A long time coming - Boston

Before beginning, I’ll mention that certain details in this story will be vague for anyone who isn’t already familiar with it.  While I could have written up a story for everyone, this is a story for three specific people, a gift of sorts for my traveling companions.  To you three, sorry this has taken so long to get sorted; let’s consider this a draft because my language skills are degrading.  To everyone else, may the words you read be enjoyable anyway.
On the 6th of November, 2009 I set off for Boston with three of my fellow interns: Charlotte, Matt and Jess.  Having planned to visit her old college friends, Jess invited the three of us to experience the city as she ran her various social errands.  We left Camden just after seven in the evening, ditching the last half of a dinner at UrbanPromise.  I used the entirety of my forethought for the weekend in that moment by taking a guacamole burrito along for the ride.  And so, it began.

We navigated through the paved chaos known as the New Jersey road system till we found our way onto the State Turnpike, the first major leg of our six-ish hour drive.  Small talk began slowly, transitioned to more serious stories, then drifted though the waters of conversational limbo.  At some point in New Jersey, I babbled for half an hour if not more on the topic of why I came to Camden for the year.  One individual slyly quipped during the story, “So, you made a seven hour booty call?” and while I never though myself capable of fitting such a description, there might have been some truth to that statement.  Then again, the comment may have been made out of vengeance because earlier I had found a stick of emergency, make-out gum in said person’s purse – sneaky, sneaky.  In the midst of all these serious stories, we stopped for fuel, food, and a pee.  Though it was far too cold to be outside without a jacket, I braved the frigid air and wandered behind what was either a dumpster or a generator and took care of business.  My body shivering, I ran back, threw open the door to the car, and plopped down in the backseat to warm up.

Conversation in the CRV arose out of a series of blanket questions posed to the group.  “Are you hot (ambiguous, no)?  What was your first kiss like?  Do you have any great stories from Middle School?”  I avoided the last topic to the best of my ability and thankfully, Matt retold quite the story to cover up my poor experiences during those years.  To keep things short, we’ll just say that one evening he found himself in a hot tub with nine girls who all wanted some action.  A few hours later, someone asked each of us to share a song remembered with fondness and another with heartache. For me, these were Down in Mexico by The Coasters and Arms of a Woman by Amos Lee.  We passed around iPods and listened to each other’s songs.  I searched through my mp3 player only to find that I had neither track on it.  I decided that come downtime in Boston I would upload the tracks and we could listen to them on the ride back.

We journeyed on.  I remember streetlights, road signs, bridges, buildings, a wrong turn or two, and not much else.  Then, rather suddenly, Jess dropped the three of us off in the city for the evening.  It was easily the quickest six-hour drive I have ever experienced.  We exchanged hugs and farewells then wondered if we would live through the evening till Saturday night when we would reconvene with Jess.  Though she was fairly certain Matt and I would be alright, she had great concern for Charlotte’s safety.  Flying in the face of such doubt, Charlotte demanded that we head to the first open bar we could find (more specifically, her request was for a place to pee – a request she had been making for over two hours).  The few minutes between Jess’s car and the bar made it painfully apparent that we had underestimated how cold Boston would be.  Indoor shelter for the night became priority number one and so we birthed plans of finding a hostel or something of the sort by mingling with the bar crowd.

Pushing aside wooden doors, we found ourselves in the Blackstone Grill. Charlotte bee-lined for the bathroom, satisfied her needs, and slipped on a pair of long-johns to guard against a worst-case, Winter’s evening while Matt and I worked our way into a set of seats at the bar where we promptly ordered our first round: a Molson and some Sam Adams.  He and I pondered for a moment, not quite prepared for what was to come in both the short term and over the course of the next two days.  I started taking notice of people in the bar, scripting scenarios of how our night would play out.  First thoughts led me to a table of attractive girls.  Assessment: too sleazy.  Not the girls mind you; rather, manipulating them into letting us spend an evening at one of their homes.  Then again, who knows what kind of wonderful souvenirs we could have picked up in Boston.

My eyes bounced around some more, picking out individuals and then scripting stories.  Thankfully, the other two focused on the reality of the situation and pulled me back to action.  We started chatting with a pair of guys sitting a few chairs down, thinking our best shot was to get a hostel suggestion for the evening.

Pete and Kyle were a perfect ticket for strangers in a new city, Pete with his desire to fill us with free booze and Kyle with his slightly off-pace thought process which filled our evening with unimaginable joy.  For most of the conversation, I sat in admiration of Matt’s ability to be welcomed into the life of another.  During those few hours, it was clear Matt was in his element.  Every once in a while I attempted to interject myself into the conversation, mainly by asking Kyle about his hopes and passions.  Interestingly enough, he hoped to someday open a nationwide catering company.  Though I had never heard a similar business plan, his, erm, pioneering spirit might be the necessary strength to develop such a venture.  “For, well however much money it would cost, I would bring out my team and cater your event.  We’d buy food from the locals and get plates and stuff there, but the food, my team and I would make you the best food you had ever eaten.”  When pressed a bit further, Kyle told us his dreams came from his father who cooked for him and his siblings every night after coming home from work.  “It was always the best: the best everything, the best steak, the best mac n’ cheese, just… the best.”  

Behind this great conversive backdrop, we hid our motives.  Every question, every beer, and every gesture worked towards our end goal – a place to sleep.  After asking about hostels and cheap hotels, Kyle “came up” with the brilliant idea that we spend the evening at his house.  After all he had a, “massive place and most of my seven roommates are nowhere to be found.  So yea, I’ll just have you come over.  I like you and respect you, but if you fuckin’ fuck with my house, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.  Don’t think I won’t.”  Thus, our rest was guaranteed.

Before we parted for the evening, Pete recommended that we head to the Bean Town Pub for steak tips.  Seeing as how we owed a night’s worth of drinks to Pete, his suggestion took high priority in our minds (and on my hand – safety habit #1: write down what you hear after four beers if you genuinely want to remember it regardless of where your night takes you, making sure to transfer it to a napkin or something later on).  With the need of shelter out of the way, our minds and hearts felt light.  Having accomplished our only goal meant the entire weekend was ours to enjoy.

We let Kyle slip into the background after sealing the deal, our minds at ease by his insistence that he would fuck us up if we messed with his house.  That was confirmation at its finest.  A while later, we noticed him trying to get intimate with a few ladies.  Not wanting our plans to be interrupted but feeling we owed him a good turn, Matt struck up conversation with the ladies while Kyle was away and told them how great of a guy he truly was.  Our story came out as well; Matt told of Camden and our work with the city’s children so he was effectively labeled, “Missionary Matt.”  (Later on when Kyle’s ladies left, they parted with kissed cheeks and perhaps only because of the efforts of our Missionary, on his lips as well.)

The evening rolled on and what seemed like an ideal setup almost unraveled before any of us had a chance to grasp the fleeting threads.  A good friend of Kyle’s had left the bar abruptly.  Normally, this wouldn’t have been an issue but the friend had left Kyle responsible for a sizable bar tab, and by sizable I mean well more than a monthly intern salary at Urban.  The bar was closing, we were set to go for the evening, and Kyle began negotiations with the bartender.  To pass the time and calm my nerves, I picked various bits of trash off the floor, straightened some chairs, and put a spoon or two on the counter though the bouncer didn’t seem to care.  He only cared that we leave, immediately.  Frankly, I think we all wanted the same.  Charlotte and I wandered out to the street, letting Matt and Kyle square away the bill.  Through some magical turn of events, Kyle weaseled his way out of payment, promising to bring his friend in the following night.  Not wanting Kyle’s altruistic heart to lose its light, Matt reminded him we had his taxi fare covered for the ride back home.  Smart move.  We briefly entertained a decently drunk Kyle as he voiced his frustrations and shook his fist at his friend’s apartment, whose light we could “see” from where we were standing well over two miles away. Finally a taxi came and we set off for what we hoped were beds.

I would like to tell the story of the taxi ride but as it stands I have no idea where it took us.  There was a bridge and some right hand turns – that’s about all I’ve got.  Despite my loss of bearings, the taxi driver safely delivered us to Kyle’s home, a gigantic, suburban house in an upper-middleclass neighborhood.  Score one for blind luck.

Our time at Kyle’s house can be summed up in two words – utterly surreal.  To begin with, we all had a difficult time believing our plan actually succeeded, there being a stark difference between banking on an obscure possibility and the moment when a screen door shuts and your host locks you in for the night.  Additionally, an evening’s worth of booze was kicking in as my tolerance had taken a toll since arriving in Camden.

We received a grand tour of what was, by all accounts, an impressive home.  Though we didn't wander around much, what we saw was scarcely inhabited: a couch here, a chair there and a refrigerator.  The tour of the refrigerator was equally exciting, and served as a microcosm of the house: a scarcely populated appliance chilling only condiments and a few Styrofoam, take-away boxes.

After all the tours and courtesies, Kyle took us down to his seedy, unfinished basement for a game or two or ten of ping pong.  Summoning up some sort of bravery, I played the first match with another guest, a guy who held his paddle as if it were a poisonous snake, one which at any moment might rebel against him and take his life.  After that match, Matt, Kyle, Charlotte, the roommates, and I swapped turns playing one another during which time we listened to wonderful lectures on everything from The Beatles to the durability of various ping pong balls.  If you can mentally construct this spectrum, placing The Beatles on one side of a chain of occurrences and ping pong balls on the other, you may have a good sense of our other topics of conversation.

Our ping pong skills ended up being too much for Kyle’s roommates and they left to smoke and drink or something.  As the evening, err morning, wore on, sweet visions of couches and beds came to mind more and more frequently.  Kyle, however, seemed as invigorated as ever.  “Guys, come check out my room!  I wanna’ show you how serious I am about cooking.”   Blindly, we followed Kyle as he pulled ahead and started rummaging through a shelf, looking for something that held a considerable amount of importance.  “Ah, here it is!  You know a man is serious about cooking when he keeps his own condiments in his room!”  And yes, he had them: various bottles of ketchup and barbecue sauces, different sorts of mustard and mayonnaise.  Had these been rare sauces, I might have been more sympathetic during those early hours.  As it was though, the bottles looked to be filled with one too many stolen packets of ketchup from a grimy Burger King on the other side of town.

At this point, Kyle’s excitement was far from over; in fact, he appeared to have just begun.  After the proud display of condiments, Kyle moved on to his true love: kitchen tools.  He showed us various knives, a potato masher, and a few other odds and ends.  Then, with eyes wide like the moon he stated, “And this, this is the greatest thing ever!  This thing is just, well, it’s just fucking amazing!” at which point he pulled out a turkey baster.  No, I take that back.  Kyle pulled out “The” turkey baster, the one that every mother who has ever existed owns: a slightly opaque tube about a foot long with some sort of late 60’s era, yellowed, rubber bulb on top which hasn’t been used frequently enough to keep the rubber from developing a series of small fault lines around its surface.  He demonstrated just how “fucking amazing” it was.  “You, you just grab the juices like this” (demonstration) “And then just SPUGUSH SPUGUSH it on top of the food or whatever!”  In writing this down, I realize that however ridiculous the experience was, I loved how fervorous Kyle had become.  For all I knew, Kyle might have had cancer, his closest friend could have left for the Navy, his fiancée might have broken his heart the week before, and his dog could have been run over by a street sweeper.  If any or all of these things had been true, they would have been outshined by his burning adoration for a turkey baster.  In this one object, all heaven’s splendor was made manifest, at least for Kyle.

We tried to pull him to topics more becoming of three in the morning, ones that mention beds and sleeping.  In compromise, we moved to discussing sports, a topic we had covered in part at the bar, days earlier it seemed.  While speaking of sports, Kyle’s eyes once again gained a strange glint of satisfaction knowing he had something to share with us.  He locked those glinted eyes on mine and said, “Turn around!  I’ve got something that you’re gonna hate; you’re absolutely gonna hate it!”  So I did it; I turned around, slowly enough to see him run into his closet and disappear.  I didn’t dare turn back around thinking that underneath all his rummaging and muffled statements of, “Oh man, you are gonna hate this” my safety might be just a little bit in danger, a feeling I entertained for most of the night.  Three or four minutes later Kyle emerged and blurted, “Ok, check this out.”  I turned and saw him holding a Philadelphia Flyers jersey, something I didn’t hate in the least.  He told us that he and his brother had purchased their father and each other matching jerseys with their last names printed on the back.  He held the jersey a ways out of my reach, assuming that my burning hatred for the Flyers (a team I rather enjoy) would spring into action at any moment and I would shred it to bits with my teeth.

But my teeth stayed where they were, and the clock continued to tick on.  The three of us had trouble standing at this point, let alone paying attention to all Kyle’s stories.  Somehow, we finally convinced him or maybe he suggested it himself that we head off to bed.  First, we were offered a rather disgusting bed in the basement, one with a tiger blanket strategically placed to cover a number of stains left by various bodily fluids.  We refused.  Option two was the living room on the first floor.  Charlotte took a couch, I took the floor at the foot of it, and Matt a couch across the room.  As we situated ourselves, we shared our final exchange with Kyle, the kind that really set a positive tone for an evening of sleep in a stranger’s home.  “Right, so I’ll see you guys tomorrow morning.  Don’t think about stealing my PS2 or my Xbox.  If you do I’ll know; I’ll fuckin dust for fingerprints and get the cops and find you guys.  If you touch my PS2 I’ll fuck you up.”  Maybe this was the Bostonian equivalent of wishing us sweet dreams.

We slept.

Despite the length of our evening and an overall lack of sleep, we felt rather rested when sunlight cut through a number of windows and greeted us with a day of possibilities.  Though we already had the story of a lifetime, our weekend in Boston was just beginning.  Bathroom trips were run in turns, bags were packed, and we slipped out of the house without a goodbye.  Kyle had earned his sleep, and despite or maybe because of his odd character, we were extremely thankful for the gift of hospitality.  To be gracious guests, we disappeared without a trace, leaving his PS2 in place.

Walking outside into that brisk New England morning we were, quite frankly, lost.  Any direction seemed as good as the next so we started walking, having no idea how far from we were Boston due to the general bewilderment of the evening before.  Quaint streets were lined with autumn’s leathery blanket, shining with a fresh coating of dew.  People in sweaters walked dogs, hip 20-somethings ran in expensive sports gear, and the three of us fumbled around the picturesque landscape.  A few strangers were kind enough to provide directions to the nearest metro station, and in heading on that way we stopped by a little farmers market for breakfast.  From the road we were on, downtown Boston beckoned us onward with the promise of adventure radiating off of the many skyscraping windows.  Soon enough, we were purchasing tickets for the Orange Line, trying our best to get our tickets at a discount, and paying full price despite these attempts.

One rather plush metro ride later, we found ourselves back in Boston still robbed of our sense of direction, so to start things off we turned left, because in Boston we assumed all roads led to adventure.  Not far into our walk, we began to recognize buildings from the evening before, though in our absence a gigantic market had set itself up.  After ogling produce for a moment we turned left again, mostly because we could.  Our wandering became less aimless after hitting what was, to our best guess, Little Italy.  Surrounded by words like “Bistro” and “Café” it was only a matter of time before Charlotte asked that we stop for cappuccino and so we popped into one of the many, many restaurants so she could get her caffeine fix.  Thinking the day couldn’t continue on as aimless as it had (though in the long run it did) we sat on a side-street stoop to develop a plan (though we abandoned it) and catch our breath.  Coming off the side street, we continued on in the direction we were traveling and found a rather attractive church.  I suggested taking a look around, but instead we turned to the park behind us and admired the various statues and gardens.  Working our way through the park we passed by a few more gardens and some wonderfully claustrophobic passages towered over by smoke streaked, brick buildings which led us once again to a church.  My desire to tour it was squelched because of the gigantic line leading inside, a line that didn’t make much sense (Those who know Boston might have noticed that the church we left was the Old North Church, an historic building which we should probably have visited), so we turned away and set off with the goal of finding water.  And water we found.  We began weaving through the piers and wooden wharves, guided by the high-rise buildings built upon them.  Our path involved numerous cutbacks which thwarted a quaint little water’s edge walk.

On the edge of the wharves we had been traveling, we found one of those cute, little historical markers.  Having already ignored a handful of them dealing with the revolution and things of that sort, we stopped and noticed this one was far more useful – it had a map of the city.  Quickly locating what I assumed was our starting point from that morning, I traced a few possible paths we had walked and then set to make a plan as to how we could best precede.  A glance showed my traveling companions were attempting the same.  After a moment or two, I proposed a plan, tracing my finger along the glossy surface of the little map.  Charlotte, with quickness and resolve, agreed that the plan seemed alright but questioned my wisdom in using a roadmap from the early 19th century to establish my bearings.  I blinked for a moment, took a look back at the historical marker, and saw the entire board was a comparison between “Boston Then” and “Boston Now”.  Apparently, my eyes were drawn to the aged map on the left-hand side and completely ignored the up-to-date, color coded, easily read map from 2005 on the right.  Sheepishly, I followed the other two.

Our well mapped out plan took us back roughly the direction we had come and in time took us to a mall-esque area of town filled with boutiques, booths, chain clothing stores, balloon toting kids, and power shopper moms trying to look sexy for clerks at the Gap who had just recently cleared up bad cases of acne.  Charlotte requested that we stop in one of the shops for a postcard and a souvenir shot glass, so we did.  During the break, I called people around the states, thinking quite a few friends would be entertained with my explorative antics.  The calls were short as was the pause, so we set off again in search of adventure, a few postcards richer but sans shot glass.

Arriving at the other side of the mall, we noticed a large group of people congregating around the sound of music.  I instantly gravitated towards the pulsing rhythm, feeling a lightness of being at the thought of a busker.  In the middle of the group, we saw a man with a mat, a stereo, and a trunk full of stuff who appeared to be doing yoga – poorly.  His song ended within a few minutes and we were left in suspense, wondering what he would attempt next.  For about five minutes he did nothing.  We looked on eagerly, though all of us debated leaving at some point due to boredom.  Near the end of our collective patience, the busker started up his stereo again; finally, things started shaping up.  From his little pile of toys, he assembled a large, aluminum ladder roughly four feet in width and twice that in height, and as the music played on, he began to establish his footing, swaying to and fro with the music in some artistic blend of step and stumble.  Then he began to climb to the top of the freestanding ladder and beginning was about all he did.  One and a half rungs up, he dismounted and made his way back to the ground resuming his disoriented sway.  Half tempted to leave again, his true routine caught us by the heels – his show was a great pretense to comically get in the way of bystanders with a gigantic ladder.  If you were to strip away the crowd and music, he was simply a douche with a ladder who jumped in front of people.  Brilliant.  We watched for another ten minutes, figuring the act would progress.  It never did.  Our patience finally spent, we wandered away leaving the jerk-man to his fun.

Wandering continued into what I assume was downtown Boston – tall buildings, honking horns, and seemingly meaningless road construction projects.  We took turns whenever they seemed convenient, hopped in front of traffic when as it slowed and generally pottered around in hopes that something would catch our attention.  And, in line with our twenty-something desires, we were suckered in by an independent, used book store.  Parting quickly upon entry, we began to look for our respective interests: Matt, late 60’s fiction, Charlotte, teen vampire novels, and I the religiously obscure.  Though it wasn’t an overly notable bookstore, I was attracted to a few features, mainly the abundance of quotes pasted on aged newspaper articles and magazine interviews cleverly tacked to the sides of bookshelves.  Every other shelf or so showcased a quaint paper patchwork based on an iconic author.  But decorations weren’t enough to make up for a lack of interesting titles, so I tracked Matt down within the stacks then retrieved Charlotte who had left for the massive Borders across the street.  Reunited (oh, and it felt so good), our wandering ambitions carried us further south.

Let us pause briefly for a story.  Once upon a time, three kids were passing through a New England Chinatown.  Air heavy with the smell of produce and day-old fish, two of them listened to their bald headed friend.  “I once owned a turtle.  He was my friend.  I fed him till he got big – really big.  I gave him away.  Boy, I would like another turtle.”  Sadly though, the trio never found a turtle.  The end.

One Chinatown later, we crossed a bridge, though I can’t remember if it spanned water or pavement.  Regardless, it dawned on us that we had been hungry well before crossing this mysterious dividing line and now that we were on the other side our hunger was all the more apparent.  Charlotte also wanted to pee again, so stopping for lunch became a near necessity.  Seeing a building for The Boston Herald, I decided that of all the places where someone might be able to recommend a place to eat, a building full of journalist, maybe even food critics, would help us find the best lunch possible.  So with high hopes, I crossed over to the glass doors, banged my hand on them a few times and waited patiently for the security guard to let us in.  Had I realized it was Saturday and that most of the newspaper staff was gone for the weekend, our conversation would have been much shorter.  Instead, I sat and listened to the security guard tell of the “local” dining establishments.  “Well, there’s a McDonalds if you head down this way a few blocks and bang a left.  And, well let’s see, you could probably go to Dunkin Donuts too; they’re pretty good.”  I ended our talk as quickly and politely as possible in order to find a decent local joint, not wanting chain fast-food in the least.  In our minds, finding a quality dive didn’t seem like such a difficult task.

Motivated by our strong hunger, we walked on and a few blocks later, we found a local bakery.  Charlotte, whose bladder was nearly audible at this point, fidgeted constantly as we went in to sample what could only be the finest of all baked goods in Boston.  But our dreams were dashed upon reality; the bakery, far from being a storehouse of culinary wonder, was filled with expensive baguettes and not much else.  So we followed the most sensible of backup plans and asked again for restaurant suggestions.  We struggled through a thick barrier of half English, half Pacific Asian dialect, and desperately tried to convince the owner that we weren’t, in fact, searching for, “A guy at corner.  Go to guy at corner.  You want food?  They give you room and food and toilet.  Ten dollars.  It is cheap room for the night.”  Five minutes of repeated phrases later, I told him we were going to get our room and left, still hoping for the ever elusive dive bar but willing to settle for the aforementioned McDonalds due to exhaustion.

At this point, life wasn’t fun.  Charlotte’s need to pee was restated every ten steps, Matt and I’s hunger made us rather grumpy, and my general frustration at not being able to find the most amazing of meals through pure luck made for a lousy walk.  We abandoned our southward progression chalking it up as hopeless and took a right turn, quite the change of pace from our usual leftist orientation.  Both sides of the street were lined with gloomy, brick buildings negating even the slightest hope for a lousy chain restaurant.  A block or two later we spotted a sign sticking out from the side of the endlessly repeating brick buildings: “JJ Foley’s…” (Foley’s pub?  Bar?  Café?  Something of that sort.)  Good enough.  The place was deserted and far from the dive we had hoped for.  All the tables were covered in well pressed, clean, white tablecloths and the building itself was lined with polished, deep colored woods capped with gold ornamentation.  A waitress showed us to our table as Charlotte tore through the restaurant and disappeared for quite some time.

Though it wasn’t what we originally had in mind, JJ Foley’s ended up being something of a godsend.  For $7, we each ordered a sandwich, chowder, fries and our choice of unlimited coffee or tea.  My Reuben was terrific and the chowder was top notch as well, both of which were rounded off by four cups or so of Earl Grey.  Because of this wondrous meal, the three of us chose to stick around for a while longer and work through our mid-weekend errands: phone calls, letter writing, interneting and so-on.  During our stay, my original intentions of spending as little cash as possible faded away and I bough us all a round of faux-Irish coffees comprised of ninety percent whisky and ten percent coffee – post meal liquid satisfaction.

After closing out our tab we left Foley’s under the strong influence of warm whiskey, not disoriented or drunk by any means, but simply stuffed and in need of a nap.  Again, life was great; life was also hazy as hell.  The three of us fought our way around Boston as if its streets were sand laden trenches and its sidewalks half-set blocks of jell-o.  Though none of us remember it distinctly, we explored a rather magnificent church… somewhere.  And then we walked somewhere… and after that somewhere else.  And nothing made sense.  And we were all tired, so very, very tired…

But then we were in Starbucks, sitting down, and there was air conditioning and well stuffed sofas.  Though I don’t remember arriving, at some point I became consciously aware that I was, in fact, in Starbucks.  Hours had slipped by and sunlight had been stolen by whisky, dear whiskey.  Though our bodies were fine, our minds took more time to adjust.  For instance, while watching a mother play with her young daughter outside the building, I decided it would be entertaining to picture them as if the daughter were a fifty year-old little person being accosted by a stranger; I nearly rolled out of my chair as the scene played out.  The mother was sticking her tongue out and dancing around her daughter, prancing about as if she didn’t have a care in the world.  The fabricated midget must have been confused beyond belief.  To make matters even more entertaining, they came into Starbucks and my laughter progressed to tears.  Moments before, I had told Charlotte of this little mental game though she protested that the child was a boy and not a girl.  She was most clearly a little Asian girl.  Obviously.  Really.  It was really obvious.

After a few more episodes of this sort, our minds finally sorted themselves out and we decided that continuing on was in our best interests.  We set off towards perceived north and made our way, once again, to what we presumed to be downtown Boston.  During this walk, the sun disappeared completely and with it came an evening’s worth of adventure laced with an icy chill, interrupted only by our grumbling stomachs and aching feet.  The splintered streets ran out in all directions and curiosity carried us on.

So we walked around, passing all sorts of neon advertisements, preoccupied strangers, and streets that somehow looked both oddly familiar and completely indiscernible from any other.  During this early evening stretch we thought perhaps we weren’t the only ones out on a Saturday night looking for adventure, so we began a hunt and a few blocks later, we found our prey: a pack of trendy 20-somethings, a few of whom had obviously been drinking.  Hanging back a quarter of a block or so, we tracked them, knowing our evening would end with original entertainment if we kept on their heels.  The result was entertaining, but sadly only through the lens of retrospect irony.  The whole group of them entered an apartment complex requiring key-card access which we failed to have, so we slumped over like little, lonely children who had lost all of their pogs (or other fitting social trend depending on your personal childhood).

Because sitting on a curb with late night approaching seemed like a lousy idea, we moved on.  Once more, the three of us realized we were rather hungry, so we wandered around in search of our earlier ideal, something local and tasty.  Quickly enough, someone picked out a sign that seemed oddly familiar.  Agreeing, though not understanding why, I rummaged through my pockets and pulled out a crumpled napkin filled with near-illegible letters hastily written in sharpie.  I double checked the sign, held the napkin up to the streetlight, blinked repeatedly out of disbelief then blurted out, “Hey, the Bean Town Pub!  It’s here,” I said pointing to the napkin.  “And it’s here” I exclaimed pointing to the building.  So as per the grace of coincidence, we nestled in for what we hoped would be a superb evening meal.

Three rounds of Guinness, a pot of baked beans and some tasty steak tips served their purpose and soon enough we were exploring again without aim, a mistress we had become well acquainted with.  At this point we were simply killing time till Jess came to meet us and deliver our heads to pillows for the evening.  With all the dumb luck in the world, we rounded our way back to the stretch of bars where we had first arrived the evening before.  In a word, I was dumbstruck.  Somehow, after an entire day of moving about without any sense of direction we had closed a perfect loop and provided ourselves with the best sense of closure possible.  In celebration we went to a bar, of course, because it was something simple which we had developed a knack for by this point.  It took quite a while to find a table in the split-seating bar, but once we did we lived to the full height of class by ordering a dented bucket of Miller High Life ponies in celebration of the day and as a backdrop to the Bruins vs. Sabres game on TV.  Inspired by the team, we had a round of Buffalo wings despite all of us being full already.

In our present situation, there were few options to pass the time; eating and drinking were the most reliable forms of entertainment and also one of the few activities we could participate in without freezing outdoors.  Fortunately, our bar choice was a three-fold winner: first, a girl sat down near us sporting a knitted raccoon toque complete with little ears and a nose which Charlotte almost stole out of wanton desire, second, three girls promoting novelty liquor had their bodies stuffed so tightly into shirts and skirts that indecent exposure seemed imminent, and third, as we were leaving the bar a band named Diezel began their sound check.  Tattoos, booze, cigarettes, blonde groupies, and an average age of 46 – exactly what you’d want from a band with the letter ‘Z’ replacing an “S”.

A sound check, however, was all we could take.  Leaving the bar, we made our way across the street intent on seeing something worthwhile in the few remaining minutes before Jess came to pick us up.  Though we had passed by the area twice already, I not yet noticed the large sheets of glass standing across the way from the bar strip.  After a day of entertaining and peculiar occurrences, it was sobering to walk through a Holocaust memorial which none of us had paid attention to earlier.  Though I only remember that many names were etched into the glass, the experience itself will remain with me much longer.

This tranquil moment lasted only for that, a moment.  We moved on and crossed through the late-night crowds and a street or two, trying to find a spot where Jess would spot us easily.  Before she arrived, we had just enough time to accidentally cross paths with our earlier explorations; we found ourselves back in the market where Charlotte had purchased postcards so many hours ago, next to the courtyard where the jerk with the ladder had been performing.  Reflection and stupefaction were cut short by Jess’s arrival a minute later.  When we told her of this discovery she said the courtyard was Quincy Market, a place locals had told us to visit time and again that day.

Let’s pause here to mention we stayed in a house that once belonged to the New Kids on the Block and that Matt was kicked in the balls.  These two statements sum up the final events of our first and only full day in Boston.

We enjoyed sleeping so much that not one of us wanted to be the first person awake and moving.  But every night ends, and so with freshly cleaned teeth and a new knowledge of toiletseat hugging, boy band fans we departed for a quick breakfast.  Jess once again had plans that took her away from us but fortunately we were able to share some drinks together before she sped off.  We breakfasted at Mel’s, a bright, cheery place of a hole-in-the-wall that was packed full of people on Sunday morning.  I found myself torn in the battle between pancakes and French toast (which French toast would always win if restaurants simply gave more; two to three slices is not an appropriate amount of eggy goodness), and eventually opted for cranberry, walnut pancakes, a charm I have been attracted by since my first visit to Sophia’s in Buffalo, NY.  Oh, blessed pancakes.  Just like every other stop that weekend, our time at Mel’s was limited, so with our group’s confident mastery of the Boston Transit System (read: one ride) we bought a set of tickets on the Red Line and set our sights northward to Harvard, land of movie quotes and expectations.

Upon arrived, we took to doing what we knew best: aimless wandering.  After exploring a few stores, we took to something else which we knew a great deal about: drinking.  Somehow, the idea of splitting a pitcher of lousy beer before noon in the classiest of classy college towns seemed ideal for our group.  I can’t recall the name of the pub we stopped in but I do remember that our waitress was from Atlanta, Georgia and that she was immensely hospitable, a trait which time and again has enriched my life.  She was working on her Master’s degree in arts therapy at the time, hoping to create some rather interesting non-profit programs once she graduated.  But for the time being, she found herself serving three raggedy explorers a pitcher of Coors Light, one that didn’t last so long.  After autographing a number of coasters with our respective blogs and our morning liquoring, we continued to bum around the area.

So as not to leave the city without a souvenir, Charlotte requested that we go to a comic shop so she could pick up the latest issue of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  At the shop, we also scored a sweet Bruce Willis poster for free.  Not being able to contain her excitement, we stopped at her request for a moment so she could indulge her mild addiction.  A small, street side plot of grass dotted with trees, park benches, children, and first-semester couples welcomed us in.

Sitting outside for the first time that weekend, I closed my eyes and absorbed as much as I could: the sunlight, the yelps of children, the chirping of birds, the footsteps of passerbyers, the feel of crunching leaves, the brisk breeze swirling through my fingers, and most of all the beautifully amplified sounds of a man sitting with a guitar on a park bench across the way.  For well over half an hour, I watched him play his semi-hollow electric/acoustic, gazed at his calloused fingers caressing each of the strings, chords lifted out of the guitar itself and passed on to all of us who stopped to listen.  He and I seemed beautifully at peace, oddly united without any formal communication.  Everything moved with a sense of slowness as he played.  The children placed their hurried steps with greater grace as if giving though to how each muscle needed to contract and expand in order to most quietly and fluidly chase the docile pigeons.  And those pigeons waddled around, accompanied by their little finch friends as they searched for food between still green blades of grass.  In that brief moment, I knew the infinite and it cradled me in its fullness.

But the story of the day and seemingly the story of life pulled us on.  Knowing full well that we were bound to end up at another bar, we first took a brief walk hoping to find something of interest in the area and dissuade any outside perceptions of alcoholism.  Our exploration brought us to the edge of a river (the Charles River I’m told) and we strolled along its banks for a moment or two, taking time to pause and watch rowing teams pass by.  We flicked a few sticks into the water and kicked some leaves around for the childish pleasure of it all which left me with rather muddy shoes.  Seeing such a nice water source at hand, I stepped to the edge of the river to wash off my shoe.  I succeeded, but in my success I slipped and most of my leg ended up drenched in really, really cold water.  It was really cold.  My two companions’ hearty laughter was enough to send me off in search of a bar which served as our final Bostonian destination.

On the suggestion of our bartender earlier that day, we went to Charlie’s Beer Garden, a picnic setting sunk below its surroundings.  Normally, this would have made for an ideal afternoon dining location, but my soaking wet sock and the constant breeze changed all that.  I ordered another Reuben because of my victory from the day before, then went to the bathroom and de-socked while trying to keep steady on one foot and dab the other with toilet paper.  Coming back, I worked my way through three beers and the Reuben as well.  Though the beers were great, the sandwich was lousy.  I treated myself to a Guinness, a New Castle, and something from Smutty Nose brewery which I had never heard of, knowing they would be my last beers for quite some time… excluding the two Oktoberfests I drank twenty minutes later.

During our last meal in town, Jess called and said she would be arriving soon with a close friend and possibly her friend’s boyfriend.  For some reason or another, we decided that hitting on Jess’s friend would be a great form of entertainment; we also presumed that if all three of us were to give it a go it would be all the better.  Our master plan emerged gradually and in the end we decided I should start things off by being overtly sleazy, trying to work in a statement or two like “Oh damn, you’ve got smokin’ jugs.”  Then, through a charming apology, Matt would follow up with just a hint of effeminate flamboyance.  Lastly, Charlotte would round things out by being a touchy-feely sort of individual, one who would don the entitlement needed to stroke Jess’s friend’s hair, caress her hands and maybe go in for a massage or two.

Sadly, when Jess and her friend arrived the boyfriend was in tow, so in a gesture of kindness we spared him our scripted awkwardness.  Instead we exchanged stories from the weekend as a reminiscent capstone of the visit.  As things wrapped up in Boston, we decided a stop in Rhode Island was worth our time, mostly so we could have some sort of memorable experience allowing us each to cross it off a list of states we had visited.  Matt voted that we drive down so I could kick a fat man.  In his opinion, the line “So one time I drove to Rhode Island and kicked a fat man in the ass” was pure genius and having a truthful story to back it up would make it all the better.  Not set on that particular outcome, we decided to leave our opportunities open and set out for Providence.

I took my seat in the back of Jess’s car, tipsier than any other point during the trip and began staring out the window as we left town.  Before going too far along, I remembered that at JJ Foley’s I had put my good memory and bad memory songs on an mp3 player so it was passed to the front and as soon as the Coasters’ song came on, I started smiling from ear to ear.  In that moment, I felt as if I were back in New Orleans hearing the song for the first time, as a flood of positive memories came back in a flash.  Three minutes later the pendulum swung and my emotional state began unraveling itself because of a gross underestimation concerning what my reaction would be when the other song came on.  In another moment I was gone, lost in my thoughts and those many memories from the days immediately preceding Camden.  I watched the sun set over time, saw road marker after road marker tick by, heard voices in the car though I couldn’t place a single word said, and had a handful of tears come and go as well.  Hours passed by like this and though I tried to sleep through it, I stayed awake, dwelling on dark days.

The car stopped and instinctively I got out, not knowing where we were or why we weren’t moving.  Upon scanning my surroundings, I realized we had found a Tim Horton’s which Charlotte must have asked to stop at.  Still keeping to myself, I passed on ordering Tim-Bits, as good of an indicator as any that something was seriously wrong.  Soon enough though, we were back in the car on our way to Providence, the whole of my thoughts still set on the past.

I hardly noticed the city build up around us.  We circled around for a while looking for a place to park, and while I’m sure someone must have asked what I wanted to do or see, I can’t remember giving an answer.  Honestly, I don’t remember if I spoke at any point during the entire ride.

Providence was a veiled experience for me.  There was some walking and talking, but still, hours and hours after listening to a simple song, I failed to reconnect with reality.  Hands jammed down into pockets, eyes locked on my feet while following along – I must have looked the part of a dismal specter hovering along with a band of cheerful children.  On the verge of tears once again, I looked up for the slightest moment to see if my friends were near or if I had wandered off on my own.  Charlotte and I locked eyes then everything went black.  She had darted me.

As I lay on the ground watching passerbyers through half-opened eyes, my chest began to feel even more like a void.  Uninviting, cold concrete scratched my skin, no one stopped, and I couldn’t blame them in the least.  In that moment, my only desire was to be swallowed by the street, thereby shutting out the few remaining glimmers of light.  Had I been engulfed, at least there would have been some semblance of embrace and the residents of Providence would no longer have had a blemish on their sidewalk, an ugly human stain of frailty and weakness reminding them of what so many of us lock away behind closed doors in the morning, when we put on our suits, ties, dresses and makeup in an attempt to create a life that we have complete control over.  But instead, I lay there exposed and ignored.

Some time later, when all I could see was a pinkish glow of draped Christmas lights through my eyelids, Charlotte came and pulled out my dart.  I kept my comments to a minimum, afraid that if I started speaking I might end up in tears.  Once again I hung towards the back of the group, listening to their giddy observations concerning the individuals who had ignored me on the ground.  But a general lack of excitement was taking its toll on the group’s spirits, so not surprisingly, a bar covered in gleaming red, neon lights seemed like as good of a destination as any, especially when an outdoor flyer informed us that Sunday was open mic night.

Within the span of the moment between opening the door to the bar and stepping inside, I finally recoiled at having my present circumstances dictated by the events of past.  In seconds, I conjured up firm resolve and set off to cast my hurt aside.  Armed by this newly discovered strength, I strode to the bar, overtaking Jess, Matt, and Charlotte who had entered before me on the way.  The three of them looked over with sideways glances, certainly wondering what the hell was going on and probably with good reason.  I scripted a story in the few dozen steps it took to reach the back of the building and as soon as the bartender came up, I let loose my composition.  Not once during my storytelling was I fazed by the fact that the bartender happened to be brilliantly attractive, chestnut ringlets framing her gently curved lips, pursed in a sort of half-smile as we began talking.  For those who know me well, this should only confirm how out of character I was.

I started off with some grand statement about a road trip that my friends and I were supposedly on.  Matt, on whom I projected many of my own characteristics, was labeled as the friend who lacked courage enough to start conversation with a bartender at random and served as the backbone of my fabrication.  With many fast-paced words and gestures, I told her that Matt had been to every state but three, Rhode Island being one of them, and asked if she would be willing to help us create an evening of memories for him so that he would always remember the night he first set foot in Providence.  By this point, Matt had reached the bar and was, by my accounts, greatly confused as to what was happening.  Rachel, the bartender, glanced back and forth between us a time or two before finally saying, “Well, tell you what.  I’ll take a shot with him.”  And, just like that I had walked into a bar, seduced a lady, and gotten free booze for a friend.

A pair of whiskey shots later, we were discussing with Rachel how to continue our evening in Rhode Island.  She mentioned a place or two of interest in the city but said the best time one could have was to drive to the shore. Between the four of us, we loosely memorized the directions and set off on her advice.  Before leaving, however, I chanced my charm once last time and asked if we could take the shot glass as a souvenir of our time together.  With a smirk and a wink, she turned her back and we left one shot glass richer.  Thus, both Charlotte and Matt had stories to tell of their time in Rhode Island.

 On the way back to the car, questions pervaded.  From detached and somber I had transformed in an instant to a person none of them had ever experienced, for that matter a person I hadn’t experienced as well.  Though I had succeeded is shaking myself loose from such a pensive mood, feelings and thoughts lingered.  I fumbled to remember how one was supposed to talk to others and made repeated, failed attempts.  Because of this, I was rather lousy in helping with directions as we got ourselves a bit lost or, more kindly, just a bit disoriented.

Looking back, I’m fairly certain we traveled along the coastline for a good half an hour or so, barely out of sight from our desired destination.  We had almost reached what we thought was, for the fifth time or so, the beach when Jess received a distressing call: her friend with whom we had met in Boston had lost her keys and was near positive she had left them in Jess’s car.  All of us started pawing through seat cushions and peering under floor mats.  Though it wasn’t a set of keys, Charlotte did let us all know she had found another treasure.  “Hey Jess, I found a condom!” – cue eruption of laughter, jokes about Jess getting intimate in Boston, jokes about Jess’s friends getting intimate in Boston, and counterarguments pinning the blame on Matt and I.  Speculation abounding, we eventually found the keys amidst cushions and innuendo.

We determined that if we could find condoms, certainly we could find the ever elusive coastline.  Far too long later, we found what we hoped was the beach: a wall on the edge of our road with what looked like waves on the other side.  All of us hopped out of the vehicle to take a look, peered over the wall and heard Matt exclaim, “This isn’t a beach at all; these are rocks!”  So while we had found the coast, it wasn’t the least bit like our Californian had expected.  In light of this disappointment, we drove on another mile till we found a jetty.  Not willing to accept defeat, we split paths so Charlotte could pee in the ocean in peace and the rest of us could attend to whatever business it was we had with the ocean.  Not hesitating, I made my way towards the far end so as to be alone.

With my back to the group and my eyes towards the darkness, I let go.  Out in the distance floating within the deep waters, I searched for the person I yearned to be.  Gazing over a pitch-black horizon, I hoped for a version of myself that was free of bitterness and resentment, someone who had let go of scorn in favor of clinging to compassion; hollow waves answered.

I left those waves longing for a peace that I am still searching for.