Boston

Meandering around the gentle roads that motorcyclists dream about was about to come to an abrupt halt. I slunk into Nathan, NH and ate my last sandwich at a gas station prior to entering the I95. I’d been warned by many not to enter between the hours of 4-7 as the traffic would be horrific. Nothing could have prepared me for, marriage, work, no this idiocy that they call a highway. Within minutes of entering the snare my shoulders and back tightened up leaning forward to not miss any of the signs diverting the traffic this way and that. Keeping to the right hand lane for protection if I needed to pull over to breath was rudely stripped from my options when a car pulled up on my left. My first thought was how utterly illegal and where is our driving gone too. I looked through my rear view mirror and they were coming me at me in droves. Between 4-7 breakdown lane (shoulder lane) is used as an extra lane.

I was proud of myself for not getting lost until I saw signs for Washington St., little did I realize there were Washington streets in every dinky little town. Ask anyone how to get to where I was going and blank looks stared back at me. My hope of arriving for 5 turned into 6:30 and my patience and emotional exhaustion was gone. When I finally arrived in Scituate, I realized south of Boston, you have hamlets and everyone lives as they did 300 years ago, on farm plots, so the town is actually irrelevant, as it doesn’t lead to anyone’s home. This kind man assisted me just after I’d been spit off my last roundabout.

Linda greeted me at the door, and I’ve never been so happy to see someone at the correct address. I’d driven up a long forested driveway and thought, I bet this isn’t the right address as the street signs are only posted at intersections and it wasn’t uncommon to drive a mile or two between signs. That along with not everyone posting their address at the road  made for some complexity. Cam, her son, was cleaning the eaves when I arrived and if Linda had asked if I wanted a glass of wine, the bottle might have been suffice for starters. I don’t really know if alcohol does take the edge off. Giddiness usually supervenes after a glass and then sleep. My body probably holds the muscle tension until I stretch and I’d begun to tell myself, sleep will suffice.

Boston was Boston. I listened as the rail conductor gave me the breakdown of the food trucks, which ones to avoid, which to run too, and those that would move from my lips to my hips just whispering the name.  The fine arts Museum drew me further into the history of the area and era from textural oil painting to contemporary pieces.

The blisters on my feet speak volumes to the hours of walking through MIT, Harvard, Simmons College, and Radcliff, along the Charles River while watching sailing regattas. Cambridge led me through architectural ages that I’ve always dreamed of living in, but only as an aristocrat as women’s thoughts were not written let alone heard back then. The old stone building in their campuses resonate wisdom, wealth, and mark those that have made an impact on society. The Commons better known to Canadians as Central Park boasted plush grasses, comforting benches, and branches that told stories of lover’s tales.

Newbury street was adorned with red brick shops boasting bay windows from beneath ground up, not an inch of space was wasted hosting the latest fashion, beers on tap, shoes, sweets of pastries cake, candy, ice cream, gelato, chocolatiers, Ben and Jerry’s, hairdo’s, skateboard shops, kitchen ware, books, hardware goods, consignments shops, artists, spas and flowers oh the flower shops were intoxicating. I entered them simply to be washed over in posies of irises. The restaurants were not impeded my noise, they sat quietly on each corner canopied by red, white and yellow umbrellas’. The hustle of life didn’t exist here simply the impulse owners hoped you would use as they enticed you into their dwelling.   

Words, 26 letters often lose their meaning, the pauses between thoughts, sighs of relief knowing I had a home to return to at the end of a day was palatable. This journey which was never meant to be explored without Hal brought less meaning. Linda filled the void, sipping a glass of wine over dinner and listening to her days work there was little else I needed, after a week in a tent worried about this and that, she was my rock. For we knew nothing about one another upon my arrival I left forever grateful.