The Weirdness in Boston Story
October 24th, 2004 09:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shiredancerGuess I'm in a memory mood, because I've finally jotted down my Boston story -- just another bit to add to my journal. It's not really all that weird -- just a couple of things -- but it's a tale that I recall with great fondness.
Warning: Long story behind the cut!
Half a lifetime ago, in January of 1979, I had my 25th birthday while I was living in New York City. I was a wanderer then: had spent a summer roaming through Europe, and then settled in Manhattan for a while without knowing a soul there. It was all for fun and adventure. I was young, I had no ties or responsibilities, and I could go where I wanted.
On this occasion I wanted to go to visit family friends in Providence, Rhode Island. It would be like my summer traveling days – hop a train, choose a destination, wander a bit, and then drop by unannounced with a sunny “Hi! Remember me?” and have a place to spend the night. So I took the Friday off from work (“You’re doing what??” said my all-of-28-years-old boss, who was cool and street smart and thought I was the most naive California girl he’d ever met, and on whom I was crushing, badly), packed an overnight case and a coat, stopped at Balducci’s gourmet food shop for some blondies and petit fours – because it was my birthday, and that seemed to me to be an appropriate birthday lunch – and boarded the commuter train in Grand Central Station. And off I went! Adventure, hail!
But this was January, and cold and snowy, and though it was to be only a few hours’ journey, we came to a sudden stop in a field of nothingness, amidst groans from the travel-savvy commuters who were apparently used to such annoyances. After a couple of hours of sitting, and the early evening coming on, we were told to disembark. Turns out the train ahead of us had derailed, and we would have to wait for bus transportation to take us around the blocked tracks and re-board another train. (But wasn’t it lucky that I wasn’t on the train ahead?) Okay, it was freezing, but I could stand in a snowy field for awhile and wait. It got darker and darker though, and I began to suspect that I was not going to be a welcome surprise guest. Hmmmmm. My little brainpan was working on the problem as we finally boarded a bus and started on the detoured trek. By the time we were on another train, getting on towards 10 p.m., I had it all worked out: there would be mass confusion, and nobody had yet collected tickets, and I shrewdly figured that at this point, nobody was going to be looking at tickets anyway. So I didn’t get off at Providence; I abandoned the whole surprise visit and went for total anonymity in a big city, and headed for Boston. Remembering my rambles in Europe, I figured I could just spend the night in the train station in a cozy corner, and then carry on. Ha!
It was somewhere around midnight when we pulled into Boston, and it was a dark, deserted, and closed train station that I found. The passengers who disembarked scattered quickly, and I was all alone in a cavernous, empty, dark room – this was not at all like the 24-hour train stations in Europe! It was open on one side, and freezing and lonely and miserable. And I had to go to the bathroom. So I trudged back into the dark corner where, fortunately, the restrooms were open, and wondered what I would do, and then my period started. This was a Low Point in my life, for sure.
But then the first bit of weirdness happened, or maybe it was a little miracle. I slouched into one of the stalls, closed the door, and… you know how there’s graffiti in every public restroom all over the world? And how sometimes your eye is just caught by a phrase or a name at eye-level? Well, when I closed that door, right in front of my face, was a message. It said “Remember the light, Sally.” I swear to Buddha, it did. And it sort of knocked me back a bit, it did. Mentally raised my eyebrows. But it gave me a lift, too, so I pulled myself together enough to figure out that I needed a cheap place to sleep, and big Eastern cities all have YMCAs, right, and they have cheap rooms, right? So I left the gloomy train station, found a pay phone across the street, and dug through the Yellow Pages.
Well, I was right, they not only had a YMCA, but they also had a YWCA, and I was quickly directed there and told in no uncertain terms that NO, I was not going to be walking across the city to find them (which is what my brother and I did in Europe – geez, I had to quit doing this comparison-to-Europe thing, it was just NOT working) – they had a room for me, and they were sending a taxi, and I was in a dangerous neighborhood, and I should go back in the station to wait. Knowing when I’ve been told off, I did it. The YWCA folks were my guardian angels that night. A taxi came and took me there, and I was ushered into a tiny, tiny room with a little bed, a chair, and nothing else – except a wonderful, fabulous, big, and working radiator going full blast, which was the best thing in the whole wide world because I was a popsicle by then. California girl, remember? I just recall being exceedingly grateful to the nice, angelic night clerk who looked after me so well, and grateful for the warmth, and crawling into bed for the best, toastiest sleep I’d had in a long time.
Since it was well after 1 a.m. when I finally arrived at the Y, we dealt with the money part in the morning. Mind, I had about $25 in cash with me for the weekend. I’d planned on free lodging, after all. These were the days before ATMs or even grocery stores that gave cash; you either went to the bank for money or used checks or credit cards, and I didn’t have a credit card. Nor did my bank have a branch in Boston, and they certainly wouldn’t have been open on a Saturday. Come to think of it, I think my checking account was at zero – it usually was. Fortunately the Y cost a mighty $10 a night, so (being nobody’s fool), the first thing I did was pay for the two nights I would be there, leaving a few bucks to eat on. Again fortunately, McDonald’s back then was about 79 cents for a breakfast roll and a cup of coffee, so I knew I wouldn’t starve. And yeah, though I’m not a coffee drinker, a) it was hot, and b) with enough cream and sugar I could manage just about anything.
Next, I needed a way home. I was holding a round-trip return ticket – from Providence. So I found my way to a train station (turns out there’s more than one in Boston), and wheedled my way into getting a refund on the unused return ticket, and THEN I went to the bus station and bought a bus ticket to New York, knowing the refund would cover it. And yay, I even got a few more bucks out of the deal – so I could eat even more! With my lodging and return trip covered, I was free to explore Boston. On foot, in the snow, but hey. Boston! All I knew about Boston I learned from Johnny Tremaine. History, here we come!
At one point in the morning I found a church to sit in and warm up, and a choir was practicing, so it was nicely spiritual. After buying a candy bar and eating it in the lobby of the Ritz, so that I could later brag that I’d eaten at the Ritz (yes, I was that silly), I slogged through snow and sludge to see the famous Boston Common. The day was sometimes sunny and sometimes overcast, but always cold and frosty, and I was exhilarated to be there. But by then I was a little lonely too, and I stood on the bridge over the frozen lake (or river?) in the Common, and thought wistfully that I’d love to have a guide. I mentally put up some little antennae, like a cartoon Martian or something, and smiled to myself at the vision, and thought I would use them to seek out a tour guide.
Well, a young man had just passed behind me on the bridge and – this is the second bit of weirdness – at the exact moment that I put out those antennae, he turned around and headed right toward me. Whoa! I had *no* idea my little visualization scheme would work that well! And he said to me, “I couldn’t help noticing what a nice smile you have, so I just thought I’d say hi” and somehow we started chatting and I explained my situation, and voila, I had a tour guide. His name was George, and he was extraordinarily kind, and he showed me around Boston all that day and into the evening, and I have never seen him again since. He indulged all my historical whims and we followed the Freedom Trail to Old North Church, and Paul Revere’s house, and various other sites. That evening he made dinner for me at his small apartment near Harvard (he was a student there), and took me to a little funky folk place for a bit of a concert (or was it a movie?), somewhere on Harvard Square, or is it Cambridge Square? I remember hot apple cider and snow falling, and the lights over Fenway Field, and that he sort of wanted me to spend the night, and I was sort of tired of perpetuating the Easy California Girl image, and so we parted as friends and he returned me to the tiny-but-cozy room at the YWCA.
That is most of the tale – the next day I had to check out of the Y and carry my overnight bag everywhere, and the weather had changed from snow to pouring rain, and I went on a quest to find some Boston Baked Beans (which appears to be a huge fallacy), and stood outside the restaurant looking absolutely drowned since of course I had no umbrella, and some pudgy businessman seemed to think I was available to be picked up, which was enormously insulting and yet screamingly funny too, and I had enough time for one more McDonald’s coffee before boarding the bus for New York. As we pulled out onto the turnpike in the dreary rain, I looked my last at Boston and thought how the weekend hadn’t gone at all the way I planned, and yet how weird and amazing and wonderful it had turned out. I never did get to quite understand the East Coast, but I met the most incredible and kind people while I was there. The sights, and differences, of New York and Boston feed my dreams to this day. Someday I’d like to go back.
Warning: Long story behind the cut!
Half a lifetime ago, in January of 1979, I had my 25th birthday while I was living in New York City. I was a wanderer then: had spent a summer roaming through Europe, and then settled in Manhattan for a while without knowing a soul there. It was all for fun and adventure. I was young, I had no ties or responsibilities, and I could go where I wanted.
On this occasion I wanted to go to visit family friends in Providence, Rhode Island. It would be like my summer traveling days – hop a train, choose a destination, wander a bit, and then drop by unannounced with a sunny “Hi! Remember me?” and have a place to spend the night. So I took the Friday off from work (“You’re doing what??” said my all-of-28-years-old boss, who was cool and street smart and thought I was the most naive California girl he’d ever met, and on whom I was crushing, badly), packed an overnight case and a coat, stopped at Balducci’s gourmet food shop for some blondies and petit fours – because it was my birthday, and that seemed to me to be an appropriate birthday lunch – and boarded the commuter train in Grand Central Station. And off I went! Adventure, hail!
But this was January, and cold and snowy, and though it was to be only a few hours’ journey, we came to a sudden stop in a field of nothingness, amidst groans from the travel-savvy commuters who were apparently used to such annoyances. After a couple of hours of sitting, and the early evening coming on, we were told to disembark. Turns out the train ahead of us had derailed, and we would have to wait for bus transportation to take us around the blocked tracks and re-board another train. (But wasn’t it lucky that I wasn’t on the train ahead?) Okay, it was freezing, but I could stand in a snowy field for awhile and wait. It got darker and darker though, and I began to suspect that I was not going to be a welcome surprise guest. Hmmmmm. My little brainpan was working on the problem as we finally boarded a bus and started on the detoured trek. By the time we were on another train, getting on towards 10 p.m., I had it all worked out: there would be mass confusion, and nobody had yet collected tickets, and I shrewdly figured that at this point, nobody was going to be looking at tickets anyway. So I didn’t get off at Providence; I abandoned the whole surprise visit and went for total anonymity in a big city, and headed for Boston. Remembering my rambles in Europe, I figured I could just spend the night in the train station in a cozy corner, and then carry on. Ha!
It was somewhere around midnight when we pulled into Boston, and it was a dark, deserted, and closed train station that I found. The passengers who disembarked scattered quickly, and I was all alone in a cavernous, empty, dark room – this was not at all like the 24-hour train stations in Europe! It was open on one side, and freezing and lonely and miserable. And I had to go to the bathroom. So I trudged back into the dark corner where, fortunately, the restrooms were open, and wondered what I would do, and then my period started. This was a Low Point in my life, for sure.
But then the first bit of weirdness happened, or maybe it was a little miracle. I slouched into one of the stalls, closed the door, and… you know how there’s graffiti in every public restroom all over the world? And how sometimes your eye is just caught by a phrase or a name at eye-level? Well, when I closed that door, right in front of my face, was a message. It said “Remember the light, Sally.” I swear to Buddha, it did. And it sort of knocked me back a bit, it did. Mentally raised my eyebrows. But it gave me a lift, too, so I pulled myself together enough to figure out that I needed a cheap place to sleep, and big Eastern cities all have YMCAs, right, and they have cheap rooms, right? So I left the gloomy train station, found a pay phone across the street, and dug through the Yellow Pages.
Well, I was right, they not only had a YMCA, but they also had a YWCA, and I was quickly directed there and told in no uncertain terms that NO, I was not going to be walking across the city to find them (which is what my brother and I did in Europe – geez, I had to quit doing this comparison-to-Europe thing, it was just NOT working) – they had a room for me, and they were sending a taxi, and I was in a dangerous neighborhood, and I should go back in the station to wait. Knowing when I’ve been told off, I did it. The YWCA folks were my guardian angels that night. A taxi came and took me there, and I was ushered into a tiny, tiny room with a little bed, a chair, and nothing else – except a wonderful, fabulous, big, and working radiator going full blast, which was the best thing in the whole wide world because I was a popsicle by then. California girl, remember? I just recall being exceedingly grateful to the nice, angelic night clerk who looked after me so well, and grateful for the warmth, and crawling into bed for the best, toastiest sleep I’d had in a long time.
Since it was well after 1 a.m. when I finally arrived at the Y, we dealt with the money part in the morning. Mind, I had about $25 in cash with me for the weekend. I’d planned on free lodging, after all. These were the days before ATMs or even grocery stores that gave cash; you either went to the bank for money or used checks or credit cards, and I didn’t have a credit card. Nor did my bank have a branch in Boston, and they certainly wouldn’t have been open on a Saturday. Come to think of it, I think my checking account was at zero – it usually was. Fortunately the Y cost a mighty $10 a night, so (being nobody’s fool), the first thing I did was pay for the two nights I would be there, leaving a few bucks to eat on. Again fortunately, McDonald’s back then was about 79 cents for a breakfast roll and a cup of coffee, so I knew I wouldn’t starve. And yeah, though I’m not a coffee drinker, a) it was hot, and b) with enough cream and sugar I could manage just about anything.
Next, I needed a way home. I was holding a round-trip return ticket – from Providence. So I found my way to a train station (turns out there’s more than one in Boston), and wheedled my way into getting a refund on the unused return ticket, and THEN I went to the bus station and bought a bus ticket to New York, knowing the refund would cover it. And yay, I even got a few more bucks out of the deal – so I could eat even more! With my lodging and return trip covered, I was free to explore Boston. On foot, in the snow, but hey. Boston! All I knew about Boston I learned from Johnny Tremaine. History, here we come!
At one point in the morning I found a church to sit in and warm up, and a choir was practicing, so it was nicely spiritual. After buying a candy bar and eating it in the lobby of the Ritz, so that I could later brag that I’d eaten at the Ritz (yes, I was that silly), I slogged through snow and sludge to see the famous Boston Common. The day was sometimes sunny and sometimes overcast, but always cold and frosty, and I was exhilarated to be there. But by then I was a little lonely too, and I stood on the bridge over the frozen lake (or river?) in the Common, and thought wistfully that I’d love to have a guide. I mentally put up some little antennae, like a cartoon Martian or something, and smiled to myself at the vision, and thought I would use them to seek out a tour guide.
Well, a young man had just passed behind me on the bridge and – this is the second bit of weirdness – at the exact moment that I put out those antennae, he turned around and headed right toward me. Whoa! I had *no* idea my little visualization scheme would work that well! And he said to me, “I couldn’t help noticing what a nice smile you have, so I just thought I’d say hi” and somehow we started chatting and I explained my situation, and voila, I had a tour guide. His name was George, and he was extraordinarily kind, and he showed me around Boston all that day and into the evening, and I have never seen him again since. He indulged all my historical whims and we followed the Freedom Trail to Old North Church, and Paul Revere’s house, and various other sites. That evening he made dinner for me at his small apartment near Harvard (he was a student there), and took me to a little funky folk place for a bit of a concert (or was it a movie?), somewhere on Harvard Square, or is it Cambridge Square? I remember hot apple cider and snow falling, and the lights over Fenway Field, and that he sort of wanted me to spend the night, and I was sort of tired of perpetuating the Easy California Girl image, and so we parted as friends and he returned me to the tiny-but-cozy room at the YWCA.
That is most of the tale – the next day I had to check out of the Y and carry my overnight bag everywhere, and the weather had changed from snow to pouring rain, and I went on a quest to find some Boston Baked Beans (which appears to be a huge fallacy), and stood outside the restaurant looking absolutely drowned since of course I had no umbrella, and some pudgy businessman seemed to think I was available to be picked up, which was enormously insulting and yet screamingly funny too, and I had enough time for one more McDonald’s coffee before boarding the bus for New York. As we pulled out onto the turnpike in the dreary rain, I looked my last at Boston and thought how the weekend hadn’t gone at all the way I planned, and yet how weird and amazing and wonderful it had turned out. I never did get to quite understand the East Coast, but I met the most incredible and kind people while I was there. The sights, and differences, of New York and Boston feed my dreams to this day. Someday I’d like to go back.
