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 …
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