Tag Archives: Boston

Crossing a Finish Line

Posted on by
1

Alright folks,

I can tell you now, officially, with all certainty, that it’s over.

I’ve completed all coursework for my PhD.

I wish I could say that this momentous occasion feels as wonderful as it sounds, but truthfully I’m just exhausted.  I find that, without fail, the moment I stop running everything catches up with me.  All the stress, emotional turmoil, mental fatigue, physical challenges, everything I’ve been running from since mid-semester just slams right into me and belly-flops me into the ground.

It doesn’t help that coursework is widely regarded as the easiest portion of the PhD.  Which is not to say that it was easy.  If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you can attest to just a fraction of the politically-correct things I have to say about coursework.  Somehow, all that build-up of blood, sweat, and tears only makes this next step even more daunting.

So it does and doesn’t feel like an accomplishment to have survived this long.

I’m loving my couch hard core right now and I don’t have many deep thoughts to think.  I lieu of those, have a watch of the films that we made last weekend!

(The second film is a making-of documentary with a twist available here on Malarkey’s website.)

Happy summer, everyone!

Afterwards

Posted on by
2

It’s difficult to know what to say in the wake of tragedy.  This kind of thing effects different people in different ways and, not being someone gifted/cursed with a great deal of empathy, it’s double difficult for me to come to any conclusion about something appropriate to relate.

The last lines of Shakespeare’s tragedies are generally attempts by his very human characters to break the impossible tension of the play’s events.  Often these words are uttered over a stage strewn with corpses; the trail of ruin that true tragedy leaves in its wake.

Instead of trying to come up with something to say myself, I thought I’d take a moment to survey these lines for you in hopes that they will provide something more profound than any axiom I could utter.

Stay safe, everyone.

“My rage is gone;
And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up.
Help, three o’ the chiefest soldiers; I’ll be one.
Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully:
Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he
Hath widow’d and unchilded many a one,
Which to this hour bewail the injury,
Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.” –Aufidius, Coriolanus, 5.6

Aufidius, seeing Coriolanus dead, feels sorrow for his nemesis.  His tenderness towards Coriolanus and willingness to honor his mortal enemy in death shows a true humanity to Aufidius; the man, not the soldier, closes this show.

“Let four captains
Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage;
For he was likely, had he been put on,
To have proved most royally: and, for his passage,
The soldiers’ music and the rites of war
Speak loudly for him.
Take up the bodies: such a sight as this
Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss.
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.” –Fortinbras, Hamlet, 5.2

This one has given me particular cause for ire over the years due to directors purposefully misinterpreting it to mean “take Horatio out back and shoot him”.  I’ve already expounded upon why this is a bad idea so I don’t feel the need to hammer it home here.

“The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.” – Albany, King Lear, 5.3

Perhaps the most profound of the end-tags; I’ve always had a special fondness for this one since it can apply to not just a tragedy, but also to many other aspects of life when politics is involved.  For example: it was an utterance first delivered me by a professor when we were in conference before a talkback with an important director whose work we had just seen.

“Gratiano, keep the house,
And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor,
For they succeed on you. To you, lord governor,
Remains the censure of this hellish villain;
The time, the place, the torture: O, enforce it!
Myself will straight aboard: and to the state
This heavy act with heavy heart relate.” – Lodovico, Othello, 5.2

Lodovico’s instinct to take charge of the situation and his burden to inform the people of what has transpired is a burden that many leaders will feel during such times of crisis.  Having to stay strong for other people makes us strong within ourselves.  Lodovico, rather than break down completely, takes it upon himself to be a pillar for the people.

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” – Prince, Romeo and Juliet, 5.3

Perhaps one of the most famous last lines, owing perhaps to the Reduced Shakespeare Company’s Romeo and Juliet portion of Complete Works of Wllm Shkspr [abrgd]…. Or maybe that’s just how I remember it.

My most profound sympathies go out to the people effected by yesterday’s events.  Stay strong, Boston.

Mourning an Old Friend

Posted on by
2

The day I turned sixteen, my dad took me to get my learner’s permit.

The first instruction he gave me about driving was “it’s just like flying an airplane, except when you pull back on the steering wheel, the car does not go up.”

A few weeks later, that coveted card arrived in the mail.  I treasured and cherished it, for it was my freedom, my solace, the thing that said I could go places and do things.

When I turned 18, the permit turned into a full-fledged license.

About this time, I turned into the official Designated Driver.  Not because me and my friends went bar-hopping in New York City (and, really, if we did (and I’m not saying we

New York City… center of the Universe

did), we totally would have taken the subway home), but because I was the only one with a license and access to a vehicle.  We would road trip up to see friends in Massachusetts or Connecticut, and my golden card would permit me to be the responsible one who got us there and back again.  I was the pilot.

When I turned 21, New York State sent me a birthday card with another version of my license.  It looked the same as the old one, except this one lacked the giant red letters beneath my picture designating me “UNDER 21”.

At this point, those trips to New England often involved beer of some kind.  And it was a point of pride with me, when we all whipped out our IDs, that mine was from New York.  It showed everyone and anyone who asked who I was and where I came from, and it made me firm in my sense of self.  “I’m a New Yorker!  This official card says so!”

I’ve been a gypsy for many years.  Since graduating my undergrad in 2008, I’ve lived in six different living scenarios in three different states.  Over the course of that year, I moved six times.  Since I lacked a permanent address to call my own, my parents’ place was the most stable domicile at which to reach me, and as far as my ID was concerned it was where I still resided.  No point switching your license when you have nowhere to tell it that you live.  So my identity was intact, I was still a card-carrying New Yorker, and when I was lacking the fortitude to truly find myself on any given day, I could look in my wallet and there I was.

I signed the lease on my current apartment on June 1, 2011 with some knowledge that I probably wouldn’t be going anywhere fast, barring horrible catastrophe or cataclysmic life-altering event.  When I renewed my lease this year, I realized that perhaps it was maybe time to admit that I’m not going anywhere for a while.

Tomorrow, the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles claims my New Yorker card.

“It’s just a card”, says you.  “That card has nothing to do with who you really are!”  The logical side of my brain says that you would be correct.  But for whatever reason, I’m really having a hard time letting go of that stupid card.  Somehow, turning it in feels like being less of a New Yorker.  It also feels like I’m adopting Massachusetts as home and, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with Boston.  I rather like it here.

But it sure as hell ain’t New York.

I’ve been dealing with a bout of homesickness lately; a deep longing for bagels, real Chinese food, street fairs, and Tasti-D-Lite that simply can’t be sated on the streets of Harvard.

Another thing that this drastic step means is that I’m well and truly stuck.  Changing my license over means that, at least for now, I’ve hung up my wandering boots.  This wasn’t the first indication; it’s much more difficult to move when you have furniture and your stuff no longer fits in the back of your car.  Despite that, this feels like a definitive clunk as my life settles into a firm footprint until I find the momentum to push it over the ledge again so it can roll around in the great shoebox of the universe.

If I stay in this apartment for a day over two years, it will be the longest that I’ve lived anywhere since I moved out of my folks’ place.  That’s huge and panic inducing to a wandering soul like mine.  It feels settling… grown-up… and, somehow, wrong.

So excuse my moping and the copious amount of ice cream that will be consumed tomorrow over the grave of a proud piece of plastic that, for so long, has meant so much to this little bardy gypsy girl.

Dearly Beloved, we have gathered here to say our goodbyes…

Definitely a Hurricane

Posted on by
5

So last night, in an effort to run away and join the Shakespeare circus for an evening instead of agonizing over the proper usage of periods in Chicago-style citation (seriously, Tufts, you are BLOWING THE MIND of this MLA-girl… guess I should get used to it since this is the rest of my life… sigh), I took my gay best friend to see Bad Habit Productions’ Much Ado About Nothing …with a twist.

The show’s a straight-up Much Ado performed with only five (count them! Five!) actors.

One of the things that I love about theatre companies who don’t normally do Shakespeare doing Shakespeare is that they tend to bring a sense of fun to it.  There was a spirit of play that permeated this show which really kept the energy moving and the audience willing to smile along with it.  The actors (for the most part) were multi-talented and at least half of them played several instruments and sang at some point in the production (one of the many script concessions was the addition of contemporary pop music which I did love).  One actress in particular, Sierra Kagen, truly blew me away.  She played a heart-felt Leonato, a sniveling Conrade, and an outright uproarious Margaret.  The only problem I had with her was that when she was onstage I had trouble looking at anyone else because the things she was doing were just so darn engaging.

Evan Sanderson really got to strut his stuff as Dogbery, which is great because his primary role (Claudio) can be a real bore to play.  I mean really, who wants to spend an entire show as a wide-eyed, fresh-faced male lead intent on nothing but winning the hand of the pretty girl?  Sanderson’s sense of comic timing and his subtle touches (best use of a lisp I’ve heard onstage in a long time) made the eccentric watchman truly light up the space.  Bravo, Sanderson.  Well done.

Unfortunately, the company’s weakest actress (Sasha Castroverde) played Beatrice and that (to be completely honest) really made me angry.  So, I have this thing.  Call it a retired actor thing.  If I see someone in a role which I know I can perform better (especially if it’s a role that I want to perform), I get very angry and distracted and there’s little I can do to keep myself from leaping out of my chair and delivering the lines for the actor onstage.  Someday, this instinct is going to get me into a whole lot of trouble.  I recommend the commencement of bail-money fund-raising immediately.  Last night, there was little I could do to take myself away from the fact that Castroverde simply did not have the fire in her belly for this role.  This was made doubly unfortunate because her Benedick (David Lutheran) was exceedingly talented.  Also… Castroverde seriously needs to work on her posture.

One downright brilliant concession made by the company was the fact that, while all the other roles were consistently played by one actor, the part of Hero was shared between all five.  Gender-bending and wonderful, every member of the cast took a turn at throwing on an ugly brown wig and a hideous blue dress to play the boring damsel.  This concession really took a snoozer of a part and made it into something interesting (and packed a punch when such lines as “your Hero, every man’s Hero!” and “one Hero died… but I do live”, and “Another Hero!” were uttered… though I do wish the director had made a nod at his genius concession with these lines.. they just beg for it!).

The script itself was fairly heavily cut, but anyone who isn’t a super-dork like me won’t really notice.  Some cuts were necessary due to the character set to speak the line simply not being onstage because the actor was playing someone else at the time.  Others were doubtlessly made to accommodate the many added musical numbers.  Either way, the cuts were fairly seamless and there wasn’t anything eliminated that I actually missed.

Perhaps the weak point in the production (and this, unfortunately, is a consistent weak point in Shakespeare productions done by non-Shakespeare companies) was the text coaching.  Word to the wise: text coaching can make a good production great and an awful production tolerable.  If you ever wind up directing, producing, or working on a production of Shakespeare, make certain that there’s a text coach on hand who knows her stuff (…hire me?  Please?).  While this production did make me smile and chuckle, it could have done with some more punch in the text department.  That would have truly taken it to the next level.

The production only has four shows left (it closes this Sunday), and you should definitely make an effort to go see it.  It’s well worth the cost of admission to see the four dynamos and one middler try and pull off the wedding scene (which, by the way, they do surprisingly well).  Tickets are available via Bad Habit’s website or, for the thrifty theatre-goer, Goldstar.

Then I Saw This Play… Now I’m A Believer

Posted on by
3

So here’s the thing:

Yes, I’m a Shakespeare scholar.  Yes, I’m hardcore about my work.  Yes, I take my job very very seriously.

But I still love going to the theatre.  I still love to belt “Defying Gravity” in the shower (and at karaoke night, if I’ve had enough to drink).  I still love to have fun.

Theatre is not only a part of my life, but it has actually become my life.  I can’t say that it was always this way (I went through a brief stint working in IT… ask me how long that lasted and I’ll have to check and see how much of my soul is missing), but I can say that it has been this way for most of my earthly existence.

If I were to weigh every single production that I ever saw, or wanted to see, against the years of actor’s training, practical theatre experience, reading of books, writing of papers, and general engagement with the side of my job that falls most directly into the category “wibbly wobbly timey wimey ideas”, I would never relax.  I would never enjoy myself.  I would never be able to have an evening’s worth of true entertainment.

So yes, my standards for a production are high.  But no, I don’t walk into a theatre expecting every time to see the Trevor Nunn Lear starring Ian McKellon (which, by the way, was absolutely jaw-droppingly spectacular, and not just because good Sir Ian bared it all to play the part… and I do mean all).

That said, I saw something truly wonderful this weekend.

Some dear friends came to visit me from the far-off land of Utah.  One of their ulterior

aforementioned Utah friends. Yes, we dressed for the premier. Yes, Liz is wearing a Sergeant Pepper-esque tailcoat. My life is amazing.

motives was to support their favorite band (Walter Sickert and the Army of Broken Toys) as the band made its theatrical debut with an apocalyptic sci-fi steampunk musical.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  The show is called “28 Seeds” and is performing at my favorite space in Boston, the cyclorama at Boston Center for the Arts.  My friends brought me along as resident theatre expert, though admitted to me after the show that they weren’t certain what my thoughts would be on the matter.

The project itself has undergone some evolution.  It began as a radio play before being picked up by local experimental theatre company Liars & Believers.  After a deep collaboration, Sickert and the gang present this multimedia, interdisciplinary masterpiece which seamlessly blends rock music, technology, and live performance.

The set -- check out all those monitors!

The story appears a little scattered at first with bits and pieces strewn here and there like the set of the show itself.  However, have faith good people.  It all comes together, I promise.  Like any quality piece of gritty science fiction, every ounce of this seemingly disparate information is used to draw the whole she-bang to a campy finale and really, who would have it any other way?

The play’s strategy utilizes my favorite part of a theatrical production: the audience’s brain.  The collaborators of this piece obviously trust their audience to put it all together.  Nobody is spoon-fed, everybody is expected to have a certain degree of intelligence.  You must be at least this smart to ride.  And this strategy, time and again, truly pays off.  There’s a fine balance between over-protective handholding mommy and lackadaisical freewheeling hippie anarchist, but 28 Seeds strikes that balance nicely.  When you hit this note correctly, it ensures that your audience walks away thinking about the production.  If you tell me everything I need to know, there’s nothing left for me to wonder.  If you leave me with something to gnaw on, I’ll want to see it again to figure out how everything was laid down in order to, at the precise moment, tumble upon itself like a complicated dominos configuration fueled by diet coke and mentos.

The amount of sheer talent which went into this collaboration is evident in every detail; from the wonderfully outrageous musicians, to the surprisingly stunning dancers (no, really, you’ll be surprised when they bust it out), to the seamlessness of the story-telling.  It’s almost like watching Cirque de Soleil; there’s so much going on onstage that you’re sometimes unsure where precisely to look.

I suppose calling this piece a “musical” isn’t entirely accurate because “musical” implies the random outbreak of the show’s internal characters into emotion-imbued song.  Rather, Sickert and the band are onstage the entire time, sometimes interacting with the action but more often utilizing frequent musical interludes to comment upon it.  Much like the computer monitors that take up a portion of the stage itself, the band serves as a method through which more and different information is conveyed.  Though I will be the first to admit, it was sometimes difficult to watch the actors when the truly intoxicating Rachel Jayson (violist) was sitting two feet away from me, sporting a corset like nobody else this side of the apocalypse ever could.

In addition to being just a wonderfully fun experience, the show also incorporates elements that make my inner feminist smile.  Two out of three of the major scientist characters are women, the president is a woman, and the only man who seems to have any power at all is an obviously idiotic general who utilizes his power to make the worst mistake humanity has seen.  Curious what it is?  Go see the show!

As you can imagine, this show has its quirks.  If you are offended by nudity, brains in jars, or poking fun at performance art, you should probably give this a miss.  Otherwise, find a way to go see it.  28 Seeds performs Wednesday-Sunday until May 12th.  As an extra special bonus, I will be re-attending the show on May 11th, so if you happen to be there that evening, make sure you say hi!

In Which Our Hero Begins to Make Headway on the Deadly Homework Beast (and does so while looking fabulous)

Posted on by
Reply

Annnnnnnddddd we’re back.

I hit the ground running this week as I spent about half of the long weekend working on finals and the other half doing a bit of relaxing.  As a result, I feel refreshed, invigorated, and in a great place to start the final finals crunch.

It’s funny, but in past years Thanksgiving break has never meant being on top of things.  Historically, it’s been a time where (if anything) I feel even further behind the giant homework snowball than usual.  This may be for a variety of reasons…

1)    I’ve never not worked before.  Ever.  This year, my fellowship is generous enough that I didn’t have to face the first-year-hell on top of viable employment and, being nothing but an opportunist, I jumped at that opportunity.  As a result, I actually had five solid days of not needing to be anywhere (except for obligatory family stuff).  As a result, I had time both to get work done and to relax.

 2)    Tufts, bless their bureaucratic institutional soul, allows us to turn in our finals during actual allotted finals week as opposed to on our last class.  The last class is usually around the second week of December.  Allotted finals time bumps right up against Christmas (my last final is due on the 21st).  That is a significant portion of time in which you no longer have class reading, you no longer have to be physically present in class, and you can simply devote to writing your finals.  Rutgers was a “last class final paper” kind of institution which did mean that my semester ended earlier, but also inevitably meant that I was a) working through my birthday and b) panicking at the tail end of Thanksgiving.

 3)    The liberal consumption of pecan pie and martinis.  Not necessarily together.  In past years, the pecan pie has (of course) been a staple of the thanksgiving table, but the appreciation of a good dry dirty vodka martini has eluded me until this very year.  Now I’m not entirely certain how I lived without them.

 4)    Disney movies.  Enough said.

 Oh, yea, and I attended Mostly Waltz (Boston) yesterday.

Let me take a moment to expound upon the wonders of social dancing.  My experience is in ballroom which, while not entirely out of place at Mostly Waltz, is very different styling from the folk/country/general social dance that most of the dancers there were versed in.  What this meant was an afternoon of, while being comfortable and confident on the dance floor, learning something new and exciting.  Social dancing is the essence of communication.  Without words, two people come together and create something.  A lead needs to be clear in his signals and a follow needs to be able to listen to those signals.  Moving together, the dancers need to understand what to give and take from each other so as to not find themselves in a giant mess.

There were fascinating people at this event; experts (of all ages) in Scandinavian dance, English country, Scottish country, contra dance, folk waltz, blues, all kinds of swing… and they were all there just for the sheer love of dancing.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in a ballroom, but I’ve never felt more welcome or excited to be back.  People were gracious and generous with their time and knowledge, and I didn’t (even for a minute) feel judged about my lack of experience with their particular dance style.

Oh and music.  Did I mention live music?  LIVE MUSIC!  Incredible live music!

Waltzing is a bear necessity

I can’t go so far as to say that I’d recommend this event to dancers who have never danced before, but if you’re good at picking this sort of thing up (or brave, or have friends who would be willing to show you), you should definitely give it a whirl.  Unfortunately, they only dance once a month and the next won’t be until January… but it is totally worth the wait.

So my feet are aching like I forgot they would ache (it’s a different ache from general sore feet due to the parts of the foot which you use while dancing.  I’m just really glad that I have a pair of well-broken-in shoes so I’m not suffering dance blisters as well).  I seem to be winning the fight with the homework beast and, while it is not completely vanquished yet, I am definitely making headway in pushing it back into its cave to hibernate for the winter months.

And now for your viewing pleasure….

Happy Monday, folks!!

Not all Bookstores are Equal…

Posted on by
Reply

Last week, I realized that I hadn’t ventured out of a two-block radius of my well-trodden flight path in my new home for some time.  While the road to the grocery store and a few choice old friends’ houses were well trodden, pretty much every other road in the area was not.  So, I called up my favorite partner in crime and we went bookstore spelunking in Cambridge.

We started in Harvard Square where we hit Raven Used Books which was a small-ish basement store.  Their premises in Northampton is much more impressive both in terms of shelf space, as well as selection.

We then proceeded to the Harvard Book Store which I perhaps should have been more impressed with.  Mixed amongst your standard textbook sections are varying fiction sections as well as a large stationary area.  Downstairs are used and overstock books, which is wonderful for those of us who just like to browse the tomes.  Also, I was rather

One of these shelves is not like the others....

amused at their… er… extracurricular section.  Somehow I felt like anywhere associated with a major university, much less a major university as prestigious and snooty-by-reputation as Harvard, would have left said shelf out of their plans… or at least designated it to the back of the room where hopefully the casual observer would miss it entirely.  The fact that said shelf was there seemed like a coup against society and amused me thoroughly.

We then proceeded to Rodney’s in Central Square which was, by far, the best find of the day.  Two entire floors of used and rare books, some awesome hand-crafted shelving units for sale, nifty post cards and note cards, and way cool vintage theatre posters along the wall in the upstairs.  In terms of location, selection, and atmosphere I would say that Rodney’s took the cake for the day.

But then… adventure struck.

Sometimes you know when you are about to walk into an adventure.  More often than not though you just have to be open to the possibility and it will find you.  This was one of those second-case scenarios.

You may have determined by now that my partner-in-crime and I are absolutely and wonderfully obsessed with used bookstores.  So, naturally, we leap at the opportunity to investigate a new one.  On our way home from Rodney’s, I noticed a sign on the side of a building proclaiming “Revolution Books”.  My partner and I waffled slightly about whether another bookstore was called for on that particular day, but then I noticed that there was a parking spot DIRECTLY in front of the building.  I turned to my partner, the query in my eyes, and he nodded.  We both knew what we had to do.

I pulled the car into the spot and we got out, curiosity overcoming perhaps our better judgment.  We glanced back at the sign and realized that it was not a storefront or really over any recognizable entry into what looked like your run-of-the-mill retail-space-ground-floor-with-offices-above Boston building.  There was a barber shop and an assortment of other normal things occupying the space where our bookstore should have been.

Then we noticed a white sheet of paper with the words written in thick marker: “Revolution Books open: second floor”.  It hung over a door which we recognized led to the next level of the building.  I looked to my partner and he assured me that it would be fine.  Of course it would be fine.  We were in Cambridge, for crying out loud, not some third world country.

I opened the door to let him in and he took point, ensuring that we weren’t about to be jumped upon by bookstore boogies.  I reached to close the door after me, but realized the entry way was so small that we would have to climb several of the stairs before us before we could be out of the door’s way.

Perhaps the narrow hallway and tiny entry was simply to deter those who were not of stout enough heart to brave the shelves of what would surely be the greatest used bookstore ever.

We walked the stairs and crested the top into a small hallway that held several offices which advertised various private practice style services: a therapist, an accountant.  We looked to each other, our certainty wavering, but the candle of excitement still burning behind our eyes.

That is when we saw another hand-printed sign which pointed our way to “Revolution Books”.  We followed it to the second door, tucked into the back corner of the floor.  Judging by the size of the building, whatever was behind this door couldn’t be much larger than a one-room place…

The door was cracked open and we did see bookshelves behind it.  There was a giant portrait of Che Guevara plastered on the door.  Before I had a chance to back-peddle, wondering what kind of place this truly was, we were beckoned in by a man who sat directly across from the door.  “Come on, in we’re open.”

it was, you know, that famous poster

My companion, too polite to decline the advance, led the way in.

The room was probably the size of my bathroom.  There was a single double-sided bookshelf creating two rows of books, and a second bookshelf against the far wall.  A grizzled aging hippie sat at a table with a red tablecloth and piles of pamphlets.  “Small place you got here.”  My companion said.

“Small place, with a big message.”  The man replied with a smile.

I began to look around.  Suddenly something clicked.  The red tablecloth.  The Che portrait.  The titles of these books.  The name of the store.

I had somehow managed to stumble into the underground base of militant Communism in Boston.

And my Partner in Crime is a Republican.

I was standing in the underground base of militant Communism in Boston with the only Republican in Massachusetts.

Needless to say, we had to get out…. Fast.  My partner and I exchanged looks out of the sides of our eyes and tried to noncommittally sidle closer to the door.  This would have been easier if the man behind the table hadn’t been eagerly watching our every move.  As it was we were lucky to escape with our ideals intact and without any pamphlets to throw out on our way down the stairs.  I don’t quite know what would have happened if we had actually been forced to speak while in the bookstore.

Not that I don’t admire Che Guevara, just that I’m sure those who frequent said bookstore wouldn’t want anyone revealing the secret location of their underground base.  Rest assured, that secret is safe with me.

…Hopefully they won’t read this.  And if they do, they should know that I’m ready for them when they come for me.  My roommate has cats.  Large cats.  Large attack cats.  And I haven’t yet mounted my sword collection on the wall (hush, I’m a geek, it’s useful in case of zombie holocaust, rampant scary liberal hit men, or Mormon missionaries).

That Dirty Water

Posted on by
2

In an effort to become acclimated to my new home, earlier this week I took a nice, long, historic walk around Boston.

You might have heard about it.  It’s called the freedom trail.

The current Statehouse

For those not in the Boston know, the freedom trail is a walking tour around central Boston’s most famous historical sites.  You can pay money to follow a costumed historian around town, or (what we did) you can simply start at the beginning and walk yourself.  Perhaps the part that most appealed to my dramatic sensibilities was the fact that you, literally, follow the yellow brick road.  A red brick line (sometimes painted) leads you from one stop to another, so for people who are new to the city (or tourists) it becomes an easy way to spend your afternoon while learning your way around, not spending a great deal of cash, and getting an edumacation.

I have always been drawn to cities with a deep sense of history.  Yes, New York is historical, but you have to delve pretty far past the modern skyscrapers and stick-straight streets to find its place in the history books.  Without entering a museum, it’s difficult to remember that Old New York (or was it New Amsterdam?) was, in fact, Old New York.

Boston is nothing like that.  On a certain level, this town may be obligated to flaunt the

inside Park Street Church

value of its monuments.  It’s difficult to page through American History and avoid Boston, much less New England as a whole.  This place is like Mecca for history buffs.  You can’t turn a corner without finding yourself face to face with Franklin or Adams in some capacity.  Most importantly (and perhaps appealingly), the old is blended with the new here.  Much like in Rome where the Coliseum sits at the end of a long row of modern shops and office buildings (yea, I know, I kind of pictured it on top of a lonely hill too before I went there), Boston has chosen to incorporate its monuments into the creation of its modernity.  In perhaps the most amusing show of this, the State Street T stop is actually located inside the Old State House.  The semiotic critic in me is going NUTS with this realization.

As we wound our way through Boston, I felt a certain gravity sink in.  I watched the tourists pass us in droves and my New Yorker spidey senses tweaked at their presence.  I was annoyed that they moved slowly, I was frustrated that it was difficult to take pictures, and I resolved to re-walk the trail in the fall after school had started when, undoubtedly, it would both be cooler and less crowded.  The realization that I could very easily accomplish this in turn led to the next realization: I was no longer a tourist in this city.  I am a resident.  I live here.  I can come back whenever I want.

Commonwealth Books -- the inside

To cement the jubilation, we promptly discovered one of the best used bookstores I have ever entered.  First of all: it looks JUST LIKE my grandmother’s basement; books stacked precariously on mismatched shelves, the smell of aging paper, the books themselves unable to be bound to any single category of age or size.  The place is absolutely crammed with old tomes.  It’s a little on the pricey side, but they have some GORGEOUS original-print fancy-shmancy leather-bound books.  They also have comfy chairs and a space heater designed to look like a fireplace which, while not much use in the summer swelter, will prove unendingly comfortable (and comforting!) during the long chilly months.  Also, they have a resident kitty.

The trail nears its completion down at the USS Constitution.  If there’s one thing that I love as much as used bookstores, it’s old ships.  They make me imagine being a pirate.  Shut up.

Mostly, the afternoon went a long ways towards backing my assertion that Boston is, in

Resident Kitty! (taking a nap)

fact, a great little town.  It still ain’t New York, but what is? (Besides London, of course, that’s a whole ‘nother love affair…).

….p.s. I went back to taking my own photos, don’t steal them!