For any kid growing up in the top two-thirds of New England, Boston is the Big City. Oh, we knew about New York, alright, and those faraway places like Cleveland and Detroit, but they might as well have been on another planet as far as we were concerned. The only time we thought about them was when we read the front of their baseball teams’ gray traveling shirts when they showed up at Fenway.
When I was five years old, my Father took me down to the train station on Parker Street, bought a couple of tickets and set a course for Boston. I looked out the window into people’s back yards for a half hour as the train chugged along, then noted some taller buildings in the distance. We pulled up to a large structure, the engine wheezed and we got out, then climbed what looked like fire-escape stairs to what Dad called “The subway.” Before long, some sort of trolley on rails came whistling around the corner screeching like a stuck pig. We got in and the thing took off, descending down into a black tunnel, weaving left and right making a terrible racket, zipping around curves, picking up steam, threatening to send flying through the air anyone who wasn’t tied down. It was scary, but it was fun.
We got off at a place called Park Street Station. It was lesson time and my Father was ready
to impart critical information; “Billy, if you ever get lost on the subway, come to this stop. It connects to every other train in Boston. You can always get back to where you came from.” I shook my head in the affirmative, certain if I ever got lost around here I would never get home for the rest of my life. We went upstairs and looked out on Boston Common and the Public Gardens. “If your Mother was here,” Dad said, “we’d take a ride on those swan boats over there. The girls think that’s fun.” We bought some lunch from a cart, sat down on a park bench to eat it and tromped back down to the subway, which was officially called the MTA. I learned the stations quickly and soon remembered the route from the North Station to Kenmore Square, the exit spot for Fenway Park, patting myself on the back for quickly becoming such an expert. A few years later, the radio was full of a song called “Charlie On The MTA” about a guy who couldn’t get off the train. Dumb Charlie, I thought smugly, happy with my recently-acquired talent.
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| Museum shenannigans; where did little Ralphie go? |
Get On The Bus, Gus
Driving in Boston is utter folly if you are not just passing through. The buses and subway go everywhere and you don’t have to pay $68 to park at your hotel every night. We stayed for the first time at the friendly Verb Hotel on lively Boylston Street, a three-minute walk from the ballpark. (Don’t be foolish enough to ask me why--I’d tell you the Noun was either too common or too proper, the Adjective was invariably unpredictable and the Interjection was full of raucous kids).
The Verb was rock ‘n’ roll heaven, each room decorated with a different band motif. We stayed in the Rolling Stones room, with old photos, concert reviews and newspaper stories plastered all over the walls. Each room had a turntable, half a dozen old albums featuring the group the room was named after and earplugs to protect from incoming metal. Our refrigerator looked like a stage amp. There were also dozens more albums of all kinds available in the lobby. The price was reasonable, the staff was more than friendly and the guests were…well…eclectic.
Siobhan likes the Boston Museum of Science on the other side of the Charles River, so we taxied over to spend the morning. We were met there by old friend Greg Barriere, a one-time member of the illustrious University of Florida Architecture Department croquet team. In the later 1960s, the architects vied with a star-studded Subterranean Circus squad on the grassy fields of western Alachua County for dominance in the Gentleman’s Sport, once even upsetting their vaunted rivals to claim the prized Intergalactic Cup. Greg lives out in Melrose, Mass. these days and subwayed in. Old pals often talk about getting together when they’re in the neighborhood, but Greg made it happen and remains his ever-pleasant good-humored self. A fine time was had by all, except perhaps Greg’s pouty sister Wendy, a Circus employee who later protested at being ignored. We had to remind her, alas, that croquet experience was required.
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| Old croquet pal Greg Barriere joins Bill & Siobhan at the Boston Museum of Science |
Around Town
We were anxious to see the much-ballyhooed Boston Seaport area on the Southie waterfront, a newer neighborhood which replaces the old pier area which housed exceptional institutions like the famous Anthony’s Pier 4 restaurant, a dockside tradition for decades. Sadly, except for the wealthy cadre living there sipping on mojitos in the afternoon, it is a total dud, a sterile disappointment that even the flashing waters of the Bay can’t save. If you have the option of visiting Boston Seaport or having your tonsils taken out, opt for the surgery.
The appropriately-initialed BS is remindful of so may other parts of the country locked in the evil throes of gentrification. First, rip away the past with all its funk, color, character and mysteries, then insert top-tier chain stores, snooty apartment buildings and 5000 security personnel just to be safe. It’s happening everywhere, including poor little Gainesville, Florida, because everyone kneels to the mighty dollar. Soon, everybody will need a map to determine which town they’re in since all of them will look the same.
A trip to the once-bubbling Faneuil Marketplace confirmed the further deterioration of another old friend. Scratch that one off your list unless you’ve come for the History Tour. Don’t bother with legendary Harvard Square either, the University keeps pushing any interesting offbeat establishments further down the street. It was hard for an old college humor magazine editor to see the battered fence around the massive overhaul of the Lampoon building, barely recognizable with its famous multicolored door. Next week, Starbucks will probably move in.
I bought a shirt at the dependable Harvard Coop and looked for a ride home. Siobhan was having none of my beloved “Covid-ridden” subway so it was either a cab or Uber, which we decided to try. As the taxi owners warned us long ago, the prices would go up sharply once the new ride services were ascendant. The three Uber offerings were double the price of the cab we took. Remember that the next time you need a Lyft.
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| Bill reminisces with Ben about their Little League days together. |
Take Us Out To The Ballgame
If Beantown sounds like the No-Fun Place, au contraire, mon ami. Sitting in the friendly confines of the Public Gardens sipping your perfectly-made iced coffee and watching the marauding ducks is a treat. So is trooping past Newbury Street’s ancient buildings, now home to a colorful variety of shops, restaurants and what-have-you, then over to the old Fens Victory Gardens, a 7-acre city park with 500 plots for local gardeners. This is the oldest surviving victory garden in the United States, having been established in 1942 at the urging of President Franklin Roosevelt. The Fens gets its name from the primary ecosystem of the area, a wetland fed by groundwater and drainage from surrounding soils.
The morning (narrated) walking history tours from the Capitol building are interesting and informative and the Duck Tours with vehicles that take the plunge into the Charles River are extremely popular. Ambling down the esplanade next to the Charles River is always a delight as is a night at the venerable Boston Pops whenever they’re in town. And then, of course, there are the Red Sox.
It helps if you like sports, but it’s not essential to enjoying yourself at Fenway Park, where every night is party time. It’s as much a town meeting as a ballgame when 35,000 reliable citizens show up to schmooze and complain. The atmosphere is always festive, there’s electricity in the air, and win or lose, few who visit will regret having spent time there. Generations have come and gone, but Fenway remains much as it was when it opened on April 20, 1912. Heroes of the ages like Babe Ruth, Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio have played there and there are people alive today who have seen them all.
The Red Sox have been ascendant over the last few decades, but this year has seen a fall from grace. Our game went 11 innings and resulted in a loss to the World-Champion Braves, but the weather was kind and the company good. We were joined by my sister Kathy and her husband John Scanlon, high-school sweeties celebrating their 48th anniversary in as good a place as any. John promises he’ll try to take their 50th to another level. Does that mean the World Series, John? “I think it better mean Ireland, Bill. We can only push these girls so far.” See, that’s why John’s been married 48 years. Not once has he suggested the anniversary celebration be held at a tractor-pull.
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| 1. Bill with John & Kathy Scanlon at the old ball game; evil Braves fan monitors the goings-on. 2. One of Boston's famous Duck Tour boats navigates the Charles River. |
The Hub
Boston’s nickname suggests that it’s merely a starting place for surrounding pleasures. The nearby beach at Revere is long and uncrowded (perhaps because the water temperature is 68 degrees). The glories of Old Cape Cod are a mere ferry ride or short plane hop away, and where else on the planet but Provincetown can you catch the Liberace and Peggy Lee stage revival?
The city is steeped in history. The Old North Church, Paul Revere’s beacon, still stands. The Bunker Hill monument rises over Charlestown. The U.S.S. Constitution, aka Old Ironsides, the world’s oldest ship still afloat, sits at Pier 1 of the former Charlestown Navy Yard at one end of the Boston Freedom Trail.
Boston is a very walkable city, and the people you meet on the streets are likely to be natives, not tourists. They like it there. Despite cold, snow, too many rainy days and mediocre pitching staffs at Fenway, they’d live nowhere else. Truth be told, there may not be a better place anywhere from the first of May to the end of September. There is a difficult to explain fraternity among Bostonians, a common love of place, a sure pride in their little city, which can measure up against any. Bostonians are friendly, helpful, but will not suffer fools gladly. They are tough, resilient, ready for what comes next because whatever it is, they’ve seen worse. “Please come to Boston for the Springtime,” pleads a lovestruck Dave Loggins to his lost inamorata. It didn’t work for him, but it might for you.
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| Bill is not the only recipient of a visitor; Gerardo Morfini, one of Siobhan's ALS cohorts, motored up from Woods Hole to schmooze and have lunch. |
That’s all, folks….
