21~Boston (Strong)

Lydia saw me off on my bus; I was grateful to have her there in the chaos of the Megabus setup, holding my pack up she had put together in one hand ('Eataly' bag and perfectly contained papaya salad, juice and all) and the hot coffee she had purchased for me in the other. Low clouds consumed the tips of the NY skyscrapers and misty rain covered us in our unsheltered spot. With a truly imminent separation dawning on us, we hatched a desperate plan for meeting in Canada. Our cobbled together proposal promptly forced us to realise that our North American geographical knowledge is somewhat lacking (Princess Smartypants I expect better from; I, as a native and recent studier of the Canadian Lonely Planet, should be better informed). We google a map to examine possible points for a reunion. Dismayed but not defeated, we fritter away the blaring truth that vast space and distance may gazump us and assure each other we will be reunited soon enough. I am last to get on the bus- one last embrace, on a Canadian Princess Smartypants promise, all emergency snacks handed over. Lydia seems to evaporate into the mist, I look for her but she is gone. She is lost to my eye, masked by the hustle and bustle of the streets. The skyline appears to be enveloped deeper within the darkening clouds as the bus pulls away. Boston bound. Hadn't really thought about it until now. 

I arrive. Everything is easy peasy. The metro is nothing. Finding my way to my airbnb, well, lemon squeezy. A policewoman with a Boston, tough as nails accent confirms my metro ticket purchase is correct and I look in surprise at her. That is some accent. Is she pulling my leg? The Bostonian accent imitated by Brits Andy and Jordan back home I took as a poor representation, a caricature of the Boston tongue. But actually, their sendup not too far off. True Bostonians are territorial over their dialect, I later learn from Maria (who is my airbnb host) when I regale the dialogue I stumble upon in the Haymarket the following day.

My perfect apartment was described by the host as a treetop haven and it is, indeed, exactly that. The apartment, the house, the neighbourhood blow me away.

As I arrive, trekking along with the backpack on, everywhere is drenched in the last sunshine and the balmy evening soothed my solitary spirit. Comforted by my own little home and secure in being nestled into the Maria’s care and kindness (what a great air bob host), I head out to absorb the leafy goodness and the resplendent rays that seem to be cloaking me in a warm welcome. 

In honour of Lyd and Eve, I go and have Thai food in ‘Wonderspice’, on the main street in the little village of Jamaica Plains. Observing the neighbourhood haunt, ‘J.P Licks Ice Cream Parlour', I observe the hub of ice cream lickers. Perhaps just a steady stream of regulars or frequented now because of the beautiful evening. This weather just screams ice cream. I walk to ‘The Pond’. It is part of the Emerald Necklace, designed by Frederick Law Olmstead, who designed Central Park. It gets it name from the way the planned chain appears to hang from the neck of the Boston peninsula. I breathe it all in. Nectar of the heavy blossom, the reflection of the trees in the pond, the sparkles of the setting sun strewn across the water like cascading confetti.

I meander back to my homely treetop house; homely not only because of its miniature, ergonomic perfectness or for having it all to call my own, but because the last place I had to call my own was a treetop haven too. A room with a leafy view. Living in the trees. So fresh and invigorating. As I near my new home, I stop. The sun has lowered, the street lights are now on. I am no longer made small by metal and glass but by trees. Gorgeous, green, gigantic trees. I find it looks unreal. I later say to Andy, it feels like a film set. Have I grown so accustomed to New York and the filmic feel it emulates, have I become to absorbed in blogging and storytelling that I am making everything into a set, a stage?

I conclude that it is the way the street lights are in the trees; hazy, congruous light, like fireflies lighting my way home. Magical. I listen to the sounds of people in their gardens, absorbing the last moments of the evening warmth. I walk up the steps, stand in the porch and make my way slowly up the stairs for a long, delicious sleep.

Waking to the views of the treetops, I chuck my trainers on and run to ‘The Pond’, relishing the Jamaican Plain neighbourhood vibe. I run right to the relaxed 'Wholefoods' (it has just arrived in this neck of the woods) and gather some supplies to stock my kitchen for the next few days. I run into Maria, on her way to work. She rolls down the car window and we chat- I feel part of the community and I am not even a full day in! Leaving Lydia and the comfort of companionship was going to be tough, but hey, an interlude in Jamaican Plains, snuggled in a Boston Strong setting is just what this wanderer needed.

Maria and I chat later when I return from a day downtown, mainly spent on the Freedom Trail (interrupted by coldish rain so I only managed half of it- sorry, Boston lover Andy).

I loved the market that I happened upon, hearing that strong accent and the fruit selling techniques was something else! She is gardening and she tells me that I remind her of Verity. Another guest, from back in Hull, a friend who visited here too after a stint in NYC. Maria says that Verity was exhausted from the city. It can wear you out. Hmmmmmm. Yes. It is SO stimulating, hectic and a surprising amount of walking or dashing. I had become in a New York time zone and mind set. Even when I did not have a time to be somewhere, if I heard the subway through the gutter grates, I would begin to run to make it. Fast, fast, move, never stopping and never still. Maybe that is why my running time is so rubbish (probably combined with the cookies, perhaps?). Struggling on the 5k front is a little annoying.

I plan another run, to a further park, part of The Emerald Necklace. Sue Carter helps me to get over the 5k anguish by apping me: 'However fast we go or how hard it is- we're always going faster than the folk on the sofa.' Love it. I sign up for a weeks unlimited classes at JP Yoga down the road. Perfect- that and a little running should keep me strong and stable. I will go to Salem after a Saturday morning class. Andy never went when he was over here and is regretful and my sister is such a witchy type that I feel a gravitational pull. Steph would certainly have been put to trial if she had lived in Salem in the era of the witch trials. I owe it to my witchy sis and roommate back home to head that way.

I read some reviews of the museum that initially caught my eye: 'Awful, just.... awful. This is a mockery of the word museum. As said by another, there's no information other than general information that you get simply by walking into the door. The mannequins are HORRIBLE. I mean, they're mannequins, but they literally look like crap and need replaced. The tour guides appeared to all be around the age of 16, and I doubt they have any knowledge beyond the memorised scripts they use. The initial room is kinda cool, with different scenes being lit to illustrate the narrative, but as I said, the mannequins completely ruin anything it had going for it. After that you enter a 40x40 room with 4 "scenes" where the guide gives a brief scripted intro, then pushes a button for a very cheesy monologue to play.' Other reviewers love it and I am curious I go, regardless. It is exactly as described in the damning review, but I enjoy it. Not taxing in anyway and is a refresher of all I learnt when reading Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ back in my college days.

I have a field day in the gift shop. But like all of my shopping experiences there is the continuous debate: do I want to carry it on my back? How much will it cost to parcel it up and send to England? Does Adam really need a t-shirt that says ‘Am I Good Witch?’ with a picture of ruby red slippers? It does have a picture of stripy legs in pointy black shoes with the words, ‘Or a Bad Witch?’ and there is an XXL. He would rock it while training I am sure. I am imagining him donning it as he gets punched repeatedly by his trainer- muscle training, don’t you know? I like the image. 

I enjoy Salem. It is so quaint. Blooming hot and humid too. Pretty quiet all around.

I clock their ice cream joint: Salem Screamary. I like being out of season. Here in the peak times, it must be mental and tack central. I avoid any of the spooky ‘museums’ and run out of time to go to the 'Peabody Essex Museum' . I realise I may miss my train (I very narrowly, by like 30 seconds, almost missed the one here) so I say good bye to the historically rich and also kitsch Salem, hot footing it back to my snuggly Jamaican Plains. I download ‘The Crucible’ and parcel up the small gifts I bought, nodding approvingly at my own restraint. I have a night in and look forward to the full sun my weather app promises for tomorrow.

Sunday in Boston is so sweet. A sweaty run in the next jewel of ‘The Emerald Necklace’. It is 8am and boiling already. I shower and head out with laundry to drop off and hope of a haircut. The lovely lady will fit me in within the hour. I head to ‘Wholefoods’, sit outside with a sesame seed bagel and complimentary coffee and soak up the sun. So in the spirit of Audrey Hepburn in ‘Roman Holiday’, I go and get a trim. The ladies are characters, flitting between Spanish and English, dirty talk with other customers and chatting to me about the royals (they love Prince William and the way that Kate shows respect to Diana- god bless her soul- with that dress after she gave birth), I am quite bemused. Overheard: 

Hairdresser: Oh yeah girl! It is so much fun to go on holiday with someone you are in love with. Dinner. Long talks. Walk on the beach. Dinner. Dancing.

Hairdresser 2: (bursts in) Good sex!

Raucous laughter. 

Customer: All I can say is, he betta put a ring on it.

Hairdressers: He betta! 

My trim is just what I needed and the woman are full of compliments. I leave feeling great and of course head for an ice cream to encapsulate that ‘Roman Holiday’ moment. I opt for 'Fomu' which makes coconut and almond based ice creams. I stand baffled at the plethora of flavours on offer. Good job they 'positively' encourage sampling here- miniature wooden spoons are at the ready. The girls working here are so sweet and we chat as I taste test. I sample: cardamom pistachio, cinnamon, sweet lavender, maple walnut, peanut butter and choc chip cookie, mango habanero and cake batter. I have a little scoop in a tub of most of them because I LOVE them ALL. The girls are laughing at my deliberations and chatter. As I leave, I hear them say, 'I love her accent. That was fun!" It sure was. I sit on the porch before I head out for the day.

For the rest of the day, I walk the city. Boston Common; the Public Garden that Fee remembers and I promise to find the ducks and get a picture of them; Harvard Bridge; Cambridge. I am knackered, completely cream crackered.

Love this sulky kid! A whole queue of children, waiting to be photographed
on the front duck and he was throwing a strop!

I have a last meal in the Thai. I may sneak in a little ice cream and head home, contemplating Canada. I sit on the balcony and soak up the view.

I notice the moon, as if it is watching over me. A little sign to send me on my way to the native lands:

Preparing and packing takes I while and I watch ‘Rocky’ as I potter. My bags are packed and I am ready to go, yet again.

The next morning I hit ‘City Feed and Supply’. Maria says they are the envy of the neighbourhood because they have this locally sourced supermarket with award winning sandwich making delicatessen. She says it is expensive for a weekly shop but they do a hell of a sandwich. I already had a great tofurkey experience and am looking forward to getting a pack up for the bus trip to Montreal.

I leave Jamaican Plains in the morning sun. People heading to work, children heading to school. I have loved it. Surprisingly restored by solitude, sun and strength of a new place. I feel strong, Boston (Strong) and ready to cross the border.