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.
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