In Sight, Sept. 23

Beacon Hill

Bob Bohle is the man.

My favorite professor sent me an awesome gift as a congratulations for landing the new job.

Making something from nothing

In Sight, Sept. 13

Skyline of the Back Bay.


Inside one of the reading halls of the Boston Public Library.

Haiku heard over the subway PA

A Braintree train,
a Braintree train,
this is a Braintree train.

David Ortiz just hit a two-run homerun to beat Tampa Bay 5-4 in the bottom of the ninth. It was brilliant. And the fact that I just wrote "it was brilliant" might mean I'm becoming a baseball fan.

I can't wait for the Yankees to get here on Friday for their three-day-long ass-whipping. (I heard they had riot police at Fenway last year!)

Good morning!

There's nothing like the smell of hot asphalt in the morning. The sound is pretty unique, too. Good thing I don't work nights and try to sleep during the morning … oh, wait …

I keep starting to write and then stopping. I can't find a way to start an entry, particularly one I don't really feel like writing. Today, the journal seems like a chore.

"Why don't you just not write today?" Well, that is the easiest answer, but it's a slippery slope.

We'll just forget about Tuesday. It was rainy, blustery, the Sept. 11 anniversary, and the day after Jenn left, the day when I really felt it.



Seeing her again this weekend was like coming up for air after holding my breath for the past seven weeks. Seeing her again filled me with such happiness and I knew the crash that ensued when she left would be crushing.

She gave me a phonograph for my birthday. It's an antique, probably at least 50 years old. It's heavy, musty and in order for it to work, vacuum tubes need to warm up. Very retro, and very cool. And her parents sent me an old single by The Four Esquires: "I Ain't Been Right Since She Left."

Unfortunately, the player lacks a needle, so until I manage to find one, I'll have to wonder just how bad the Esquires, all four of 'em, feel.

I promised her a little Florida heat for her visit; I didn't expect that we'd tie a record at 95 degrees on Saturday. On Sunday, however, it felt like normal again and I don't think we cracked 70 degrees. She bought an adorable sweater at H&M, and we walked down Newbury Street and through the park, trying to spot the subtle changes in the leaves. Autumn is on the way.


Duck!

We partied in Cambridge, hitting up some of the bars on Central Square, staying out past our bedtime (or, rather, past the T's bedtime). We had a romantic dinner at a Persian restaurant that was carved out of a 19th-century mansion at the foot of Beacon Hill. We saw dinosaurs, giant bugs and space ships at the science museum. We road around Boston on a giant duck. (Duck Tour, that is.)



And then I took her to the airport.

It all felt like a dream, and the hardest part about these wonderful dreams is waking up.

Yeah, maybe I'm being a little melodramatic. Or maybe I'm not; perhaps it's right to feel depressed about having to spend a birthday far from your friends, family and loved ones. (Fortunately my mom is coming to visit on Sunday, which will prevent me from being a wreck.)

Anyway, that's all I have for now. Perhaps I'll post some photos later. Everybody loves photos.

Howdy, neighbor

Walking up the hill from the post office, I passed Louisburg Square, which is arguably the most exclusive block on Beacon Hill. It's two rows of brownstone mansions facing each other, with a small, gated park in between. The neighbors own the park and land, and, thus, have their own on-street parking spots in front of their homes.

As I neared the end of the block, a black minivan pulled up in front of one of the most famous home in the square and its equally famous resident got out, thanked the driver and started walking toward his door. It was Senator John F. Kerry.

"Good afternoon, Senator," I said as our paths crossed. He returned my greeting with a smile before walking up the steps to his mansion.

Although Kerry earned some cool points for carpooling, I still wanted to grab him and yell, "Why didn't you try harder three years ago?!?"

Maybe next time. Until then, I'll still be pondering how weird it was to see the man who could've been president less than a block away from where I live. (And yes, he really does look like an evil villain from a Scooby Doo episode.)

In Sight, Sept. 6

Last train home.

In Sight, Sept. 3

The North End.

Welcome back, students

They're everywhere I look. Flip-flops, backward hats, polo shirts tucked into shorts a 60-year-old would wear. No, not tourists; they would be wear hiking boots, long, white socks and fanny packs. No, these are college students, and they — roughly 250,000 in Boston and Cambridge — are returning to Boston in droves.

The street on Saturday — and I'm not exaggerating here — was choked with U-Hauls, trucks loaded down with beds and furniture, and other moving vans.

I went out to the Back Bay Saturday night after I finished work, and the area sidewalks were alive with groups of students, fraternity boys and teens leading around parents with wide eyes and pants worn too high on the waist.

As I sat near the subway entrance, waiting for my friend, I started to feel ... old. The gap between 18 and 25 seemed a lot bigger than the arithmetic seems.

Meanwhile, another emotion was brewing: The fact that I didn't really have much of a college experience — I stayed in town and finished my four-year degree in three years — made me a little envious. I'm sure it must feel exciting, particularly for a student in the Boston area: They're on their own for the first time, going to a great school in an equally great city. I felt almost overwhelmed when I got here; I can't imagine experiencing this city as an 18-year-old.

Anyway. Now, I've come to my senses, and the college students serve as a source of annoyance for me. They're like tourists who never leave, except when they stop in the middle of the sidewalk, despite the foot traffic around them, it's not to stare open-mouthed at a map; it's to high-five each other.

Jesus.

On the other hand, a benefit to having them here is the incredible back-to-school sales, designed to lure in the platinum-card-wielding parent. I bought a bunch of clothes today for a fraction of what I would've paid any other day.

Street preacher

Brother Larry, who preaches every Sunday in the Common.


He's quite animated, often causing the flocks of pigeons that rest on the fountain behind him to explode into flight.


Church and state separated, by about 500 feet of green space.

In Sight, Sept. 2

Boston Common.

Split decision

Here's your park curfew right here.

Because of a recent spate of violence and drug arrests on the Boston Common, the city has decided to enforce the park's curfew for the first time. That means the park is off limits from 11:30 p.m. to 6 a.m., unless you're just passing through.

What that really means is 50 or so homeless people have lost their sleeping spots. I had read about the decision to enforce the curfew but its significance didn't hit me until I exited the T the other night at 12:45 a.m. and found the park, which was always littered with crumpled forms of sleeping people, desolate. It was a little eerie.

I'm a little split over the decision.

As someone who comes home very late and has to walk home through the park, it's kind of nice not to have to worry about an incident, and it's even nicer seeing park rangers driving around at night.

But, at the same time, the homeless are now scattered to the other parts of downtown, some of which aren't as safe as the common. Many of the homeless interviewed by the Globe said they don't feel safe in the shelters, which are often hotbeds of drugs, disease and violence. In the park, they band together and look out for one another.

Some of them believe they are scapegoats for the park violence — which saw a bullet smash through a window of the State House, which is on park and is where Gov. Deval Patrick works. (The homeless had no hand in the violence; it was a teenager arguing with another group of teens.) I don't blame them for coming to that conclusion.

I know some people in Beacon Hill are applauding the decision. It doesn't surprise me; rich yuppies whose biggest daily challenge is taking their dog to a pet manicurist (we have one here) aren't likely to feel much sympathy for the homeless.

I'd like to say I empathize with the homeless, but I'm afraid of exposing myself as a hypocrite. Maybe I am.

MBTA, I used to love you. Now I have to kill you.

The Red Line, which was the epitome of jacked-up-edness yesterday.

Truth be told, I'm a bit of railfan. I love trains and, mostly, subways. The T has allowed me to live without a car, and I still get a thrill out of the idea of rapid transit under buildings and streets. It's relatively clean and safe, and my location puts me within walking distance of every major line, meaning, essentially, the entire city is just a Charlie Card swipe away.

As much as I love the T, however, it really got in my juice yesterday. Yes, delays can be expected occasionally, but a 40-minute delay at rush hour on Friday is bound to piss off even the most easy-going person.

Especially one who has to be at work.

Although the travel time between my door and my desk is only 30 minutes via subway, I always allow 45 minutes in case of delays. I also check the MBTA site for service interruptions an hour before I leave.

I logged on yesterday at 4:30 p.m., and saw everything was running on time. I left my apartment at 4:50 and got to Park Street Station at 5. Even though the temperature was pleasant, the subways are always hot (the heat from the lights, people and trains are insulated quite well by the streets above). Something was wrong, however — it was hot as hell in the station. As I descended to the lowest level, where the Red Line runs, I learned why: The platforms were packed with people. That's a bad, bad, bad sign.

I asked somebody what was up and she said she didn't know; they were just announcing a delay due to a disabled train. I had 10 minutes to spare before I had to worry about being late, so tried not to sweat it. Well, not literally — it was at least 90 degrees in the station and there was no air movement. It looked like everyone was leaking, there was so much sweating.

Twenty minutes passed. "I should call," I thought, but I couldn't because there was no signal that far underground. Thirty minutes passed and the same ambiguous PA message was being repeated. Finally, an announcer told us a southbound train was coming — but it was the disabled one, being pushed by another train. We all watched with sorrow as two empty trains rolled by.

Finally, minutes later another train came. Now's when the fun begins: Park Street is the system's busiest station, and commuters who've exited from the Green, Orange and Silver lines have pooled around the platforms with nowhere to go. They're all hot and they all want to get on that air-conditioned train bound for home.

First came the pushing. Then the cursing. Then the cramming. I made it on to the train and thought, "Well, I guess that'll do it. No more space here." Ha! A seemingly invisible force kept pushing me in farther and farther until everyone in the car was literally on top of his or her neighbor. Although I didn't have to hold on to anything (the human cushion worked well), it meant I was squished on my right by a guy with body odor that smelled like burnt bacon wrapped around feet, and on my left by a guy who was wearing a shirt that had to be one bartenders used to clean ashtrays.

Normally, the four stops that separate me from Park Street and JFK stations are a somewhat pleasant ride. A chance for me to ride for a few minutes or contemplate life. But yesterday it was an opportunity to work on breathing as little as possible.

Oh, and then there's work. Because I was designing the wire pages, my delay could affect the entire A section workflow (if I can't plan stories, copy editors can't read them). Getting into work 40 minutes late meant a lot of catching up. Fortunately, the paper was tiny. (Maybe there is a kind and benevolent God?)

I understand problems happen, especially when the system is as busy as it is on Friday. But seriously, the MBTA needs to communicate better. Instead of broadcasting the same vague message to a station full of pissed-off, overheated commuters, tell us what the hell is happening. "A train is disabled outside of Harvard Station. It's being removed now. A replacement train is leaving in 15 minutes." Is that so hard?

Work it

Last Sunday's C&R page, with graphics by Javier.