Our American Summer Vacation Part III: Boston

BOSTON

Our adventures continued the next day awakening to a surprisingly dry day in Plymouth. We arose early and headed to the train station to discover that much to my chagrin, everything was electronic. I looked desperately for a kiosk with a person. Nope. All I could find were instructions on how to electronically pay for parking and purchase tickets. It took me a good thirty minutes to figure out the parking situation. In the end, I talked to a person on the phone which was what I had wanted in the first place rather than dealing with technology. Purchasing the tickets was far easier. Taking a deep breath, after winning the battle with my technological nemesis and fully prepared to embark on the day’s adventures, Joaquin and I waited for the train to Boston.

    We arrived at South Station in Boston, and upon walking out the ornate front doors, Joaquin and I were confronted with a sleepy metropolis. It was still early; only a random person here and there was walking. Only a few coffee shops were filled with people. Everything else was still closed. Our goal was to find The Freedom Trail. The beginning of the trail is in the Boston Common. The Boston Common is a large park that is replete with a variety of food trucks and people dressed as revolutionaries in wigs, tight pants, and tricorns. Joaquin and I walked about looking for a definitive starting point and listening to the fake British and colonial accents directed at the huddled groups of tourists. Joaquin and I both agreed that we were glad we were doing our own tour. We found a starting point after much arguing about the necessity to find the very beginning. Joaquin thought that we could just follow the obvious trail which led up the stairs to the ornate, golden domed building that appeared to be of historical importance. My argument was, “Isn’t there a church? Where is the church? The church is the beginning. I am not coming to Boston and not seeing the church. Where is the church….church...church.” Who knows why the church was so important to me? I will say that Joaquin’s “historical building” was the public library and not one of the revolutionary sites on the map. Even though it was impressive in its grandeur, we were supposed to be tracing the steps of the American Revolution. We saw and heard the church, as its bells tolled, filling the morning air with the rhythms of antiquity, and on we went. We visited Granary Burying Ground (seems to have been a common theme for this trip). The brave ones who decided they would fight against a system of oppression and neglect were buried in this plot of land. It was hard to walk through and not recognize the incredible bravery these people had displayed, how the thought of a new nation must have been a long shot in many people’s eyes, but they acted anyway. Onward, we visited many sites that were significant to the revolution, buildings and churches once filled with the discordant but beautiful sounds of dissent, Paul Revere’s home, the site of the Boston Massacre (which I used to think was a misnomer). I remember learning about the Boston Massacre in school and visualizing a massive amount of people slaughtered on the streets of Boston with blood splattered everywhere. I don’t want to diminish the five lives that were taken that day, but it did not hold up to my middle school interpretation of “massacre.” Now, I recognize that five lives not only meant five bodies, but it meant families, friends, communities that had to endure the pangs of the loss. It meant five voices silenced and five breathing souls filled with thoughts and feelings that were left vacant shells of potential lost.

    We continued on our urban hike and saw some charismatic street performers. I was instantly drawn like a moth to the flame to the rhythmic pulsing of the hip hop music and the thought of a little break from the historical sites, and despite Joaquin’s objections, we stopped and observed. As the crowd got larger, the performers had us create a large circle that served as a make-shift stage for their impressive feats of athleticism. Even though the MC continuously pelted the predominantly white audience with clearly racist jokes, we took it all in, mesmerized by the beats and the urban air. At some point, the MC started waving around a twenty dollar bill and insisting that everyone was obligated to pay twenty dollars for the entertainment that was being provided. Previously, some people had left the show only to be spotlighted by the MC. “Look at those fools leavin’! They don’t know what entertainment is.” Personally, I had been contemplating the easiest, less noticeable out for about ten minutes. Hearing the derision directed at the absconders, I was in terror. If anyone knows me, you know that I dread having the spotlight on me. In my mind, leaving meant direct criticism and spotlight, but I was not about to have some racist asshole rope me in and then guilt me into paying twenty dollars, so my desire to not be publically humiliated was less than my desire to retain my money. I nudged Joaquin and pointed through the crowd to leave, and what do you think I heard as I turned my back to leave? “Why ya leavin’?!” I kept on walking, guiding Joaquin through the crowd, not looking up to meet eye contact, and finally, got to the relative safety of the outskirts of the crowd.

    Not far from the hustling street performers, there was a whole square devoted to artists, musicians, performers, vendors selling their wares. I came across a toothless artist drawing portraits. I carefully examined all the artwork he had displayed around him and continued walking. About ten steps into my walk, I turned around and walked back. “Come on, Mom” accompanied by some groaning emanated from Joaquin’s lips. The money I had saved from not being coerced by the street performers, I paid to the artist (after the portrait, of course). I am a terrible poser, and the artist had to instruct me more than once to look in one direction. Once I figured out how the artist wanted me to position myself, I sat looking off into the distance feeling like a Mexican-Greek Goddess having my beauty captured for all to see in the future. This portrait would be hanging in museums; art critics would argue about my mysterious expression and the glint in my eyes. I would be praised like the Madonnas. I really had forgotten that it was just me, simple me  and the toothless artist on the street. Despite the reality of the situation, I was transported to what I thought was truly the essence of Boston. A couple spaces down from us, a drummer was beating a consistent heart beat of sound and when someone would give him money, he would speed up the tempo and yell with fervor, “MONEY”  in a deep, strangely melodic fashion. Those were pleasurable moments taking in the sounds and sights of the Boston square. When the artist was done with his masterpiece, he showed it to me to get approval of its quality. What appeared before me was a dashed dream. The woman in the portrait did not look like me. The hair was fuller than my straight as a board hair, the nose clearly belonged on some other person, the face shape was all wrong, and I had a double chin. Do keep in mind that I have been working for a very long time to not have a double chin, so this was the first thing I noticed. I didn’t want to be mean, so I paid for his inadequate impression of me. The running monologue in my brain was: “Is this how people see me? Do I really just have a skewed vision of myself? Do I really have that pronounced of a double chin? Is my face really shaped like that? I thought my eyes were darker.” We walked away, Joaquin reassuring me that it only “kind of” looked like me “a little bit”, and me feeling a disconnect between the perception of myself and the rest of the world. I hid the rolled up portrait away in my bag, and continued on our red brick trail.

    Eventually, the path took us through the North End, a burgeoning little Italy buzzing with lovely quintessential Bostonian accents. Joaquin and I walked past an old man sitting in front of a shop yelling to a passing young lady, “I’ll give ya a dolla for a kiss!” Despite the obvious sexual harassment, I felt like the spirit of the neighborhood hung on the accents of the old men like that. There were Italian corner stores selling salamis, Italian restaurants, bakeries selling cannolis, and North End people chatting it up on the corners and in front of shops--the sounds, sights, and smells were a smorgasbord to my senses. Somewhere between the North End and our final stop, Joaquin and I decided to stop for lunch. I had had my heart set on a hot dog ever since the thought of Boston came to fruition in my mind. I had imagined that Boston’s hot dogs were far superior to the Ball Park dogs I am accustomed to, so when we passed a place that advertised homemade sausages and poutin (which I have wanted since I found out about its existence), we back tracked and indulged in the hole in the wall, Saus’s fare. What you see below is a heart attack covered in cheese sauce, gravy, and cheese curd waiting to happen; but it was hand rolled, fried, lactose heaven!

    The final stop on The Freedom Trail was the USS Constitution and the USS Cassin Young. This was Joaquin’s favorite part; he has always had a fascination with ships. He often prints out ship blueprints and studies the intricacies of each vessel. Ships are also a favorite art subject of his. I have ship artwork from pre-kindergarten on; my running log of his artwork catalogues the crude markings of youth to the meticulous detail and controlled hand of a sixty year old adolescent. The ships were the least exciting for me, but I loved watching Joaquin’s excitement as we went below deck and examined all the compartments of both ships. He pointed at the USS Constitution’s cannons with wonder shining and dancing in his eyes. I saw those same eyes pirouette when examining the weapons on USS Cassin. 

    Our walk back consisted of retracing our steps and Joaquin whining non-stop about his tired feet. Perhaps, I am an unfeeling, cold mom; but in my head, I kept thinking, “deal with it and stop whining.” I am fully aware that people deal with pain differently; I have always been of the belief that if circumstances are such that there really is nothing that can be done about the discomfort at the moment, and it is not fatal or requiring urgent use of bathroom facilities, then deal with it, and be thankful when it is over.  We did take multiple sitting breaks to rest his feet. I am not that bad despite my quasi-stoic ideology. One of those breaks was at Mike’s Bakery. I had seen multiple people walking with boxes neatly tied with string. It had sparked my curiosity, and when we came upon the overflowing bakery, I insisted we stop and join the mass of people waiting for baked treasures. While Joaquin sulked at a table, resting his sore feet, I braved the line and contemplated my order. This place was famous for their cannolis, and it seemed appropriate to purchase a cannoli in the North End even if it meant standing in the midst of a hoard of cannoli obsessed tourists. While participating in the cannoli spectacle, I eyed something mysterious and delectable in the side display case. It was a little, red round cake covered in coconut and labeled “Raspberry Mocha.” I was confused...mocha...I thought that was a coffee drink with chocolate. Then I contemplated the possibility of raspberry flavor mixed with mocha flavoring and coconut, which was not jiving with my palate in my imagination. After a good twenty minute wait, I approached the counter to come face to face with a scowling,  skeletal woman with her black hair pulled tightly back. “What do ya want?” she said impatiently, piercing her eyes into my soul. I was legitimately frightened of this woman and knew that I better get my order right or the cannoli shop would be where I breathed my last breath. I quickly and efficiently told her my order for cannolis, and when she had wrapped them all up, I stammered, “May I have a raspberry mocha as well?” I was afraid that my last minute addition would send her flying over the counter and at my throat, but she just nodded her head and retrieved the weird little treat for me. Later, when I sunk my teeth into that delicious looking anomaly, I discovered no mocha flavoring, but instead a soft sponge cake rolled with a raspberry jam filling, and my near death experience with the overworked, disgruntled, skeleton lady had seemed all worth it. I mention this because it was one of the best things I have ever tasted, and I doubt I will ever eat this dessert again unless I venture back to the East Coast. 

    Our train ride back to Plymouth was filled with loud adolescents throwing coins and making weird sounds, a smaller kid(in the same group) pooping his pants, the train conductor giving the group multiple warnings to quiet down, and then the group of ill-mannered children eventually getting off at the wrong stop. After their departure and spending a day in a loud, vocal city known for dissent, Joaquin and I enjoyed the peace and quiet for the remainder of the ride.