I considered writing something helpful to readers about my trip to Boston. Like the really nice charter bus that you can take from NYC to Boston (or DC or Philly, even Toronto) for less than $15. Or how the grave of Mother Goose in Boston is not actually the storytelling Mother Goose that we all know and love.
But Boston was not a business trip. It was my first trip to the city, and it was actually more of a date. One of the things I love about big cities and traveling is how many interesting people you meet. So this is a more personal account of my most recent urban experience.
Boston was cold. I kept trying to talk, but my cheeks were frozen. All I could do was laugh.
And then there were the socks. Or rather there weren’t socks. I was treading through the oldest cemeteries in America, wondering how long it would take for my toes to get frostbite in ballet flats with no socks. Paul Revere was probably never that unprepared. Though he also probably never wore ballet flats.
We decided to buy some socks for my feet. So we walked into a bookstore. Not to buy socks, but because it was on the way and we both seemed to gravitate toward the door. He suggested that it would be a good place to warm my feet, and though it had no fireplaces, I agreed. It had enough books to warm even the coldest of feet, I’m sure.
He and I wandered through shelves upon shelves in the same way we had wandered through graves upon graves, stopping to admire some, squinting at the odd names of others, and walking past some with hardly a second glance. I bought a couple, books that is, and one for him as well.
Then I bought socks. Pink of course. With warm toes we continued into the North End, where he was a wonderful tour guide, pointing out interesting things that he knew nothing about, and wandering aimlessly trying in vain to find that one thing about which he knew loads of random facts.
After running out of proper sites to explore, we stumbled out of the cold into a bar, tucked in between old brick buildings on narrow cobblestone streets. All the bartenders had a proper Boston accent, which I’ve decided has something distinctly Irish about it, and consequently distinctly friendly.
I laughed. Boston was cold. But the company in Boston was warm and welcoming. I’m looking forward to seeing him again.