Straight Into King’s Chapel

Boston takes a while from here.  Four plus hours depending on the traffic.  But I like the Mass Pike, at least the western part through the Berkshires.  It’s a straight shot.  You don’t need to think much about where you’re going till you arrive in downtown Boston and eventually, with only a little time to spare we’re down there under the bridge at Framingham with exits for Cambridge. 

The sign said $25.00 for the day but my bill later was for nearly twice that.  I searched for a bit when a gent, who might have been from Ethiopia said, yeah, there was valet parking but, "OK.  When are you going to be back?  Here, just park it here.” He said as he moved a cone.  I slipped him six dollars and wondered if he was expecting more.

Out on the street I walked straight into King’s Chapel and the gravesite by the side.  A Unitarian Church built in 1754, it was built on the site of an old Anglican church, which is presumably where the name comes from.  It was starting to snow, and I was considering my long ride back as I walked along School Street, passed the Old City Hall and considered for a moment this precious little piece of Boston and the Revolutionary period. 

After a meeting at the workspace where my client has moved to, I shuffled into a Starbucks across the street where I was to meet another Bostonian chum, from Dong Bei.  “I’m here.”  “Me too.”  This Starbucks is no bigger than a railway car and this message was disconcerting.  “Ah, you’re probably over at the old office? . . . Yeah, they’ve moved. “I know where he is, but I have no idea how far South Station is.  All I know about where I am is “School Street” and “The Old City Hall.” He wants me to head there.  I’m underdressed.  I’m feeling tired.  Should I get a Lyft?  Should I bail?  He then asks if I want to get some dumplings in a good spot run by folks from Qingdao and he has suddenly convinced me.  It’s a cold, twelve-minute walk over in the snow, but the dumplings were pretty damn good for this side of the Pacific. 

Heading home I ran out of juice in my phone and took the call from a roadside place.  I asked the lady watering the plants if she would keep an eye on my charging phone when I went to bathroom, but it suddenly became clear that she wasn’t able to communicate.  With sufficient charge, I could use Waze again and slavishly followed its instruction to take 84 instead of the Mass Pike, as it was supposed to save me three or four minutes, and soon I was considering the distantly familiar pathway back home to the Hudson Valley from the middle of Connecticut. 

Wednesday, 01/08/20