Like Bein' Back Home

I made it into town last night on a little more than a wing and a prayer.  It was almost miraculously event free.

I crawled out of bed around four in the morning on Thursday and spent much of the next two hours wearing a hole in my tiled floor as I paced back and forth between my office and my bedroom, going through my little pre-trip check list, absolutely sure that I was leaving something behind which was going to make my trip an absolute flop.

I made my flight to Chicago with no muss and no fuss.  I kept my somewhat irreverent humor in check long enough to make it through the security checkpoint without the kind of intimacy which would normally end three days later with the question…”So, why didn’t you call?”

Am I the only person who thinks that the pre-flight safety instructions look suspiciously like a synchronized swimming routine?  As the flight attendant swung her arms toward the sides of the craft, toward the ceiling, and back to the floor, I could have sworn I could hear her counting off the beats to a salsa song playing only in her head.

Do they have a talent contest for flight attendants?  Maybe there’s an unaired television pilot out there somewhere for “So, You Think You Can Fly?” or “America’s Next Top Flight Attendant”  I was going to give her a perfect ten for her routine, but I thought she was a little shaky on the dismount.

One of the young women serving our flight, though very nice and friendly, was unfortunate when it came to the exciting world of aesthetics.  With pencil-thin eyebrows which looked like they had been applied with a Bic pen and makeup which seemed to say, “Uh-oh, better get Maaco!”, she made me think about what might happen if a drag queen was blindsided by a Mary Kay cosmetics van.

Okay, so I made it to Boston.  The moment I set my feet upon Mass Ave.. I felt like I was once again on my native soil.  Everything was exactly as I left it a year and a half ago.  The gourmet pizza shop which had become a habit of mine during the last three trips was still playing footsies with the Haagen-Daz next door.  Bank of America, on the corner of Mass Ave. and Boyleston, loomed large and unquestionably reliable.  Looney Tunes, a hole-in-the-wall music store had its doors open and was belting old Glen Miller recording into the gray blanket which had be laid atop the city by the hand of the Almighty.

Once inside the hostel, a dorm-styled place to crash, I made a point of doing absolutely nothing for the rest of the evening.  I broke my tradition of going to Boston Common the moment I hit town due to the bleak weather and the onset of what I assumed was twilight.

Today was at least a bit more exciting.  I didn’t end my snorefest until about almost 10:30 this morning.  By the time I grabbed a shower and headed out, it was rapidly approaching noon.  You wouldn’t have had a clue about the time by looking at the sky.  The bright light of the Sun was playing hookie and surely partying with a hungover Moon.

I went in search of the LIBRARY --  you must use all-caps when talking about any of the great Holy places of the earth.  Surprisingly, I have never been to this particular place before (please note the pleading of a repentant sinner).  I was almost set to walk in and soak in what wisdom was available without a library card when I saw that it was past twelve-fifteen.  I knew that if I didn’t get back soon, I was going to miss my pilgrimage to another of my Holy Sites, a tour of Fenway Park.

The tour started off at the Team Store across the street from the ballpark.  I succumbed to commercialism and socked-out some cash for a Jacoby Ellsbury shirt.  Going on a tour of Fenway, whhich is now in its 100^th year, without a piece of Red Sox paraphernalia is like going to church without your bible.  This is an assertion which only the truly devoted of baseball fan(atic)s can fully embrace and understand.

After listening to about fifteen minutes of the most horrible jokes from out tour guide (seriously, he made my material sound positively stale with age), we were ushered in the land of the Pesky Pole and the Jolly Green Monster.

There were about seventy of us on the tour.  With that many people even I managed to not get lost even once.  We went first to the uppermost deck of the stadium where we were treated to an unspoiled view of the field.  There was a young woman offering to take free professional quality photos of anyone willing indulge in the whole graven-images thing.  The picture taking was free, but the picture getting was $35.  And before you ask, no, I didn’t fork over the big bucks. There’s a reason I’m known as a cheap bastard.   

We traversed from one side of the stadium to the other where we got our chance to sit for a moment in the highly-coveted Green Monster (pronounced Monsta in Boston),  It was great!

The other highlight of the tour was being able to go in and hangout in the Press Box.  It’s probably the only time I’ll ever get to go in there, but I’m not too  proud to use it shamelessly to my advantage later in my career.

And then it was over.  I actually shed a tear and muffled a snuffle!  I am not always the cold and heartless beast my detractors, and the IRS, make me out to be!

So, here I am in the fresh darkness of a Friday night.  I’m relaxin as best as I can.  I thought about going out to a club, but figured I’d already spent enough money for one day.

I’m praying for a sunny day tomorrow.  I desperately want to see the area’s color in all of its magnificence and splendor.  I want to feel the naked light upon my face and to drink in the peace and tranquility which is blood and bone to this beautiful old broad which we call Boston.