Art Escapades, Jabba the Hutt and the Beantown Nutter
My wife has many talents but a sense of direction is not one of them. I don’t blame her of course – the ability to get lost whilst continuously rotating a map with increasing despair from up to down to sideways runs deeply in her genes. Of the many stories I could tell about her sister, one of my favourites involves a trip of hers from Cape Town to Hermanus. At some point we received a phone call – “We went through that long tunnel through the mountain a while ago, but there’s still no sign of Hermanus – how much further is it?” Funny, yes. Sympathy? Of course. The fact that she’d driven to Hermanus numerous times before shows the depth of the affliction.
People say that cellphones and Playstations and TVs and iPads are destroying the fabric of our society, but I think technology is a gift for matrimonial harmony. Along with the dishwasher, the GPS is a true saviour of marriages. It’s far healthier to blame the “stupid woman” in the electronic box in front of you as she repeatedly tells you to make a u-turn into a one-way street than to use the same phrase on the person sitting next to you. I know this. My wife knows this. And yet from time to time, we forget.
San-Marié had successfully navigated the Boston subway system on her own to do some shopping and when we met up she seemed keen to demonstrate her expertise. I ignored the niggly little warning lurking at the back of my mind, embraced her new-found confidence and followed her lead. We raced past a couple of stops, but it was only when I saw her furrowed brow as her head nodded repeatedly from the map to the station names, that I sensed something was amiss. We were going the wrong way.
Given the frequency of such incidents, this would not ordinarily be a noteworthy story, but very soon we were at the end of the line and rectifying the error was trickier than one might imagine. Ignoring warning signs to the contrary, we skipped across railway lines, evaded fences and turnstiles and soon found ourselves entering the correct platform. It was only when a bloke who looked like a dark-skinned sumo wrestler in a police uniform yelled: “Yo! Youse can’t just do that!” that we sensed things might get a bit tricky. He was soon joined by his white-skinned twin, a chap resembling Jabba the Hutt gone to seed. They looked formidable and forbidding with folded arms and scowls on their faces. We launched simultaneously into an explanation of “we went in the wrong direction”, “absolutely we paid” and “really, we’re just lost”. Our foreign accents and my tourist camera seemed to do the trick and it was a joy to watch our initial accuser’s expression change from anger to confusion to incredulity to pity. He soon fell back into fine American politeness and gave us detailed directions to our next destination. His evil twin just looked on in bewilderment, clearly wondering how anyone could be so stupid.
Boston is a small city, compact and walkable with a quaint New England charm. We stayed in an area called the South End, a place on the edge of an expanding area of gentrification of the city. Our building lacked the exterior qualities of its neighbouring buildings – it was a chunky block of flats nestled amongst the characterful brownstones. Conditioned by a society where race differences were reinforced for so long, it didn’t take us long to notice that our white faces were somewhat of an outlier in this area. This was emphasized when we discovered that our building was earmarked as “government-assisted housing for minorities”. Sure, I’m white, Jewish and balding but I wasn’t quite certain if I qualified as a minority in Boston. I also wasn’t sure how ethical it was to use a government-subsidised apartment for Airbnb purposes, but I had to admire the gumption and entrepreneurial flair of our host. Our accommodation was clean and comfortable though and our stay was made all the more pleasant by the somewhat quizzical yet uniform politeness with which young black men in hoodies greeted us as we rode the lift up to our apartment.
There were many fine restaurants and coffee shops in our neighbourhood but what struck me most was the number of hairdressers and barbershops in the immediate area. For the hairy-headed this would obviously be a big boon, but for me it felt like being a diabetic in a sweet shop or a deaf man at a symphony concert – enticing but ultimately futile. I made a somewhat tepid attempt to enter one of these establishments, but despite the good dollar-per-follicle ratio that I presented to the barber, I couldn’t convince him to extend his closing time to complete one more job.
Boston is filled with colleges and universities and its youthful energy is reflected in the outdoor activity all around you, from jogging to rowing to cycling. Harvard and MIT are just across the river with dozens of other colleges nearby. Signs of student life are everywhere, from the coffee shops filled with earphone-wearing laptop-tapping students to the conversation I overheard at the local Vietnamese joint between two medical students about vectors and forces which brought joy to my nerdy, fluttering heart. At 7:30am on a bus on a Sunday morning (I was on my way to a pub to feed my habit), about twenty students climbed on board, some with elaborate make-up and hairdos. Even to my non-observant eye, this seemed a bit excessive in the grooming stakes. It soon emerged that they were part of the Boston University Ballroom Dancing team on the way to a competition. As admirable as this was, I couldn’t help but reflect that I’d never been up that early on a varsity weekend, let alone for the somewhat dubious joy of pushing my body against someone with a jiggling bottom and a face set in a horror movie grimace.
Our time in Boston was spent as it is in most cities – eating, drinking, visiting the odd museum and walking the streets. It didn’t take long for American portion sizes to attack our emaciated post-Icelandic campervan frames as my food-obsessed wife had us hunting down the most exotic dishes in obscure Chinatown restaurants, Boston cream pies in famous local bakeries and gourmet hamburgers in trendy American eateries. Of course, we made the odd extra-mealtime excursion, but who wouldn’t, if you could taste a signature New England lobster roll or an artisanal doughnut ice-cream sandwich?
We visited the Museum of Fine Arts which even an art philistine like me could appreciate as I made some stilting progress in my lifelong battle to rationalise abstract art. Of course there was the odd exhibit that left me gawping in despair, but overall I felt I reached a new level of understanding. Either that or the American food had dulled my senses.
Amongst our wanderings, we took a guided walking tour of Boston’s famous “Freedom Trail” which covers many of the significant sites from the American Revolution. Although these sites are historically interesting, the highlight was undoubtedly our tour guide. He spoke rapidly in a broad Bostonian accent, often bending his knees and flinging his skinny frame into odd positions to emphasize some point, reciting dates and places and whirling his arms wildly. His Chaplinesque gait led us between key points on the trail and even when he wasn’t addressing the group, he prattled on ceaselessly to himself as he walked. To me, his self conversations sounded quite interesting. I’ve always been a bit of a sucker for a crazy fella.
We left Boston about two weeks ago to venture forth into the relative wilderness of rural new England to see some leaves. And we did. But that is a story for another time.
To see our Boston Gallery, click here.
Best way to start the morning in my cubicle – coffee and your blog post! Thanks for keeping me entertained and keep ’em coming 🙂
San-Marie – I SO get the ‘rotating the map’ story. My sense of direction is just fine as long at the road on the map is facing the same way I’m walking. My husband also thinks this is funny – can’t exactly understand why. Great to hear from you again. Have fun !!
I love Boston! We spent some time there on our round the world trip in 1999. Mike’s aunt and uncle live there too so it was very special. That ice cream sandwich looks amazing – YUM!
Klink of jul baie lekker kuier. Geniet dit.
I’d like to point out that a single number differentiates the N2 from the N1 – an easy mistake for us non-actuaries.
Good to hear that you have a growing appreciation for contemporary art!