The Wander

Untouched photo, parking lot near Bloomingdales 7/15/26

There has been all kinds of freaky shit going on, weatherwise, a deluge just ended, a friend telling me that she had to wade through rivers to get home. And then there was that weird sky, which the Canadians told Donald Trump, was in honor of him, just as the green reflecting pool was in honor of Greenland, and that he should breathe in as much of the orange tribute that he could. It's better now but there's still that COVID smell in things.

World Cup, Wimbledon and then the Tall Ships. It has been a month of excitement swirling in the sometimes vanilla city of Boston.

If it weren't for Marmite, England might not have made it to the semis

I worry that Laura's scapes are going to strangle me at night

When early in my HR career I thought that resting my bare feet on my trash can was a way of make interviewees feel comfortable, I met a woman named Katharine who went on to be hired as the executive assistant to a man who'd regularly nip out for a few sets of tennis at the B&T. I'd met him on an errand to get a check signed in my first week on a summer Friday afternoon. Opening the door to his department, I was greeted by a whirring sound and his strawberry daiquiri stained tongue, which was regularly found hanging out of his mouth.

My boss, who had the habit of taking credit for work I'd done, was not a bad person, just likely dropped on her head as a baby, as we like to say. The first Christmas I reported to her, she gave me an acrylic brown and bright blue argyle sweater, with gold threads running through, three plastic gold buttons on each shoulder. I knew that she was proud of her purchase and took great pains to wear it once, but always wondered what in my regular office attire had inspired such a choice.

Katharine and I became friends, the same age and single, both enamored of a weekly column in the Phoenix about Alice K and Ruth E,, also two single women, one of whom was in the most charming way a tad selfish, while the other a victim of said selfishness. In those early professional years, we may not have respected our bosses, but understood they controlled our future and felt thus constrained, which was in great contrast to a rich life we both craved.

There was a feeling of unbridled freedom when quitting Symphony Hall on a summer evening, intoxicating. We'd walk in a vague direction, between us a tacit understanding that we'd end up where we were pulled. Filenes Basement was often a stop, with much determination to find that right size and color, only to put it back, the hunt being more appealing (and cost effective) than the kill. There were the people we'd recognize on the street who felt like placeholders; the Bikes Not Bombs guy with buttons all over his hat, the homeless guy with the dyed black or orange hair and our favorite, the Irish nun in brown who spoke quickly and poetically, almost in prayer, asking for money at the Downtown Crossing T stop. Boston was a rich and rewarding playground, enveloping us in the theater of life. A pastime it turns out has enriched not only both of our lives, but now those of our kids as well.

Last week we determined a time and place to meet, she coming from her house by the sea, me from my grass tennis courts, with some vague talk of the Tall Ships. We started with coffee and then ambled over to the North End. Finding every restaurant packed, we ended up at an old standby, Antico Forno on Salem Street, where for some reason, we've never had trouble getting a table. After a satisfying late lunch, we found ourselves walking down Hanover towards the water and, just past the Paul Revere monument in front of the Society of St. Joseph's, were distracted by a police car with flashing lights in the middle of the street. After taking in the requisite three plastic chairs outside the Society, filled by OG Italian men with large bellies and shiny dark hair, we saw a huddle of younger men, all with grave faces, taking orders from their elders to properly get the Virgin Mary, adorned with dollar bills, ready to be carried. The red and black attired marching band appeared, providing pomp and ceremony as they walked ten feet to the adjoining society. A bit of waiting ensured with that feeling that something was about to happen, so we joined the small scrum and watched as they then exited the second Society and began a march towards Cross Street. We silently said goodbye and thank you very very much.

I supposed we had both imagined but not articulated battling crowds in Seaport to get a tiny glimpse of a ship. But instead, we wandered to the end of Hanover and found an empty bench in the shade, looking out at the boats parading back and forth around the harbor, right in front of us. We chatted, admired, made inappropriate jokes at which our woke children would blanch. In concert, we got up, ready to walk, admiring spots we'd seen a thousand times, finding some docked Tall Ships. I was most grateful to be able to take photographs of four Chinese women my age who wanted to be captured jumping together in front of a Tall Ship, painfully wanting to ask them for a photo. But no.

After, a wander through the old Financial District, enchanting when empty on a summer afternoon, seagulls doing their thing and shadows making the old buildings look older, worn granite sidewalks that have been there for hundreds of years. We parted at Park Street, where wasted men are still harassing young pretty women, though no longer us.