FLASHY CARS AND FLASHY BATHROOM ANTICS

Years ago my father, acting on one of his few truly parental leanings, took the family to the Larz Anderson Auto Museum, which houses the oldest car collection in the United States.  The museum is located in the city of Brookline, within spitting distance to Boston's medical hub and Fenway Park.  I remember two things about the museum: former director of the Boston Pops Arthur Fiedler's firefighters' helmet collection and an Alfa Romeo.

I am reasonably certain that Fiedler's collection is probably housed at the Boston Fire Museum now (another outing for my bucket list), but I am hoping to spy that Alfa Romeo again.  I remember it was a 1925 car, possibly a Roadster but more likely a Spider, and was either red with a white interior, or, I seem to recall, white with a red interior.  It was at the time and still remains from my childhood memory, the best looking damn car I had ever seen.

Which begs the question, why has it taken me so long to get back to the museum?  Afraid of bursting the bubble on one of the few positive childhood family memories?  Probably.

Anyway, I add the Larz Anderson Auto Museum to my list of things I will do this summer.  It seems like every time I try to go, though, something happens.  I either have another commitment or else the museum isn't open for some reason.  Finally, after the museum is closed on Saturday for some a private event, I decide to drive down there on Sunday.  I check the schedule and nothing major is planned at the museum for Sunday - no closings, no special events, just a regular day.

I am reasonably adept at getting around in Boston.  I can usually find my way via landmarks if I don't actually know the roads, but I end up being heralded through Boston a different way.  I am used to going through Kenmore Square and past Fenway to get to Brookline, but this time I circumvent Fenway and come out deep in the medical area.  I'm familiar with this part of town, so I comfortably follow both Waze and my GPS to Brookline, arriving just in time to find ...

... no place to park at the museum.

Apparently the website is incorrect, and there is indeed a lawn event going on.  I park along the street about a quarter of a mile away, walk past the community gardens, and discover that there is (pleasant surprise) no extra charge to drool over a hundred or more BMW's, which I do before entering the museum itself.  I am not big into BMW's.  Sorry, folks, but they're pretty standard, run-of-the-mill to me.  One poor guy stands next to his BMW, trying to get the attention of judges by whining about how only a few of this particular model were manufactured in this particular color ... yadda yadda yadda.  Good luck, Bro, because your car looks like about fifty others on the lawn.

Finally, I make my way into the museum itself.  A woman in a flowery dress rushes up to me and orders me to be careful and "Do NOT reach over the ropes or you will set off ALARMS!"  Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity may recall how I set off alarms (three of them) at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts when taking a class of miscreants through, a trek that somehow included a painting worth millions balancing on my scalp.  No worries today, lady; I'm not touching ANYTHING.  However, many people (mostly with kids) do reach over the ropes and touch the cars.  I keep trying to run away from them so that I don't get blamed for any alarms this time.

I stop by the ladies' room and discover that the one-seater is right in front of a window with a flimsy see-through curtain that leads out to the lawn.  Oh well.  Maybe if I leave the light off, no one will see my hindquarters as I pull down my pants and sit on the toilet.  I wave at people outside just to be polite, finish my business, wash my hands, and promptly head back to see what's happening around the halls of the building (now that I have flashed everyone from the loo).

The car collection is impressive.  It's not a huge museum, by any standards, but the cars include antiques, classics, kids' pedal cars, an old soapbox derby car, very old cars in various states of disrepair, old-fashioned bicycles, and the preserved tack room with antique saddles (the museum is an old carriage house).  Alas, there is no Alfa Romeo of memory there, as it was presumably on loan at the time.  I do, however, gravitate strongly to the 1937 Packard Super Eight limo and a nifty looking 1946 MG TC.

On my way out I decide I should probably hit the ladies' room one more time because I'm going home a different way and just might meander longer than the GPS suggests.  Again, I leave the light turned off and let daylight streaming through the flimsy curtain guide my way.  When I stop to wash my hands, I notice that someone has removed her bra and left it unceremoniously on the counter by the sink.  My mind reels with the possibilities:  Flashing the crowd from the window?  Trying to enhance the possibilities of riding in one of the BMW's by letting the girls bounce free?  Change of clothes including underthings?  I admit that I am stymied.  I have no idea how or why a random bra ends up in a mostly-see-through bathroom, but it clearly doesn't belong in the display of The Golden Age of Cars.

Safely on my way (and yes, still wearing my own damn bra), I make a mental note of my next possible adventure:  Fiedler's helmets are nowhere to be found, so I'll go on a wild goose chase for those very soon.