Boston, you’re closer than we think. For the second weekend in a row we motivated a road trip to bring my older one someplace where she could meet a friend. Neither of my daughters have their driver’s license. Neither will take a bus, or a train or an Uber. And where I would normally feel put-upon I think we all appreciate this is temporal and that we should enjoy the time we have together, even as a chauffeur.
The little one asked me the other day if Boston were in the “Tri State Area” to which I replied it was not and launched into an unsolicited segue into why New England was called New England when she interrupted me to say: “I’m not allowed to leave the Tri State Area, and if I do I have to quarantine.” I wrote the school to clarify and it would appear we have a bit of lee way. They were more interested if she were heading to Wisconsin or North Dakota. I’d written the university I teach at to see about a meeting but everyone preferred to do it on zoom. And so it goes.
Splendid talk with the older one as we headed out this morning. She has such a mature mapping in her mind of what she wants to study, where she wants to head. I’m grateful she is so much more focused than I was at that age. I have an Art Farmer album on with Jim Hall, a live session in Sweden. I’ve been playing it over and over the last few days and it’s wonderful. The Catskills are breathtaking, the Berkshires are astounding in their garish fall death swoon. And it isn’t long before we’ve dropped the older one off at her friends.
My wife and I want to show the little one Tufts, where I went to grad school. We can show her the house we both lived in when we were first married. My wife thinks its important that she also seems MIT and I decode the acronym for the little one when she asks. But the Charles River and memorial drive make up one boundary and driving around there is no way to see the campus from inside a car. The little one is studying the Revolutionary War and I’m tired of virtually driving through campuses. Let’s go to the North End.
Soon we’ve parked the car and are following the Freedom Trail up past Cops Hill Graveyard and on towards the Old North Church. I explain to these ladies that we are in the Italian section of town and if we’re eating here we’re having Italian or seafood. We walk along the hubbub of Hannover Street. I have a restaurant in mind, from when I was last here twenty years ago and sure enough “The Daily Catch” is still there, turquoise trim, jet black ceilings which seem to reflect the inky aglio olio, garlic and olive oil black squid ink pasta that is so good I can’t stop eating it, even though I am getting decidedly full. Later we pass a pastry shop where we don’t mind standing in line to ogle at the seductive pastries they have. Later in the car, when the older one has rejoined we take bites of each one and moan like anyone reveling in sin.
Saturday, 10/17/20
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