The day before the marathon seemed like as good a day as any to make my first trip down to Boston, not only of 2015, but together with John. John drove to Wonderland and we took the Blue Line the rest of the way. On the way there, we ran into quite a few tourists who were making in roads from the airport and were largely unfamiliar with the T.
This gentleman from the 18th century hitched a ride to the 21st and managed to acquire some local technology.
Our first temporary friends were a couple from Montana. John asked them whereabouts in Montana, in case we decided to go there sometime in the near future. I only knew of the existence of Helena, but the woman told us she was from around Butte.
“Oh, I know that one,” I said. “That’s the town that a lot of people mispronounce and probably not by accident.”
What little laughter any of my randomness may have gotten from someone was as precious as any souvenir. As it happened, two associates from Crate and Barrel, where John and I stopped to see if we could find a bowl for Dicky to replace the one I dropped, found me hilarious. The rest found me strange. The thing to remember in Boston at this time is that strange and talkative is the key here, as opposed to strange and aloof, which I imagine more people are on the look out for.
We stopped at the Trinity Church where I was immediately taken by the cocoon of silence that wrapped around us as we walked down the aisles. John was fascinated by the tour guide, who was giving a detailed history of the church and it’s architecture and I was fascinated by the tour guide for his ability to cure narcolepsy. So that I would not seem like an inconsiderate jerk for falling asleep in church, I stepped outside and waited for John. After a pit stop, we made our way towards Fenuil Hall for lunch.
Before the church was completely behind us, we heard loud popping sound. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t a teensy bit startled. A few of Boston’s finest, including an officer with the coolest dreadlocks I have ever seen, joined the crowd in turning towards the Uhaul truck in the street. It turned out a platform wasn’t secure and therefor Uhaul will be getting the dry cleaning bills from some tourists very shortly.
As John took my picture, I saw all of the people in the background and I began to wonder just how many times my own picture had been accidentally taken that day. It’s unavoidable in a city where people from all over the country are gathering to see an event. I can’t imagine what it will be like in 2024.