The old State House.
Government Center.
Faneuil Hall.
Peering into the financial district.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
In Sight, July 31 (part 2)
The old State House.
Government Center.
Faneuil Hall.
Peering into the financial district.
In Sight, July 31
A statue of Alexander Hamilton on the Commonwealth Avenue Mall in the Back Bay.
Public Garden.
Washington.
Children play in the Frog Pond in Boston Common.
The Frog Pond.
My neighborhood
Garden Street.
Detail of a gaslit lamp in Beacon Hill.
If we're going to oversimplify, there are two ways of looking at my neighborhood, Beacon Hill:
A. It's really old, the apartments are tiny and expensive, and having a car is a huge hassle.
B. It has a rich history, the apartments are charming and you have to pay a premium to be in the middle of everything, and cars are unnecessary because of easy access to taxis and three subway lines.
Just so we can get the biases out of the way, I'll admit this neighborhood is one of the most beautiful neighborhoods I've seen, much less lived in. It's high-density and compact, but the elegant brick homes (some of which are more than 200 years old) and sidewalks, and tree-lined streets are magical.
When I think of Beacon Hill, I think of brick, window boxes full of flowers, architectural grace and distinction, small alleys and seemingly hidden passages.
A Wikipedia article can expand on the neighborhood's history. This Google Map will show you where the neighborhood is in relation with the rest of downtown Boston. The North End ("Little Italy") is to the northeast; Chinatown and the Financial District are to the southeast; the parks are a couple blocks south; the glitzy Back Bay is to the west; and Cambridge is to the northwest. The bounding streets, Charles and Cambridge, are long strips of retail and restaurants, and there are even a few shops, liquor stores and restaurants buried in the neighborhood itself. (Each time I go out, I seem to notice something new; today, I found a tiny barbershop one block north of my apartment.)
As I alluded to before, it's more expensive to live here and Beacon Hill has some of the country's most expensive real estate, but there are plenty of students and young professionals here.
Even still, the neighborhood carries a meaning with which I'm still not comfortable. People at work look at me like I'm crazy when I tell them I live downtown, and their jaws drop slightly when I tell them I'm living here. (I also learned recently that I'm one of a handful of people in the newsroom who actually live in the city of Boston — everyone lives out in the suburbs or even other states.) I know I could get a larger apartment or, heck, a house if I lived outside downtown — but I also know that, at this point in my life, all I would do is come down here on my days off and regret not living here.
Pinckney Street at night.
The Massachusetts State House, which is down the street from my apartment.
Louisburg Square, the centerpiece of Beacon Hill. John Kerry is one of its notable residents.
DeLuca's Market in Beacon Hill, a neighborhood icon for more than 100 years.
One of the many back alleys in Beacon Hill.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Maintenance
I just changed the settings to allow anyone to comment on the journal, not just Blogger users. (What the heck was I thinking?)
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Moving day
It's a good thing the furniture came on Monday because I was getting sick of that tiny bed. It's perfect for camping, and it would probably be quite comfortable for one person. But two people? No way.
So, to our relief, the moving truck showed up Monday morning and a team of three people began bringing stuff up.
Now, I just tossed out the phrase "bringing stuff up." I should probably recast it, but I can't find any expression to do justice to the work they had to do. Perhaps a picture will give you some idea:
This is a photo of the stairwell leading to my apartment on the third floor. It's a brisk mini-workout just climbing them; I don't want to imagine what it's like to move books, dishes and furniture up these stairs. *shudder*
Anyway, after they moved everything up Jenn volunteered to start opening boxes while I went to the Registry of Motor Vehicles to get my Massachusetts driver's license.
The wait at the RMV was long, almost two hours. And once I was called, I discovered that my proof of Mass. residency wasn't good enough, and there was no compromise. Thank you, sir; please come back again.
I was annoyed, but all that melted away when I saw what an amazing job Jenn did while I was away. I don't know how she opened so many boxes so quickly; steroids is the only theory I've devised since then. But she did a heck of a job, unpacking about two-thirds of the boxes.
We finished with the dishes and kitchen a few hours later, and, amazingly, it actually started looking like someone lived in the apartment; it wasn't just a warehouse.
To celebrate, we went to Whole Foods and bought the ingredients to make shrimp al ajillo and rice, and we had our first home-cooked meal that night. Later, we watched "The Sandlot," but we turned it off early because we were so tired.
Emotions ran high Monday night. I was so happy to be finally settled in Boston because, for once, it no longer felt like I was on a long vacation. It felt real.
At the same time, I was crushed — Jenn would be leaving the next day to go back to Jacksonville before hitting the road for St. Louis. We'd been together every second for the past nine days, and I didn't want her to go. "We'll see each other again soon," I kept telling her (and myself), and although it's true, it doesn't take away the sting.
The next morning we took the subway to the airport and I held her for the last time for several weeks, and it was all I could do to prevent the huge lump in my throat from giving way to tears. That lump was there when we left the Metro Diner in Jacksonville and said goodbye to Richard, Melinda, Liz and Patrick, but my excitement for the impending road trip kept me from being overcome with emotion. On Tuesday, it was all I could do to try not to cry for Jenn's sake. Fortunately, for me, I had to go to my first day at the Globe almost immediately afterward, so I didn't have time to dwell on her departure.
At Walt Disney World, months before this Boston nonsense started.
"Boston won't be home for me until you're here," I told her as she sobbed at the airport. I didn't realize how true that statement would be until I woke up alone the next morning.
So, to our relief, the moving truck showed up Monday morning and a team of three people began bringing stuff up.
Now, I just tossed out the phrase "bringing stuff up." I should probably recast it, but I can't find any expression to do justice to the work they had to do. Perhaps a picture will give you some idea:
This is a photo of the stairwell leading to my apartment on the third floor. It's a brisk mini-workout just climbing them; I don't want to imagine what it's like to move books, dishes and furniture up these stairs. *shudder*
Anyway, after they moved everything up Jenn volunteered to start opening boxes while I went to the Registry of Motor Vehicles to get my Massachusetts driver's license.
The wait at the RMV was long, almost two hours. And once I was called, I discovered that my proof of Mass. residency wasn't good enough, and there was no compromise. Thank you, sir; please come back again.
I was annoyed, but all that melted away when I saw what an amazing job Jenn did while I was away. I don't know how she opened so many boxes so quickly; steroids is the only theory I've devised since then. But she did a heck of a job, unpacking about two-thirds of the boxes.
We finished with the dishes and kitchen a few hours later, and, amazingly, it actually started looking like someone lived in the apartment; it wasn't just a warehouse.
BEFORE
AFTER
BEFORE
AFTER
To celebrate, we went to Whole Foods and bought the ingredients to make shrimp al ajillo and rice, and we had our first home-cooked meal that night. Later, we watched "The Sandlot," but we turned it off early because we were so tired.
Emotions ran high Monday night. I was so happy to be finally settled in Boston because, for once, it no longer felt like I was on a long vacation. It felt real.
At the same time, I was crushed — Jenn would be leaving the next day to go back to Jacksonville before hitting the road for St. Louis. We'd been together every second for the past nine days, and I didn't want her to go. "We'll see each other again soon," I kept telling her (and myself), and although it's true, it doesn't take away the sting.
The next morning we took the subway to the airport and I held her for the last time for several weeks, and it was all I could do to prevent the huge lump in my throat from giving way to tears. That lump was there when we left the Metro Diner in Jacksonville and said goodbye to Richard, Melinda, Liz and Patrick, but my excitement for the impending road trip kept me from being overcome with emotion. On Tuesday, it was all I could do to try not to cry for Jenn's sake. Fortunately, for me, I had to go to my first day at the Globe almost immediately afterward, so I didn't have time to dwell on her departure.
At Walt Disney World, months before this Boston nonsense started.
"Boston won't be home for me until you're here," I told her as she sobbed at the airport. I didn't realize how true that statement would be until I woke up alone the next morning.
The long ride, part 5: A sort of homecoming
It was really just a question of numbers, really: If we drove the back roads from New York to Boston, it would have taken at least seven hours; if we drove the interstate, three hours.
The 12-hour ride from Virginia to New York was pretty draining, and my eagerness to get to Boston was boiling over, so we decided to stick to the fast lanes.
There's not much to say about the drive at this point in the trip other than getting out of New York was hellish and gas prices in Connecticut made me feel a new sort of pain ($3.30 a gallon). The toll roads weren't as bad as they were getting into New York, and the Massachusetts Turnpike has a little pilgrim's hat as its symbol on the signs. Adorable.
Driving into Boston wasn't nearly as difficult as it was getting into New York from the turnpike, but once we hit downtown/Beacon Hill/Back Bay, the insanity that is Boston roadways tightened its stranglehold on me.
A brief aside: Many of Boston's roads evolved from footpaths, which means they curve suddenly and go all over the place. Now, many of them are one-way because they're either too small to handle two lanes or it's inefficient, once again, because of the size. Add all that together and obscure the road signs, and you can get an idea of what it's like to drive here.
In the Back Bay, it's a little better, mainly because the Back Bay is a man-made neighborhood, part of a huge landfill that took decades to make. As a result, they were able to plan the streets on a grid, like New York. But parts of Beacon Hill feel very much like the 1700s.
Anyway, we were supposed to meet my broker at her office to get the keys, but she was actually at the apartment when we called. So we found a spot on Charles Street, loaded the meter with quarters (it was 25 cents for 15 minutes) and went up to the apartment.
At this point, I felt overwhelmingly pleased to finally be in Boston, but the car situation was starting to stress me out a little bit. I was safe at a meter, but it had a two-hour max, after which you were ticketed if you didn't move. But move it where? I didn't have a permit that allowed me to park in Beacon Hill — you're issued one after you register your car — and the garages were outrageously expensive.
Adding to this stress was the cleaning woman at the apartment. She was there to clean every inch of it, something I've had to do in the past when I moved into a place. Now don't get me wrong, I was happy to be getting this service, but the timing was terrible. We essentially couldn't leave the apartment for three hours while she was there cleaning, and after our trip, we just to relax.
After feeding the meter for awhile, I decided to gamble and park my car in the neighborhood. I lucked out in that a space had opened up right in front of the building, so I parked it there, tickets be damned. We unloaded the car and waited for the cleaning lady to finish.
Later, when she finished, we walked down to Cambridge Street and had our first Boston meal at the Beacon Hill Tavern. I ate my first cup of New England clam chowder, and I loved it. We eventually walked back home and went to sleep on the tiny bed.
A simple life: inflatable bed, music, laptop, guide books.
My empty bedroom.
View from my bedroom. The other bay window at left is my living room window.
The apartment was empty and my furniture wouldn't arrive for two days, so the empty apartment, blow-up bed and laptop on the floor kind of made it feel like we were camping in a very expensive campground (sans-Apocalypse Tent, though).
The next couple nights would find us in Internet cafes, where I would start assembling my Boston life; wandering around the neighborhood and city; and eating the first of many, many great meals:
• Saturday night we walked to Chinatown, where we ate at "The Best Little Restaurant" (says the sign) and were segregated. Seriously. We walked in to find the restaurant filled with Chinese families (no, duh, right?), and it was like the record scratched — everyone turned to look. A waiter led us to an empty table downstairs and then paused and said, "Follow me." He took us upstairs to another dining room, which was empty. He told us to sit down then he ran away. So there we were, sitting in an empty dining room, the only caucasians in the room. We both laughed and found it hilarious, and it became the running joke behind every delayed order and paying the check. The food, by the way, was delicious.
• Italian was on the menu for Sunday night, which meant we walked to the North End. We were looking for this one particular restaurant, but it was closed. That meant we had to choose one from about 100 little eateries in this 1.3-square-mile neighborhood. It was a little overwhelming, but we just wandered until we found a place that had good specials. We hit the jackpot, and I found some delicious lobster ravioli. After dinner, we walked to Hanover Street and stood in line for some famous Mike's Pastry. The line spills out the door at this place and I honestly wondered if it would be worth it. Having now tried an eclair and tiramisu, I can honestly say the wait was worth it.
Since then I've eaten in the North End a couple times, but this meal was special, as every meal with Jenn is, and I don't think I'll feel this way again about my visits there until she's back here to visit and eventually live.
WHAT I LEARNED: Parking — and car ownership, in general — will be a scourge with which I'll have to contend for the unforeseeable future.
FAVORITE PART: The empty apartment. As much as I wanted my belongings to arrive, I think living on an airbed in an empty Boston apartment with Jenn will be grow to be one of those fond memories you love to hate to love in years to come.
OTHER THOUGHTS: My apartment lacks air conditioning. I wonder how this will work out …
The 12-hour ride from Virginia to New York was pretty draining, and my eagerness to get to Boston was boiling over, so we decided to stick to the fast lanes.
There's not much to say about the drive at this point in the trip other than getting out of New York was hellish and gas prices in Connecticut made me feel a new sort of pain ($3.30 a gallon). The toll roads weren't as bad as they were getting into New York, and the Massachusetts Turnpike has a little pilgrim's hat as its symbol on the signs. Adorable.
Driving into Boston wasn't nearly as difficult as it was getting into New York from the turnpike, but once we hit downtown/Beacon Hill/Back Bay, the insanity that is Boston roadways tightened its stranglehold on me.
A brief aside: Many of Boston's roads evolved from footpaths, which means they curve suddenly and go all over the place. Now, many of them are one-way because they're either too small to handle two lanes or it's inefficient, once again, because of the size. Add all that together and obscure the road signs, and you can get an idea of what it's like to drive here.
In the Back Bay, it's a little better, mainly because the Back Bay is a man-made neighborhood, part of a huge landfill that took decades to make. As a result, they were able to plan the streets on a grid, like New York. But parts of Beacon Hill feel very much like the 1700s.
Anyway, we were supposed to meet my broker at her office to get the keys, but she was actually at the apartment when we called. So we found a spot on Charles Street, loaded the meter with quarters (it was 25 cents for 15 minutes) and went up to the apartment.
At this point, I felt overwhelmingly pleased to finally be in Boston, but the car situation was starting to stress me out a little bit. I was safe at a meter, but it had a two-hour max, after which you were ticketed if you didn't move. But move it where? I didn't have a permit that allowed me to park in Beacon Hill — you're issued one after you register your car — and the garages were outrageously expensive.
Adding to this stress was the cleaning woman at the apartment. She was there to clean every inch of it, something I've had to do in the past when I moved into a place. Now don't get me wrong, I was happy to be getting this service, but the timing was terrible. We essentially couldn't leave the apartment for three hours while she was there cleaning, and after our trip, we just to relax.
After feeding the meter for awhile, I decided to gamble and park my car in the neighborhood. I lucked out in that a space had opened up right in front of the building, so I parked it there, tickets be damned. We unloaded the car and waited for the cleaning lady to finish.
Later, when she finished, we walked down to Cambridge Street and had our first Boston meal at the Beacon Hill Tavern. I ate my first cup of New England clam chowder, and I loved it. We eventually walked back home and went to sleep on the tiny bed.
A simple life: inflatable bed, music, laptop, guide books.
My empty bedroom.
View from my bedroom. The other bay window at left is my living room window.
The apartment was empty and my furniture wouldn't arrive for two days, so the empty apartment, blow-up bed and laptop on the floor kind of made it feel like we were camping in a very expensive campground (sans-Apocalypse Tent, though).
The next couple nights would find us in Internet cafes, where I would start assembling my Boston life; wandering around the neighborhood and city; and eating the first of many, many great meals:
• Saturday night we walked to Chinatown, where we ate at "The Best Little Restaurant" (says the sign) and were segregated. Seriously. We walked in to find the restaurant filled with Chinese families (no, duh, right?), and it was like the record scratched — everyone turned to look. A waiter led us to an empty table downstairs and then paused and said, "Follow me." He took us upstairs to another dining room, which was empty. He told us to sit down then he ran away. So there we were, sitting in an empty dining room, the only caucasians in the room. We both laughed and found it hilarious, and it became the running joke behind every delayed order and paying the check. The food, by the way, was delicious.
• Italian was on the menu for Sunday night, which meant we walked to the North End. We were looking for this one particular restaurant, but it was closed. That meant we had to choose one from about 100 little eateries in this 1.3-square-mile neighborhood. It was a little overwhelming, but we just wandered until we found a place that had good specials. We hit the jackpot, and I found some delicious lobster ravioli. After dinner, we walked to Hanover Street and stood in line for some famous Mike's Pastry. The line spills out the door at this place and I honestly wondered if it would be worth it. Having now tried an eclair and tiramisu, I can honestly say the wait was worth it.
Since then I've eaten in the North End a couple times, but this meal was special, as every meal with Jenn is, and I don't think I'll feel this way again about my visits there until she's back here to visit and eventually live.
WHAT I LEARNED: Parking — and car ownership, in general — will be a scourge with which I'll have to contend for the unforeseeable future.
FAVORITE PART: The empty apartment. As much as I wanted my belongings to arrive, I think living on an airbed in an empty Boston apartment with Jenn will be grow to be one of those fond memories you love to hate to love in years to come.
OTHER THOUGHTS: My apartment lacks air conditioning. I wonder how this will work out …
Intermission: Hot town, summer in the city
New York City, as it's seen today.
Bono sang, "In New York, freedom looks like too many choices."
This has been my impression each time I've gone. There are so many things to see and do, but I always just get caught up in the simple pleasures of walking around and riding the subway. I'm such a philistine.
We had other things to do, however, than get lost in museums: We were meeting Jenn's friend, Jen, and her friend, Chris, who was in town for her birthday (nice timing, huh?). We picked up a breakfast of bagels and coffee/tea and sat in the park, loving the heck out of life and each other, and then we took the subway to Midtown. We sat on the steps of the public library and talked about the city while waiting for Jen. We later met at a Mediterranean restaurant called Pera, and the food — and company — were great.
The Jen(n)s had met while living in Italy several years, and they fell back into old times, telling stories about fun times and odd people in Italy. I was quiet a lot, but i didn't mind at all — I enjoyed listening. Jen now works for a major recruiting firm, and her work, which involves tracking the careers of thousands of people, is fascinating.
We parted ways and made our way down to Bleecker Street, with the intention of going to Little Italy and the Village. We ended up in Chinatown. Oh, well. We considered walking farther, but we were both getting a little tired from all the walking. We took the subway back and rested awhile before going out that night.
We met our war party of birthday revelers at the Park Avenue apartment of one of Chris' friends. We chatted for awhile and then the group of seven of us went to eat Mexican food.
The food and drink were great, but we had plans of meeting Chris (the cousin) and his wife at their Midtown apartment, so we dipped out a little early. Several minutes later, we arrived at their beautiful home: a pre-war two-bedroom that was gorgeous — and probably cost more money than I'll ever see. They cracked open a bottle of wine and we spent the rest of the night talking about politics, life in the South and music.
Jenn and I left with our heads somewhat swimmy, but we relied on each other to get back to the subway and, eventually, the Upper East Side. It was rough, but we make a good team, even if when our balance is a little off.
We went to sleep after a great day, knowing that an even more exciting day was ahead: Our landing in Boston.
WHAT I LEARNED: I would love to live in Manhattan. (This view is being revised a little as I fall more in love with Boston each day, however.)
FAVORITE PART: The evening spent with Chris and Delfina. They're both the perfect non-Manhattanites: Down-to-Earth, funny and incredibly kind and generous. I wouldn't mind coming back to the city just to hang out with them.
Fung Wah, I've got your number. Let's get our NYC on.
OTHER THOUGHTS: Once again, I wish I had taken more photographs. Oh, well — New York is a lot more accessible now than it was while I was in Jacksonville. I'll be back, soon — maybe on that $30 Fung Wah bus service.
The long ride, part 4
OK, if there's only one thing you take away from this post it's this: Getting from Virginia to New York City on the back roads of America is hard, slow work. We were looking at a long drive to begin with, but our drive turned out to be 12 hours — double what it would've been if we had taken the interstate.
But don't read that as a bad thing. It was a gorgeous drive that took us through small towns and farmland in Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. And the only reason it took so long was because of the many different roads we had to navigate and the slow speed limit.
Yet as much as I enjoyed this long drive, I was ready for it to be over once we reached the 11th hour or so.
A chronological synopsis of the drive isn't very interesting, so I'll lay down a few choice memories:
• "Antiques made daily," read the signs. What? How is this possible? There were dozens of antiques shops (some of which presumably had access to a time machine) along the road outside of the national park.
• We stopped in Sperryville (it's on HIghway 211 for those of you who don't know it) for lunch, and I was a little saddened to see the darling little eatery we stopped in front of was closed on Wednesday — and only on Wednesday. Bizarre. But we were parked, and downtown Sperryville looked charming, so we walked down Main Street a little ways. We settled on a small restaurant that looked like a good place to eat from the outside, but I was a little disappointed afterward. No, it wasn't a bad meal; it just seemed almost chain-like (I even saw the Sysco truck outside, too) and the prices were a little high for a restaurant in this small town. Whatev. I just wish that other place had been open.
• The drive through Virginia was awesome. Curvy, invigorating and green — like She-Hulk.
• According to my map, Maryland is only about as big as the first two joints of my index finger. With that in mind, you'd think that we'd drive through it so fast we wouldn't even realize it. That wasn't the case: Lots of small, winding roads and detours ensured we were in rural Maryland much longer than we should've been. I started losing steam during this part, until, finally, we entered …
• Amish folks in carriages. Small, bricky downtowns. Rolling hills and farmland. This is how I'll fondly remember this portion of the drive. It was wonderful, until we got to the Philly suburbs, then it got boring again. But then a new obstacle appeared:
**NEWSFLASH: Explosion in Midtown Manhattan**
Jenn got a call from her friend in Manhattan who said her building was evacuated and there were cops and soldiers with assault rifles. She was a little curious about what was going on. We stopped at the information hub of the universe, McDonald's (hey, they have WiFi now), and checked the NYT and CNN. Nothing terrorism-related it seems; just a steam pipe. That's good. What's bad is that traffic is probably a nightmare, which could mean our arrival a few hours from then could be stretched into many hours. This isn't looking good.
• Back on the road, a few more small towns and then New Jersey, the nation's largest strip mall.
• It's a long road that gets more congested as you get closer to NYC. To fill the time time, we started coming up with New Jersey state mottos: "New Jersey: … Eh." "New Jersey: You won't miss us." "New Jersey: Come visit fabulous New York City!"
• Traffic wasn't extraordinarily bad, but I was tired and a little punchy from having been on the road. Road behavior is a little different in NJ; for instance, you have to turn right in order to turn left (you exit the highway and come out at a stop light that allows you to turn right. It's probably good for traffic.)
• There's little room for error on the highway, and unfortunately we made one. It wasn't our fault, though — tree branches were covering the exit sign on the highway and I didn't notice until it was too late to merge over. So we went to Defcom 4: Jenn got out the maps and started navigating. We ended up in downtown Newark, where potholes threatened to eat my car, but we found our way on to the turnpike, which led us to the Holland Tunnel and, eventually, 42nd street.
• Driving here might be a nightmare, but at least it's easy to navigate. Traffic moved pretty orderly, despite the explosion in Midtown, and within a few minutes we were on the Upper East Side. We ditched my car at a parking garage ($30 a day!) next to Jenn's cousin's wife's apartment. Tired and hungry, we stumbled out on to the street and called Chris (her cousin) to meet us.
He was at a restaurant in Midtown, but he said he'd pay his tab and grab a cab uptown. He told us to meet him at a bar at 78th and 1st. As we were waiting, and I was lost in thought about this incredible metropolis, how it's always fast, always open and always intriguing, I had a classic New York moment: A giant rat emerged from behind a building and scampered toward a trash can next to which I was standing. As soon as I noticed Jenn's terrified grimace, I felt something bump into and run across my foot. I could feel its little claws scratch across the top of my shoe. As I stood there stunned a man who was on his cellphone and who had witnessed the incident pulled the phone away from his mouth and started laughing. Then he started pointing and laughing. Nice.
Chris called to announce his tardiness, and we decided to go to the other side of the block and look for some real food. We settled on an Italian restaurant, which served me the best ravioli I've ever had — and at 11:30 p.m., too. Chris arrived and we toasted our first New York night.
Chris is a character. He looks like a slightly shorter Sting, and he reminds me a lot of his father (Jenn's uncle, whom I'd met twice before) and Jenn's father: Clever, funny, warm and playful. He had some great stories and he seemingly knew everyone in the city (he greeted the restaurant's owner with a hug). He was kind of not only to lend us his wife's apartment, but also pick up our dinner ticket. "Welcome to New York," he said.
Exhausted, we went back to the apartment and fell asleep as the huge city buzzed with activity outside our window, 18 floors down. We'd do our best to seize that activity the next day.
WHAT I LEARNED: Having a car in Manhattan is stupid.
FAVORITE PART: The change in scenery — we went from wilderness to Amish country to bright lights, big city in one day.
OTHER THOUGHTS: The few things I envy about New York (compared to Boston) are late nightlife and restaurants and 24-hour public transportation. (There will probably be a much longer entry about these things later.)
But don't read that as a bad thing. It was a gorgeous drive that took us through small towns and farmland in Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. And the only reason it took so long was because of the many different roads we had to navigate and the slow speed limit.
Yet as much as I enjoyed this long drive, I was ready for it to be over once we reached the 11th hour or so.
A chronological synopsis of the drive isn't very interesting, so I'll lay down a few choice memories:
VIRGINIA
• "Antiques made daily," read the signs. What? How is this possible? There were dozens of antiques shops (some of which presumably had access to a time machine) along the road outside of the national park.
• We stopped in Sperryville (it's on HIghway 211 for those of you who don't know it) for lunch, and I was a little saddened to see the darling little eatery we stopped in front of was closed on Wednesday — and only on Wednesday. Bizarre. But we were parked, and downtown Sperryville looked charming, so we walked down Main Street a little ways. We settled on a small restaurant that looked like a good place to eat from the outside, but I was a little disappointed afterward. No, it wasn't a bad meal; it just seemed almost chain-like (I even saw the Sysco truck outside, too) and the prices were a little high for a restaurant in this small town. Whatev. I just wish that other place had been open.
• The drive through Virginia was awesome. Curvy, invigorating and green — like She-Hulk.
MARYLAND
• According to my map, Maryland is only about as big as the first two joints of my index finger. With that in mind, you'd think that we'd drive through it so fast we wouldn't even realize it. That wasn't the case: Lots of small, winding roads and detours ensured we were in rural Maryland much longer than we should've been. I started losing steam during this part, until, finally, we entered …
PENNSYLVANIA
• Amish folks in carriages. Small, bricky downtowns. Rolling hills and farmland. This is how I'll fondly remember this portion of the drive. It was wonderful, until we got to the Philly suburbs, then it got boring again. But then a new obstacle appeared:
**NEWSFLASH: Explosion in Midtown Manhattan**
Jenn got a call from her friend in Manhattan who said her building was evacuated and there were cops and soldiers with assault rifles. She was a little curious about what was going on. We stopped at the information hub of the universe, McDonald's (hey, they have WiFi now), and checked the NYT and CNN. Nothing terrorism-related it seems; just a steam pipe. That's good. What's bad is that traffic is probably a nightmare, which could mean our arrival a few hours from then could be stretched into many hours. This isn't looking good.
• Back on the road, a few more small towns and then New Jersey, the nation's largest strip mall.
NEW JERSEY
• It's a long road that gets more congested as you get closer to NYC. To fill the time time, we started coming up with New Jersey state mottos: "New Jersey: … Eh." "New Jersey: You won't miss us." "New Jersey: Come visit fabulous New York City!"
• Traffic wasn't extraordinarily bad, but I was tired and a little punchy from having been on the road. Road behavior is a little different in NJ; for instance, you have to turn right in order to turn left (you exit the highway and come out at a stop light that allows you to turn right. It's probably good for traffic.)
• There's little room for error on the highway, and unfortunately we made one. It wasn't our fault, though — tree branches were covering the exit sign on the highway and I didn't notice until it was too late to merge over. So we went to Defcom 4: Jenn got out the maps and started navigating. We ended up in downtown Newark, where potholes threatened to eat my car, but we found our way on to the turnpike, which led us to the Holland Tunnel and, eventually, 42nd street.
NEW YORK
• Driving here might be a nightmare, but at least it's easy to navigate. Traffic moved pretty orderly, despite the explosion in Midtown, and within a few minutes we were on the Upper East Side. We ditched my car at a parking garage ($30 a day!) next to Jenn's cousin's wife's apartment. Tired and hungry, we stumbled out on to the street and called Chris (her cousin) to meet us.
He was at a restaurant in Midtown, but he said he'd pay his tab and grab a cab uptown. He told us to meet him at a bar at 78th and 1st. As we were waiting, and I was lost in thought about this incredible metropolis, how it's always fast, always open and always intriguing, I had a classic New York moment: A giant rat emerged from behind a building and scampered toward a trash can next to which I was standing. As soon as I noticed Jenn's terrified grimace, I felt something bump into and run across my foot. I could feel its little claws scratch across the top of my shoe. As I stood there stunned a man who was on his cellphone and who had witnessed the incident pulled the phone away from his mouth and started laughing. Then he started pointing and laughing. Nice.
Chris called to announce his tardiness, and we decided to go to the other side of the block and look for some real food. We settled on an Italian restaurant, which served me the best ravioli I've ever had — and at 11:30 p.m., too. Chris arrived and we toasted our first New York night.
Chris is a character. He looks like a slightly shorter Sting, and he reminds me a lot of his father (Jenn's uncle, whom I'd met twice before) and Jenn's father: Clever, funny, warm and playful. He had some great stories and he seemingly knew everyone in the city (he greeted the restaurant's owner with a hug). He was kind of not only to lend us his wife's apartment, but also pick up our dinner ticket. "Welcome to New York," he said.
Exhausted, we went back to the apartment and fell asleep as the huge city buzzed with activity outside our window, 18 floors down. We'd do our best to seize that activity the next day.
WHAT I LEARNED: Having a car in Manhattan is stupid.
FAVORITE PART: The change in scenery — we went from wilderness to Amish country to bright lights, big city in one day.
OTHER THOUGHTS: The few things I envy about New York (compared to Boston) are late nightlife and restaurants and 24-hour public transportation. (There will probably be a much longer entry about these things later.)
The long ride, part 3
Even though it had been a couple days since we left Jacksonville, I still believed that our trip truly began after we left Charlotte. We were venturing away from a somewhat familiar city into the wilderness.
The drive from North Carolina to Virginia was pretty, and as the hills became mountains, it was a much more entertaining drive than the trip through South Carolina. The twists in the road and the steep climbs made me feel like I was truly driving the car, rather than simply keeping the steering wheel straight and the gas peddle depressed.
Credit: Lynchburg, Va., Kiwanis club.
We took a slight detour into Lynchburg, Va., birthplace of the cigarette rolling machine and enema. The downtown had a turn-of-the-century urban charm about it, and the houses along the hills were beautiful. We explored the downtown area and walked down to the riverfront, but the oppressive heat (it was a breezeless 90-degree day) and lack of public parks or shade — seriously, for a 200-year-old town, you'd think there would be trees taller than 6 feet — hastened our return to the car and to the highway.
We entered the Shenandoah National Forest a little after lunch time and began our ascent through the mountains. The road one takes through the forest is called Skyline Drive, and as it winds through the canopied forest, it occasionally meanders along the edge of the mountain to allow some breathtaking vistas of the valley below. Eventually it evens out at Big Meadows, which is where we would camp that night.
Big Meadows, Va.
Before the trip I bought a tent. Now, this isn't an ordinary tent like one you'd buy at Wal-Mart or Target; I bought this one from Black Creek Outfitters in Jacksonville, and despite mitigating the price somewhat with an old $100 gift certificate Kristilee gave me, I still paid $130 to make up the difference. I think that's a lot of money for a small, two-person tent.
But, back to the "this isn't an ordinary tent" comment, this is probably the most hardcore piece of camping equipment I'll ever own. Extremely durable and lightweight, this tent comes with instructions on how to pitch it in the middle of a blizzard or on a steep mountain. "Bad-ass" doesn't do it justice.
On the other hand, it was also the easiest tent to pitch. The instructions were simple and the parts were few. Now having done it once, I could probably pitch it in about a minute, maybe two.
After we pitched it, we rested for a moment and I looked around our campsite. It was perfect: shady, quiet, far enough away from facilities but not too far that going to the bathroom wasn't a hike. The sites are in the wilderness, under a canopy of trees, and some of them are close to a peak overlooking a valley. (We'll have to reserve those next time.) And while we were pitching the tent, a deer strolled up the brush next to us to start eating. Wow!
Hello, deer.
Having been cramped up in the car for several hours, we decided to change our shoes and explore the area. Jenn had found a hiking trail that led to a waterfall on the map, and we set out to find it.
The trailhead was set a couple hundred feet back from the road and it looked well-used near the top. A guidepost said the trail descended 1,000 feet for about 1.2 miles. Not realizing the physical toll these simple numbers eventually demand, we both smiled our chipper smiles and said, "Let's do it!"
It was a gorgeous path through the forest that varied from worn, dirt trails with large rock formations, to steep and rocky. But eventually it seemed like we had been walking forever and that cruel calculus started creeping into my head: Each step I take forward is one I'll have to take back.
Rocking out on the trail.
Jenn started thinking that way, too, and we both started asking, "How are you doing back/up there?" — each question actually a statement of the other person's fatigue. But neither of us showed our hand and we kept walking. Forever.
And then we heard it: the sound of the waterfall. We stopped for a minute to ensure it wasn't just the sound of wind rustling through the leaves. It wasn't.
That gave me an extra boost of energy and we stepped up the pace a little. As we came around the corner, we saw another family coming back our way, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. They said the falls were up ahead.
There was a small stone vantage point built into the side of the rocks, and although it looked a little out of place from the rocky, steep trail on which we had just arrived, but it offered a nice view of Lewis Falls.
Lewis Falls.
We made it!
Now we had that little matter of climbing back. Just the thought of it made me start looking around the woods for berries to eat and timber to gather to construct a house. Going back seemed almost out of the question.
I came to my senses and we began the march out, stopping a few times to rest along the way. We emerged, trudged back to camp, and collapsed in the tent. We were tired — admittedly, we were also tired from having been on the road all day — and dirty.
I got up after a few minutes and began to prepare dinner. On the menu: Lemon herb chicken, potatoes and corn on the cob. I lit the fire while Jenn prepared the corn, wrapping it in aluminum foil with butter. We also wrapped the potatoes in foil.
Our dinner plans foiled!
The fire was lit, but the grill wasn't getting hot enough to cook anything. Our fire was too small. Or the grill was too big. Whatever; the food wasn't getting cooked. Plan B: We tossed the foil-wrapped items and skillet directly on the glowing coals, which got things cooking rather quickly. This radical departure actually proved to be moderately successful, with only the potatoes suffering from being undercooked.
So with our bellies full and our bodies aching, we went to bed, piling on this tiny, inflatable bed. This bed would end up being our uncomfortable, cramped chariot to dreamworld for the rest of the trip. Hey, this twin bed was the only bed small enough to fit in the Apocalypse Tent.
The next day would be a long day, one that would take us from the wilderness to the big city.
WHAT I LEARNED: Hiking a 1,000-foot descent across 1.2 miles (one way) isn't the best way to stretch your legs after a seven-hour car ride. Also, always build a bigger fire.
FAVORITE PART: A tie between driving up the mountain and marching down (and back up) it. Yeah, even though it was hard work, I still enjoyed it.
OTHER THOUGHTS: When the apocalypse comes, you'll find me in my tent, lying on a bed that's too small.
The drive from North Carolina to Virginia was pretty, and as the hills became mountains, it was a much more entertaining drive than the trip through South Carolina. The twists in the road and the steep climbs made me feel like I was truly driving the car, rather than simply keeping the steering wheel straight and the gas peddle depressed.
Credit: Lynchburg, Va., Kiwanis club.
We took a slight detour into Lynchburg, Va., birthplace of the cigarette rolling machine and enema. The downtown had a turn-of-the-century urban charm about it, and the houses along the hills were beautiful. We explored the downtown area and walked down to the riverfront, but the oppressive heat (it was a breezeless 90-degree day) and lack of public parks or shade — seriously, for a 200-year-old town, you'd think there would be trees taller than 6 feet — hastened our return to the car and to the highway.
We entered the Shenandoah National Forest a little after lunch time and began our ascent through the mountains. The road one takes through the forest is called Skyline Drive, and as it winds through the canopied forest, it occasionally meanders along the edge of the mountain to allow some breathtaking vistas of the valley below. Eventually it evens out at Big Meadows, which is where we would camp that night.
Big Meadows, Va.
Before the trip I bought a tent. Now, this isn't an ordinary tent like one you'd buy at Wal-Mart or Target; I bought this one from Black Creek Outfitters in Jacksonville, and despite mitigating the price somewhat with an old $100 gift certificate Kristilee gave me, I still paid $130 to make up the difference. I think that's a lot of money for a small, two-person tent.
But, back to the "this isn't an ordinary tent" comment, this is probably the most hardcore piece of camping equipment I'll ever own. Extremely durable and lightweight, this tent comes with instructions on how to pitch it in the middle of a blizzard or on a steep mountain. "Bad-ass" doesn't do it justice.
On the other hand, it was also the easiest tent to pitch. The instructions were simple and the parts were few. Now having done it once, I could probably pitch it in about a minute, maybe two.
After we pitched it, we rested for a moment and I looked around our campsite. It was perfect: shady, quiet, far enough away from facilities but not too far that going to the bathroom wasn't a hike. The sites are in the wilderness, under a canopy of trees, and some of them are close to a peak overlooking a valley. (We'll have to reserve those next time.) And while we were pitching the tent, a deer strolled up the brush next to us to start eating. Wow!
Hello, deer.
Having been cramped up in the car for several hours, we decided to change our shoes and explore the area. Jenn had found a hiking trail that led to a waterfall on the map, and we set out to find it.
The trailhead was set a couple hundred feet back from the road and it looked well-used near the top. A guidepost said the trail descended 1,000 feet for about 1.2 miles. Not realizing the physical toll these simple numbers eventually demand, we both smiled our chipper smiles and said, "Let's do it!"
It was a gorgeous path through the forest that varied from worn, dirt trails with large rock formations, to steep and rocky. But eventually it seemed like we had been walking forever and that cruel calculus started creeping into my head: Each step I take forward is one I'll have to take back.
Rocking out on the trail.
Jenn started thinking that way, too, and we both started asking, "How are you doing back/up there?" — each question actually a statement of the other person's fatigue. But neither of us showed our hand and we kept walking. Forever.
And then we heard it: the sound of the waterfall. We stopped for a minute to ensure it wasn't just the sound of wind rustling through the leaves. It wasn't.
That gave me an extra boost of energy and we stepped up the pace a little. As we came around the corner, we saw another family coming back our way, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. They said the falls were up ahead.
There was a small stone vantage point built into the side of the rocks, and although it looked a little out of place from the rocky, steep trail on which we had just arrived, but it offered a nice view of Lewis Falls.
Lewis Falls.
We made it!
Now we had that little matter of climbing back. Just the thought of it made me start looking around the woods for berries to eat and timber to gather to construct a house. Going back seemed almost out of the question.
I came to my senses and we began the march out, stopping a few times to rest along the way. We emerged, trudged back to camp, and collapsed in the tent. We were tired — admittedly, we were also tired from having been on the road all day — and dirty.
I got up after a few minutes and began to prepare dinner. On the menu: Lemon herb chicken, potatoes and corn on the cob. I lit the fire while Jenn prepared the corn, wrapping it in aluminum foil with butter. We also wrapped the potatoes in foil.
Our dinner plans foiled!
The fire was lit, but the grill wasn't getting hot enough to cook anything. Our fire was too small. Or the grill was too big. Whatever; the food wasn't getting cooked. Plan B: We tossed the foil-wrapped items and skillet directly on the glowing coals, which got things cooking rather quickly. This radical departure actually proved to be moderately successful, with only the potatoes suffering from being undercooked.
So with our bellies full and our bodies aching, we went to bed, piling on this tiny, inflatable bed. This bed would end up being our uncomfortable, cramped chariot to dreamworld for the rest of the trip. Hey, this twin bed was the only bed small enough to fit in the Apocalypse Tent.
The next day would be a long day, one that would take us from the wilderness to the big city.
WHAT I LEARNED: Hiking a 1,000-foot descent across 1.2 miles (one way) isn't the best way to stretch your legs after a seven-hour car ride. Also, always build a bigger fire.
FAVORITE PART: A tie between driving up the mountain and marching down (and back up) it. Yeah, even though it was hard work, I still enjoyed it.
OTHER THOUGHTS: When the apocalypse comes, you'll find me in my tent, lying on a bed that's too small.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
The long ride, part 2
The drive from Jacksonville to Savannah on I-95 reinforced why I chose to eschew the faster highways and take the slower back roads: The drive was numbing. You've all driven thousands of miles on interstates; you don't need me to remind you of how boring the long stretches of tree/billboard-lined roads are. But I was hypersensitive to it, probably because, having driven across the country on back roads, I knew how beautiful and interesting the country is.
Exiting just north of Savannah was a relief, and although the initial stretch of highway was boring, we eventually found ourselves winding our way through interesting towns; some picturesque, others in the grip of crushing poverty.
The tapestry of the area was varied, and we passed the time playing car games (the alphabet game, where you had to point out things that began with every letter of the alphabet in the order in which they fall) and listening to music and "This American Life" podcasts.
Jenn's navigation skills shined as she was presented with some difficult directions. A quick aside: Google Maps' directions are good, but they're almost too good — they list every possible name for a street, plot every nuance of the route, including streets on which you travel for 59 feet (seriously), and seem formidable at first. Learning to read the directions was an art in itself and, though we took a minor stumble in South Carolina, she ensured we got from Point A to Point B smoothly. See why I keep her around?
The afternoon was waning away as we approached the Queen City, Charlotte.
(Not my photo)
We made our way through a blinding rainstorm to my grandmother's house and arrived to find her waiting with wine, cheese and fruit. Reason No. 7,937 why I love my grandmother. As the wine coursed through our tired bodies, we grew drowsy and decided to take a nap before dinner. We were out as soon as our heads hit the pillow in the guest room, rising again two hours later for a nice stir-fry dinner and good conversation before bed.
The next day we met Jenn's cousin for lunch — an amazing accomplishment after we got lost on the way back to the city and ended up in rural Union County. After lunch we drove around, saw the house I lived in after I was born until I was 4, and briefly visited downtown Charlotte, home to two of the country's five largest banks.
Being back in Charlotte was a nice experience, and I was amazed at how many memories returned, not only from my family's Thanksgiving trips there a decade ago, but from when I was a child.
After a delicious dinner of Chinese, Jenn and I went to bed early to get some rest before a long day on the road. Tomorrow: Virginia and beyond!
WHAT I LEARNED: Jenn and I make excellent traveling companions. I knew this trip would be very telling of our relationship: Spending every waking second with someone for nine days is often a good litmus test. But after that first day I knew we would have a delightful trip, and that our relationship and friendship would grow even stronger on the road.
FAVORITE PART: The variety and character or towns throughout South Carolina.
OTHER THOUGHTS: I regret not taking as many pictures on this trip. I blame myself for two things: first, sending with the movers my point-and-shoot camera, which takes amazing pictures and fits in my pocket; second, being too lazy to stop, assemble my SLR and shoot a photo.
Exiting just north of Savannah was a relief, and although the initial stretch of highway was boring, we eventually found ourselves winding our way through interesting towns; some picturesque, others in the grip of crushing poverty.
The tapestry of the area was varied, and we passed the time playing car games (the alphabet game, where you had to point out things that began with every letter of the alphabet in the order in which they fall) and listening to music and "This American Life" podcasts.
Jenn's navigation skills shined as she was presented with some difficult directions. A quick aside: Google Maps' directions are good, but they're almost too good — they list every possible name for a street, plot every nuance of the route, including streets on which you travel for 59 feet (seriously), and seem formidable at first. Learning to read the directions was an art in itself and, though we took a minor stumble in South Carolina, she ensured we got from Point A to Point B smoothly. See why I keep her around?
The afternoon was waning away as we approached the Queen City, Charlotte.
(Not my photo)
We made our way through a blinding rainstorm to my grandmother's house and arrived to find her waiting with wine, cheese and fruit. Reason No. 7,937 why I love my grandmother. As the wine coursed through our tired bodies, we grew drowsy and decided to take a nap before dinner. We were out as soon as our heads hit the pillow in the guest room, rising again two hours later for a nice stir-fry dinner and good conversation before bed.
The next day we met Jenn's cousin for lunch — an amazing accomplishment after we got lost on the way back to the city and ended up in rural Union County. After lunch we drove around, saw the house I lived in after I was born until I was 4, and briefly visited downtown Charlotte, home to two of the country's five largest banks.
Being back in Charlotte was a nice experience, and I was amazed at how many memories returned, not only from my family's Thanksgiving trips there a decade ago, but from when I was a child.
After a delicious dinner of Chinese, Jenn and I went to bed early to get some rest before a long day on the road. Tomorrow: Virginia and beyond!
WHAT I LEARNED: Jenn and I make excellent traveling companions. I knew this trip would be very telling of our relationship: Spending every waking second with someone for nine days is often a good litmus test. But after that first day I knew we would have a delightful trip, and that our relationship and friendship would grow even stronger on the road.
FAVORITE PART: The variety and character or towns throughout South Carolina.
OTHER THOUGHTS: I regret not taking as many pictures on this trip. I blame myself for two things: first, sending with the movers my point-and-shoot camera, which takes amazing pictures and fits in my pocket; second, being too lazy to stop, assemble my SLR and shoot a photo.
The long ride
For the record: They gave me the option of flying to Boston and having my car transported there. Why drive the thousand miles from Jacksonville to Boston, some of you might be wondering, when you could've stepped on a plane and, three hours later, been in Boston with your car?
Answer: That's boring.
I had more than a week from the time I returned from my previous trip to when I started at the Globe, and, fortunately, I already had an apartment waiting for me in Boston (thanks to my house-hunting trip a few weeks prior). More than a week is more than enough time to go the distance, so I decided I'd make an adventure out of it: Drive the back roads, see the country, camp and visit family along the way.
I needed a navigator. I had driven across the country by myself before, and I would've given my left ventricle for a navigator (or at least someone to joke with along the way). After an exhaustive candidate search, essay contest and rigorous interview, I found the perfect road-trip mate: Jenn. I offered her the job and, well, her enthusiasm speaks for itself:
Her response: HTTMFY!
It was set. We were going to attempt this trip.
So after a fun smell-you-later party on Friday, a nice dinner with the parents on Saturday and a delicious (and bittersweet) going-away breakfast at the Metro Diner, Jenn and I hit the road Sunday morning.
My car was packed with clothes, snacks, camping gear and a boombox in the back seat (remember, I don't have a radio), and the whole thing looked like either a rolling party or a safety hazard. Regardless, it ran, and it ran well.
Our trip was planned out as follows:
• Leg 1: I-95 to Savannah; exit, take the highways through South Carolina, and wind up in Charlotte, N.C. Stay with my grandmother for two nights and visit Jenn's cousin while there.
• Leg 2: Back roads through N.C. and Virginia; drive through the Shenandoah National Forest and camp in Big Meadows, Va.
• Leg 3: Back roads through Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania and New Jersey; arrive in New York City and stay on the Upper East Side in a spare apartment owned by Jenn's cousin's wife. Kick it in the city for two nights.
• Leg 4: Back roads through New York, Connecticut and Massachusetts; arrive in Boston and pick up keys for the apartment; stay in an empty apartment until furniture arrives on Monday.
So to the opening vamp of the Who's "Baba O'Reily," we stormed the onramp to I-95 from San Marco, determined to have a kick-ass time in transit.
Answer: That's boring.
I had more than a week from the time I returned from my previous trip to when I started at the Globe, and, fortunately, I already had an apartment waiting for me in Boston (thanks to my house-hunting trip a few weeks prior). More than a week is more than enough time to go the distance, so I decided I'd make an adventure out of it: Drive the back roads, see the country, camp and visit family along the way.
I needed a navigator. I had driven across the country by myself before, and I would've given my left ventricle for a navigator (or at least someone to joke with along the way). After an exhaustive candidate search, essay contest and rigorous interview, I found the perfect road-trip mate: Jenn. I offered her the job and, well, her enthusiasm speaks for itself:
Her response: HTTMFY!
It was set. We were going to attempt this trip.
So after a fun smell-you-later party on Friday, a nice dinner with the parents on Saturday and a delicious (and bittersweet) going-away breakfast at the Metro Diner, Jenn and I hit the road Sunday morning.
My car was packed with clothes, snacks, camping gear and a boombox in the back seat (remember, I don't have a radio), and the whole thing looked like either a rolling party or a safety hazard. Regardless, it ran, and it ran well.
Our trip was planned out as follows:
• Leg 1: I-95 to Savannah; exit, take the highways through South Carolina, and wind up in Charlotte, N.C. Stay with my grandmother for two nights and visit Jenn's cousin while there.
• Leg 2: Back roads through N.C. and Virginia; drive through the Shenandoah National Forest and camp in Big Meadows, Va.
• Leg 3: Back roads through Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania and New Jersey; arrive in New York City and stay on the Upper East Side in a spare apartment owned by Jenn's cousin's wife. Kick it in the city for two nights.
• Leg 4: Back roads through New York, Connecticut and Massachusetts; arrive in Boston and pick up keys for the apartment; stay in an empty apartment until furniture arrives on Monday.
So to the opening vamp of the Who's "Baba O'Reily," we stormed the onramp to I-95 from San Marco, determined to have a kick-ass time in transit.
Introduction
There once was a time when I wrote constantly in an online journal, recording my thoughts and the minutiae of my life to great extent. Then it died, and rather quickly, too.
Results from the post-mortem analysis are inconclusive. At first thought, it seems the blog died because of stagnation in life. That might be true in some cases — work became more stable (read: I wasn't changing jobs every few months) — but in others, it couldn't be more far from reality. Truth is I've had a pretty good year since my old journal withered at Livejournal.com: I've made wonderful friends, fell in love and did some great work. Sure, there were low points — the Times-Union started going downhill quickly — but, overall, life has been great.
So why haven't I been writing about it all, at least for my own benefit? And the answer to the big question bubbles to the surface: I was lazy.
Now I'm off on an adventure: A new job at a bigger, better paper in a bigger, better city. It took me far from my friends and family, which is a difficult adjustment, but it also stands to offer me a lot. (Snow, for one thing.)
All of this to introduce my new journal, which will allow me to ramble on about my goings-on in Boston, and post photos I take of this very cool city. Also, it will let everyone at home know that I'm still alive.
Just don't get your expectations up. Union rules dictate at least 40 percent of this journal be boring, self-indulgant drivel, and I intend to adhere to these stipulations. Don't want to rock the boat, after all.
Results from the post-mortem analysis are inconclusive. At first thought, it seems the blog died because of stagnation in life. That might be true in some cases — work became more stable (read: I wasn't changing jobs every few months) — but in others, it couldn't be more far from reality. Truth is I've had a pretty good year since my old journal withered at Livejournal.com: I've made wonderful friends, fell in love and did some great work. Sure, there were low points — the Times-Union started going downhill quickly — but, overall, life has been great.
So why haven't I been writing about it all, at least for my own benefit? And the answer to the big question bubbles to the surface: I was lazy.
Now I'm off on an adventure: A new job at a bigger, better paper in a bigger, better city. It took me far from my friends and family, which is a difficult adjustment, but it also stands to offer me a lot. (Snow, for one thing.)
All of this to introduce my new journal, which will allow me to ramble on about my goings-on in Boston, and post photos I take of this very cool city. Also, it will let everyone at home know that I'm still alive.
Just don't get your expectations up. Union rules dictate at least 40 percent of this journal be boring, self-indulgant drivel, and I intend to adhere to these stipulations. Don't want to rock the boat, after all.
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