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THE RED, WHITE, & BLUE STATE SHUFFLE
California to Ohio
 My red eye was scheduled to leave at 11:00pm. Instead I flew Delta. I knew something strange was afoot when I reached the gate. A long line of disgruntled travelers wound its way from the check in counter all the way to the next gate. This is strange, I thought. I checked on the internet right before I left for the airport -- on time. I checked the big board when I reached the airport -- on time. I glanced at the big board right by my gate -- on time. I looked at the board at my gate -- delayed -- new departure time 12:00am. That doesn't seem bad except now we'd arrive in Cincinnati at 7:00am and my connection to Boston was leaving at 7:00am. I accepted the fact that my new home away from home would be this line.
A muffled announcement came over the p.a. It sounded like this: mumble, mumble, mumble -- Boston – mumble, mumble, mumble. We can put people on the moon and bring them back, we can invent a shampoo that's also a conditioner, but we can't set up a system whereby you can hear airport announcements even if you're standing fifteen feet away from the person giving it. I made my way to the check in counter to get the story. I was shocked to hear the Delta gate agent tell me that the connecting flight to Boston would be held, and that I didn't need to stand in the line. Perfect! I will arrive in Boston at 9:30am as scheduled and have the whole beautiful day in front of me. Could it be true? Had the planets aligned? Sure I had some difficulty getting this ticket in the first place, but you see, here they were making up for it in spades by promising to hold my connecting flight so I could make it to Boston with no further delays. Maybe Delta isn’t so bad after all.
We arrived in Cincinnati right on time -- 7:00am. A group of us hurried through the airport to hop our plane to Boston. But when we got to our gate nobody was there, and more importantly there wasn't a plane there. On the board it said: "SEATTLE -- DEPARTING 9:45AM." When we told the Delta gate agents that we were told the plane would be held their response was, "We don't hold planes," and "We didn't tell you that." It's one thing to experience mechanical or weather delays (we never found out why we were delayed in Los Angeles), it's another thing to lie to your customer's faces and then for everybody to play dumb. However, they were nice enough to rebook me to Boston. Through Greensboro, N.C. departing at 3:45pm, arriving Greensboro 7:00pm, departing Greensboro at 7:16pm, and arriving in Boston sometime after 9:00pm. That's a 16 minute "layover" in Greensboro and I'm going to go out on a limb here and say they're not going to hold the connecting flight for me.
I was on the phone with Delta agents for 2 hours and forty-five minutes straight until a genius named Libby in Atlanta got me out of Cincinnati and into Boston at 2:30pm. This after five previous agents said there were no flights. One agent told me she could fly me into Providence, Rhode Island. I said "Great! What time will I get to Boston?" She said, "It's only 50 miles away." "So when does the flight to Boston leave Providence." "We don't fly from Providence to Boston." "So... how am I supposed to get from Providence to Boston?" "It's only 50 miles." (Silence while I try to figure out if I'm on some kind of hidden camera) "Yes, but... I don't live in Providence. It's not like I have a car there. Is Delta going to rent me a car?" "No." "Then are you expecting me to walk from Providence to Boston?" "It's only 50 miles." That is what my New Delhi customer service agent really said. Needless to say this trip was my last I will ever fly on Delta.
This was my only stop in a red state. The delay forced me into an establishment of ill repute where I was entertained by a
cartoon called Fox News. The sole bartender gave me a bad bloody mary and proceeded to tell me an unsolicited off color joke. When I was supposed to laugh I took a big sip of the drink and smiled. The bar filled up and the bartender carded everyone -- even if they were obviously in their sixties. After checking each one he would call out the name of the state they were from and ask them if they wanted a double. If they said NO he would berate them into getting one because he was "on a streak." Among the 95% red state population of the bar, the conversation inevitably turned to politics. The main topic which unleashed a flood of passionate opinions: eminent domain.
Ohio to Massachusetts
I landed in Boston.
In my estimation, the three best days to be in the “City Upon the Hill" are St. Patrick's Day, the Boston Marathon, and July 4th. Beneath the stunning architecture of Bulfinch, Benjamin, and Banner, beneath the multitudes of colleges and universities, beneath the shimmering skyline, beneath the man made Back Bay, the paved roads, train lines, and high rise apartment buildings, lies a provincial colonial town that will forever be known as the cradle of the American Revolution.
Five Bostonians were gunned down by British Red Coats outside the Old State House on State Street in March of 1770. It was in Boston that Samuel Adams formed the Sons of Liberty and where they met and planned. It was in Boston's harbor that 50 Bostonians hurled British tea. The Intolerable Acts passed by King George III were aimed mainly at Boston. Two lanterns in Boston's Old North Church sent Paul Revere on his famous ride to Lexington. Bostonians fought the British at Bunker Hill, and though it was a military loss the bravery and ferocity with which they fought inspired each of the days of rebellion that followed. The battle also produced the famous quote by Colonel William Prescott -- "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes!"
After the Revolution, Boston led the debate between the Federalists and Anti-Federalists at the Constitutional Convention. In the following century, the Boston blue bloods fought Jefferson and Jackson, but the body politic of the city has always favored populist causes -- the abolition movement started here. Dorthea Dix created and led the movement for the mentally ill. Julia Ward Howe was at the forefront of women's suffrage. Irish immigration changed the political landscape of Boston and produced some of America's greatest mayors and political icons (the Kennedys). Historian Matthew Crocker tells us that Boston moved "from a democracy of the few to a democracy of the many." I can not think of a better phrase to characterize our nation as well. To that end we fight the same old battles -- Federalist vs. Anti-Federalist, blue blood vs. populist, the democracy of the few vs. the democracy of many. The history of this city is the real story of the American Republic. It was this Boston that I came to find.
Harvard Square
My hotel was across from the Boston Public Library in Copley Square -- the first public library in the country. There was
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Harvard Square Then |
construction on the street level. I took the elevator up a story to the lobby and learned that they're building a bar and it will be open in two weeks. I always was off on my timing. It is a "boutique" hotel which means my room is upscale, stylish, and the size of shoe box. I had an intriguing view of a brick wall.
I headed for Harvard Square in Cambridge. It felt good to be riding the "T" again, except this time I had an IPOD instead of a bulky Disc Man. Progress! There is also an incomparable urban brilliance in the endless streams of strangers that you come in contact with on the T. I saw some beautiful women in Boston -- some real L.A. standard angels -- mainly in cheesy and/or hip dance clubs. But none of them compare with the random beauty on the T. It’s a flash, and she's gone. I can remember girls I saw on the T twelve years ago. It’s a sickness really. I imagine women have the same experience in reverse but I could be wrong.
It had been awhile since I was in Harvard Square -- the heart of Harvard University -- established in 1647 by John Winthrop (aka "Mr. Laughs") and his merry band of Puritan pranksters. I walked around and recalled with devilish merriment various places on the University where I had relieved myself during the 20th Century -- something any Boston University student is familiar with, self-respecting. The joke is on me, though, as Harvard's graduates have been relieving themselves on me ever since. I followed an old woman across the street and into a bar. There wasn't a student in the
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Harvard Square Now |
place. It was all worn out townies. Two guys played darts but they were six drinks past being able to hit anything. The old woman, the bartender, and I made a cozy five. I did my part for the economy for an hour or so and headed out.
The energy in the Square had increased. An absolutely terrible saxophone player was surrounded by admirers by the news stand. I laughed and thought about how much I wanted to crush him. There was no doubt in my mind that this guy could not play sax and it was my duty to crush him, and though I had already been in the city for several hours it was at that moment that I truly returned to Boston. I'm a mere hundred yards from one of the most prestigious university's in the world, I've been drinking, and I'm looking for a fight. I've just described the history of the average Bostonian -- from the time of the Revolution through the present day. Ask that old woman. She was born in Boston seventy seven years ago.
The Freedom Trail
I walked the Freedom Trail. It took five billion hours, but I saw what most people call "a lot of old stuff." I walked Bunker Hill and saw the first public school. I pushed my way through Faneuil Hall during a Boston Harborfest 2005 concert. I saw Paul Revere's house and the site of the Boston massacre. What always strikes me most is the contrast between the past and present --- the Old South Meeting House or Park Street Church tucked into a block of skyscrapers, the Granary Burying Ground and the financial district, or the U.S.S. Constitution next to a power boat. Faulkner wrote, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past,” and the seamless architectural blend of Boston's past and present plays that quote out in stone and steel. You should check out what's on the Freedom Trail -- here -- and there's no better day to walk it than July 4th. You will have to find the watering holes along the way yourself.
South Boston
I hopped the Red Line for South Boston to go to a good old fashioned July 4th BBQ, but on the way to Kendall Square I fell asleep and didn't wake up until Porter -- three stops further. It took me a while but I backtracked and triumphantly called my friend to tell her that I had arrived. Problem was I was nowhere near South Boston. I went the wrong direction. I should have gotten off at Andrew Square. I blame this mental lapse on synaptic damage caused by my tin foil hat. Time for a taxi.
I was in the cab for ten hours and it cost $14.00. The old neighborhood had definitely gotten a make over since I last saw it. WOW. The BBQ was intimate but a great deal of fun, and it just doesn't feel like July 4th unless you've eaten some red meat. There were very funny people who had all sorts of degrees in stuff I can't even pronounce. They impressed me with their big brains and I entertained them with Hollywood dirt like the fact that Tom Cruise is really a hermaphrodite. A good time was had by all.
The Boston Pops & the Fireworks
 I accepted a ride back to Back Bay to meet an old college friend at Stephanie's on Newbury. After not speaking with her for over ten years, she emailed me out of the blue the day before I left. We caught up and drank some very good wine. She asked me if I had plans to watch the fireworks because she was going to be at a party on Marlborough and Exeter with a great balcony view of the Charles River. Did I want to go? But of course.
As night fell, I walked around a bit and could hear the Boston Pops from the shell. They began their annual performance of the 1812 Overture and I knew it wouldn't be long until the Back Bay was flooded with people from all over the country swarming toward the river banks to see the fireworks. I headed to the party and took position on the balcony. The vantage point was exceptional. Across the rooftops you could see the silhouettes of people with champagne glasses in their hands.
The fireworks lit up the sky and it was easy to feel like you had a couple of brass rings rattling around in your pocket. It was the perfect first ending to a perfect day.
After the impressive fireworks display, I worked my around the social establishments of Back Bay. There were a lot of white people. I had to go by Daisy Buchanan’s, and a place called the Rattlesnake -- and the Blue Cat of course. They weren’t El Guapo – let’s not get crazy – but they were fun none the less.
I went into Whiskey Park and they were playing hip hop on eleven and all the empty tables had little signs on them that said RESERVED. Five playmate waitresses sat on a couch and did nothing. I left and headed to Solaras to meet some old friends. We sampled a wide array of beverages and something called "shots" until closing. It was the perfect second ending to a perfect night. Then we headed to Chinatown.
Chinatown
The Chinese population of Boston at the time of the Revolutionary War was 0. In 1890 it was 200. In 2000 it was almost 45,000 and Chinatown is one of the historic gems of the city. With the Poles, Greeks, Jews, Irish, and Lithuanians all over the place, the addition of the Chinese must have made the blue bloods absolutely freak out and hide their daughters in boarding schools. The irony is that it was the Boston aristocracy's ambition to make Boston the envy of the world that attracted all these immigrants in the first place, and their success as maritime merchants with China that specifically led to the Chinese immigration. The city is more “minority” than “majority” now. I guess the blue bloods would see that as "blow-back."
We hit a place called Apollo's and were swimming in sake and sushi soon after. Yes, sake and sushi in Chinatown. I grabbed a pitcher of water and poured myself a glass. I took a deep sip and almost sprayed the table. Little advice -- water and rice wine look the exact same. My college friend (who is Chinese) was with a beautiful African American woman named Emily who worked for a make up company. Another girl was half Asian/half Latina but had the voice of Jewish girl from Long Island. Every single thing she said was hilarious. It was like hanging out with a sitcom. It was the perfect third ending to a perfect late night.
After Hours
Being on West Coast time on the East Coast has its advantages, one being that you are prepared to never sleep. I found an after hours cranking up nearby. It was a private club and you had to be a member to get in. When I told them I was with Crackpot Press the velvet rope opened like the pearly gates (WARNING: GROSS FABRICATION). The actual story is that I talked my way in. It was funny to watch the rave babes behind me claim to be the girlfriends of the DJs spinning that night and be told "Sorry, you're not on the list." Hell hath no fury like a club girl scorned.
The place was two stories and on both floors there was great music. It was the first after hours I had been to in a long time where the music really kicked. After making several rounds, I sunk into a big sofa and gazed through the smoke machine haze at a dancing melting pot, and I wondered what the Puritans would think of their little town now -- all those lasers and flashing lights, all those dark faces and accents, all those great bodies and orientations. Would they ever see what I saw -- the real "City Upon the Hill?"
Massachusetts to New York
I took Amtrak through Rhode Island and Connecticut to New York.
Heavy curtains of rain poured down during the ten minutes I had to go from Penn Station to my friend’s car. I got soaked but it didn't matter because I was finally in New York after sweating rice wine and sake for hours in the only train car with no air conditioning. I was lucky though. Some people had to board our train because theirs broke down. They didn't even have seats. I hopped in the car and we caught up and laughed about the cops I gave the slip to in New Haven.
I have only one thing to recount here of my many experiences during the short time I was in New York. We went to Ground Zero. It’s sanitized now, with a tall fence running around it. When we approached it I thought it was just another of the many construction sites I saw around the city. But a complete timeline of the events of the day were posted underneath the signage THE HEROES OF SEPTEMBER 11TH. Clusters of people stood solemnly and read the account of what happened. I looked at the buildings around Ground Zero and located the ones where friends of mine were that day and miraculously survived. I pressed my face against the fence and looked at the famous girder, but it offered me no solace, and I desperately want solace, and I wondered for no small amount of time if that day will ever come.
New York to California
My trip back was uneventful. There are never delays when you’re coming back from somewhere.
When you’re standing knee deep in super models on Sunset Boulevard you forget that your country actually came from somewhere, and that somewhere is Boston. Spending America's birthday there was a genuine gift and I thank all those people who spent it with me. I am not afraid to admit that my most searing memory is of a beautiful blonde girl in a pink Red Sox T-shirt getting on the "T" at Hynes Convention Center on her way to the baseball game. What can I say? I always was a sucker for those blue bloods.
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