(Remember when I mentioned that I had several things written that I never posted? This is one of those. I'm tired of it looking at me with its judgy, unpublished eyes when I log in. So, here you go! Better six months late than never.)
In a house in the country lived a writer. Not a
well-traveled writer, but one who hadn’t been on an adventure in far too long.
When the opportunity to take a trip to Boston was presented, the creatively thirsty
word worker jumped at the chance to step away from the ever glowing computer
screen and meet new characters. Below is the account of this quasi impromptu
trip.
Day 1:
I haven’t flown in five years. A three and a half hour
flight seems like a great way to get back into the habit. (If only someone
would invent a sarcasm font.) The flight
was very bumpy with quite a bit of turbulence. I found myself realizing more
than once that I needed to get outta dodge. And by dodge I mean the metal tube
hurling me through the heavens. It was horrible. Thankfully the view of Boston
Harbor eventually popped up and salvaged what remained of my sanity and ability
to retain my breakfast.
And then we started banking and the world shifted to an
angle my brain did not want to process. I actually heard equilibrium laughing
at me as it parachuted to the land where it belonged.
So what do you do when you finally touch down and your
stomach is unsure which way is up? You head for Faneuil Hall! (Sarcasm font
initiated there.) If you’ve never been there before, it is a gauntlet of pretty
much any food you could ever want. We’re not talking mall food court though.
The amount of options could have been intimidating, but I had already decided I
would be adventurous. This is what adventure looks like to someone who eats
beef maybe a couple of times a month:
After some much needed downtime, and by that I mean lying
perfectly still for almost two hours, the earth was stationary enough for me to
venture out again…just in time for dinner. We ended up at The Black Rose where
a group of "slightly" inebriated folks were singing Irish ballads in the corner.
The volume was stuck on an 11 and I didn’t think I could love it more, until
things slowly devolved into an awkward and slurry version of “Teddy Bear.” You
win some, you lose some.
Day 2:
I hit the streets alone and stumbled upon this:
They really don’t want their dogs to have any fun in Boston.
I’m just going to post my touristy photos here. I went to
the New England Aquarium and may have smiled to myself at all of the parents
wrangling kids while I was free to do pretty much anything I wanted without
being responsible for anyone else.
Everything was fun and penguin filled, and then things took a
turn.
I’m going to preface this by saying, no disrespect is
intended in the following account of this situation. I highly doubt the authenticity of this particular man of the cloth. A monk had tried to catch
my eye on Day 1, but I was all, “Oooh, Boston!” and I didn’t make eye contact.
I was also with a 6 foot+ traveling companion. This day I was flying solo and
the monk walked right in front of me and shoved something in my hand. I almost
died. Three things happened at once:
- He has a hand on my shoulder.
- He is standing inches away from me.
- He is speaking to me in a language I don't understand.
Flight or fight kicked in. No, I didn’t kick the monk. I
guess I’m more civilized than I realized. He pulled out a notebook and showed
me a picture of a temple being built. So my brilliant response was, “Oh. You
want money.” Still no English on his part. He pulled out a notebook of the
people who had donated $20. No way, shoulder toucher. That’s my lobster money.
At this point I want to end this confrontation at all costs.
And by all costs I mean reaching in and pulling out a five dollar bill while
this guy is leaning over trying to look in my wallet. Seriously. I hand him the
five and he shakes his head. He then pulls out the notebook again and flips to
the page where people have donated $10. The fight response finally kicks in and then I kick him.
Just kidding. I wouldn’t do that. Yet.
But I did put the amulet in his hand and try to grab
the fiver back. Suddenly five dollars was enough of a donation for him. He
smiled and went on to looking for the next philanthropist. So if anyone is
interested, I know where you can purchase an amulet for "real cheap." I’ll sell
it to you for a $10 "donation."
After that I was peopled out. I spent what remained of the afternoon with a cup of mediocre coffee and Norman
Rockwell.
And promptly fell in love with this print:
This post is getting a little long and we all know how fun
it is to sit through vacation photos. I’ll wrap this up by saying, sometimes it’s
good to get 1,500+ miles away from your comfort zone. Mine was a whirlwind
trip, but I’ve been to Boston. I will always be able to say that.
And if you open a pack of crackers on the dock you are guaranteed to have company...