. The Seaport is our 'hood in
the city. There are news vans parked
along the main street -- every local news station in Boston -- but there is no
one in any of the vans. Apparently they
just leave them there all weekend and pick right back up on Monday morning,
making their ways to the vans and staying in there all damn day long.
We head across the bridge to the waterfront and cross to the
Greenway (where Sal tries to buy kitchenware, but we leave without it because
we'd have to carry it and it's still early in the adventure). We continue to cross streets and trudge through
Faneuil Hall Marketplace. When we reach
Government Center, there appears to be some kind of Latino festival going on. There are rides everywhere, and I drool over
the Scrambler but do not get on for a ride because it's $4. For anyone over age 45, the Scrambler is the
old Merry Mixer, the same exact ride that is inside the Psychodrome at Canobie
Lake Park. It remains my all-time
favorite ride.
Eventually we start the long walk toward Boylston Street. We walk around the Common where last year a
hawk was just sitting on the fence, happy as can be, three feet from Sal and making
direct eye contact with her, probably sizing up whether or not carrying her
away was feasible (I'm betting on …
MAYBE). We pick up Boylston at number
80. We are going into the 500's. We avoid the subway because it's a beautiful
day for a walk, maybe a little too beautiful as the day heats up to swazz
levels.
We arrive in Copley Square in time for the Irish Step
Dancing presentation. Everything is fine
except for the two toddlers that no one seems to own, dancing and running at
the low stage and causing a distraction to both audience and performers. Some people might think this is cute. I want to smack the parents of these
unsupervised children and, to be honest, I kind of want to smack the kids when
one of them screams into my friend's face, "MOVE!!! I WANT MY MOOOOOOOOM!!!!"
with her cutest Regan from The Exorcist
impersonation.
We peruse around Copley, score some free shit, and start
walking further up Boylston Street. Sal
was here when the Marathon bombs went off.
By sheer screwed up luck, she was not exactly where she needed to be at
the exact time, and was not standing in the exact bomb zones when both went
off. She was running a few minutes late
and was almost there, close enough to see, hear, smell, and understand what was
going on, close enough that her companion, who was in the Pentagon during 911,
knew precisely what the sounds were and ushered her immediately the other way
without argument. It is important to pay
homage to lives lost and hers saved, so we continue on our way until we've seen
enough.
We cut over to Newbury Street, a huge tourist area, and
discover people don't walk as fast as we do. This royally sucks wind as we try to ease our
way around throngs of people who seem to prefer standing still and shuffling
along to actually making progress. Eventually
the streets clogs clear a bit, and we are back near the Swan Boats.
We cross into the Common, hit the public bathrooms for a
quick rest stop, then head toward the financial district. I haven't walked this way in many decades, not
since I was a kid and I did some Christmas shopping with a Girl Scout troop in
Downtown Crossing. I am disoriented until
we end up on Summer Street, emerging eventually at South Station. She and I weave our way back to Atlantic
Avenue, back to Northern Avenue, back to the Moakley Courthouse, and back to
where we started. We have hiked a lot of miles. The heat and sun are
getting the better of me. If I sit down
now, I won't be getting up again, so we press on, past the parking lot, past
the car, and past the Institute of Contemporary Art (off which the Red Bull
Cliff Diving Series takes place in Boston), and soldier on.
Final Destination:
The upper deck of The Whiskey Priest.
Two ice cold beers apiece and sandwiches later, we are
ready to get our parking tag validated. This
is when it all becomes worthwhile. All
those parking garages we passed at $18 per hour, all the clogged Saturday
traffic and fights for "premium parking", all become fodder at this
point. We are parked in a nearly empty
lot, and the validated ticket brings our day-long safe parking to a whopping
total of $8. Even better, the direct
access to the highway home is a quarter mile from where we are parked, through
one light and down a ramp. It is, by
far, the easiest highway access in the entire city of Boston.
The next time we go in, we're going to have to clock our
foot mileage. Sal claims we did six
miles. I think we did seven. This is our biggest and most heated debate of
the day. You know, important,
earth-shattering stuff.
Even when we don't really do anything, we are always doing
something. We do a little sightseeing,
some reminiscing, some drinking, and we get ourselves some free shit (like a
tote bag that says Boston Ballet on
it and a free s'mores granola bar and an ice coffee with vanilla creamer in
it). Mostly, though, we get exercise and
laugh our fool heads clean off. Of
course, we could've stayed home on her deck and had a few beers and a ton of
laughs, but that would defeat the purpose of telling everyone we are in Boston
when I tag her near the Tea Party Museum, or defeat the purpose of snapping a
picture of what resembles a giant nipple outside of the Federal Reserve, or
defeat our small victory when calling the idiot who coughed in our faces a
bitch. Can't miss moments like this.
Besides, without a few tales, this blog would be mighty
sparse. That's why we're planning
another trip into the city for later in the week. Just a warning, Boston; you should probably be
prepared.
