I am in Boston today doing some pre-wedding errands with my
two sons (best man and groom), the bride, and the bride's father.
It's fun naming some of the landmarks as we go, landmarks that mean more
to locals than to anyone else.
We start on Beacon Street, passing such notable places as
Tom Brady's brownstone and The Church of Scientology. We cut across Exeter Street, walking in front
of the now-defunct Exeter Street Theater that used to run Rocky Horror Picture Show on a continuous loop. We make our way past alleys that are numbered
… Alley 417 … Alley 418 … and work our way across several more intersections
until we reach Boylston Street.
I spot the building where my father used to work when he was
employed by Kenyon & Eckhardt Advertising, however short a tenure that may
have been (anger management is a bit of an issue that runs in my family). I'm so conditioned that I don't notice the
tourist spots anymore -- Old South Church, Copley Square, Trinity Church.
As we step along the sidewalk, someone in our group says,
"This is where one of the bombs went off.
Right here where we're walking."
Because I possess a horrid sense of direction, I don't
realize where we are right away until I see the blue and yellow paint in the
street. We are at the Boston Marathon
Finish Line.
I look around, my mind picturing the locations of my
students and my friends and their families, people who truly were right here when it happened. There is some kind of tour going on, complete
with a professional camera man, and the woman with the microphone is being
drowned out by a nearby conversation -- two girls recounting some chick-fight,
complete with salty language and semi-reenactments of the bitch-slapping. The reality of our location stuns me and
reels my senses. The juxtaposition of
the camera and the foul-mouthed women, and the Finish Line makes me feel like
everyone is desecrating hallowed ground, including me for walking there. I actually feel disoriented for a few moments
as we continue down the street past throngs of people moving in multiple
directions all at once.
After making our main stop, we trek back over to Newbury
Street, finding a place to eat lunch and having the luxury of a Boston resident
and frequent city diner in our party. We
walk in to a crowded spot and get a prime table. This is when it pays to be a true Bostonian
over being a Wannabe or a tourist.
I love this city, and I love walking around this city. When I hang out here with my pal Sal, we walk
an average of five miles and know where every public bathroom is (usually
because we've stopped off for a pint or two).
I am so used to endless and relaxing jaunts through Boston that I
completely walk by where we've parked the car.
I'd probably still be walking if the rest of our party hadn't whistled
me back to reality.
Or maybe it's because part of me doesn't want to stop,
doesn't want to acknowledge that Finish Line, doesn't want to accept that this
city will never be the same again not only in how the world perceives us but in
how we perceive ourselves.
