Despite being allergic to almost everything natural, I need trees and grass around me. Cities tend to overstimulate me. I get exhausted by the traffic, the noise, and the multitudes of people. Once, when I got going the wrong way on Storrow Drive in Boston and couldn’t find a place to turn off, I pulled over to the side of the road and sobbed. (I will admit that a nice guy pulled over behind me and told me how to turn around.) On the other hand . . .
Museums! People-watching! Restaurants! Shopping! Theater!
So last week, after a wonderful Saturday-night visit with fully vaccinated friends outside of Boston—our very first Overnight in Another Person’s House, marked by dinner at a fabulous restaurant (La Campagna, in Waltham)—I met up with Susan, a friend from grad school. She’d just spent a week with academic colleagues, talking medieval literature on the Cape, and we decided to spend a couple of days in Boston. For three perfect May days, the city was at its loveliest, with azaleas blooming everywhere and breezes sending the maple seedlings spinning and shimmering in the sunlight. It felt as though Boston was flirting with me.
To be sure, I did once wind up pounding on my steering wheel and crying out, “I HATE Boston!” Twice, in fact. I was dodging between cars double-parked on both sides of Newbury Street—who knew it would be a hot spot on Sunday afternoons?—and circling the block three times as I desperately sought the parking area for the Newbury Guest House. It was supposedly located behind the hotel, in Public Alley 432—a place not acknowledged by the ‘maps’ function on my phone.
Fortunately, that horror lasted only about fifteen minutes. Eventually, by process of deduction, Susan and I figured out where Public Alley 432 had to be. I ignored a sign that read “Do Not Enter,” drove cautiously down the alley, and pulled into a tiny, brick-paved spot beside an awning with an actual sign. (Nonetheless, typical of Boston, the numbers for the parking spaces were embedded in the pavement, completely invisible until one had parked in the wrong spot.) As I wilted with relief, my friend Susan said kindly, “We’re leaving the car here. We’ll walk or Lyft it until we check out.” Which is what we did—and it made me a much happier person for the rest of our visit. Definitely calmer, and probably nicer, too.
On Monday, from our adorable little hotel in the Back Bay, Susan and I strolled a mile along the Fenway, skirting the Museum of Fine Arts to visit the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
On Tuesday, we walked down Commonwealth Ave, with its lovely trees and benches, to the Public Gardens and then to the Esplanade, with its breezy, expansive view down the Charles River.
Within steps of our hotel on Newbury Street, we found tasty restaurants with sidewalk tables. Gelato, too. It was like being in Paris, no transatlantic flight required.
Most times when I visit Boston, I’m visiting friends with my husband. We park in our friends’ driveway and let them drive. On occasions when we’re headed somewhere by ourselves, my husband drives. (He went to college in Boston and is less fazed by the impossible spaghetti-tangle of the downtown streets and the rude, impatient drivers.) I usually sit back, focus on the conversation, and try to ignore a general impression of being overshadowed by tall, tall buildings. We always have a great time, courtesy of our friends, who know the city well. But playing the host to Susan, and walking even a small area of the city on a couple of perfect May days, gave me a more immediate and personal perspective.
Three days didn’t convert me to the religion of urbanophiles. Next time I go to Boston, it will probably sleet, and I will sit in stop-and-go traffic surrounded by drivers who screech to a halt inches off my bumper. But I’m grateful for those three perfect spring days, when Boston was beautiful, kind, and charming. Country mouse though I am, I’m already mulling over when to schedule a return trip.
And you, dear readers, how do you feel about cities?
It sounds wonderful— except driving the wrong way on Storrow Drive!!
Greta
Of course our own little town is looking pretty spectacular now, too! But while you and Bruce are babysitting the grands, you might check out the restaurant in Waltham — La Campagna — as a midweek treat.
It’s lovely to muse with the country mouse about this city, in its Spring finery, lirting with her, maple “twirlers” an all. Such a lovely time, apres Covid and all. Glad it was such a good time.
It was SUCH a good time, very much including the time with you!