It’s a light spattering, but it’s consistent. It has been raining off and on for three days. And it’s officially colder than Calgary. Well. We’ll have to cash it in, what with not being used the rain and all. Catch that sarcasm? ‘Cause I’m laying it on pretty thick.
Not that we can’t handle our rain, but I can say this. It feels like we’ve done a full circle with the seasons and pretty much reached the north part of the continent where winter is still energetically gnawing on the neck of spring. So, what do you do in Boston when the cold is chewing off your fingers?
(picture the rest of this post narrated in a thick Bostontonian accent)
I can’t find the name of this damn bookstore, but it houses rare and fantastic literary joys. It’s tucked away down a dark alley in downtown Boston. You can find architecture in books about Frank Lloyd Wright, classic crime novels, civil war posters, and poetry of Bill Shakespeare and Bill Carlos William. Astounding. A tiny electric fireplace unrolled electric heat, toasting our wind burned faces red. I picked up Obasan by Joy Kogawa for $6. Travis got an iPad. Umm, yeah, not here though. The whole time, the bookstore owner was being interviewed by a journalism student about the future of book publishing. Uncanny.
This isn’t Boston, but it’s close.
If you are ever north of Boston in a little town called Lowell (sublime except for its sewage plant), waltz into Dharma Buns Sanwich Co.. This little artisan sandwich shop mixes the best of art, food, music and beer into a medley of customer satisfaction. The theme is based upon both the mind boggling TV drama LOST, and even better known: the legendary Jack Kerouac, writer of On The Road, to name just one. We actually worked our buns off here while drinking cold oatmeal stouts and eating home made turkey burgers. When we had our fill, Dharma flipped LOST on for its weekly marathon. Crazy, I tell you. And wonderful. Could that catch on in Calgary?
Expect to slide out of here with your gut touching the floor. Wil, you said we were looking trim. Well, that was before Boston. The food at the Farmer’s market will stop your heart. Row after row of joints serving pizza, sushi, Indian samosas, fresh fruit smoothies, Chip Yard cookies. It’s actually disgusting. A Cheers lookalike bar. I posed with a cardboard cut out of George Wendt (Norm). Stuffed lobster is a big thing. And what I mean by that is plush toys. Lobsters. I kind of like them. But not as much as I am amused by the Boston pigeons. I swear they have accents too. And they tuck their heads down in the cold just like the humans do.
Red Sox Game
Don’t do this when it rains. That’s stupid. But when you’ve pre purchased tickets for $54 a pop, you should probably go since you won’t get a refund (you may get an alternate attendance day, but if you’re living in an RV and home means another Walmart parking lot, this is not relevant). It was our first real baseball game. And the fans were something to reckon with. You do not want to be cornered a Red Sox fan on the subway while mumbling about the Yankees or any other rival team. It would be a crucifixion.
There we were, nestled with blankets and screaming “Yoooouuuu” after Youkillis: a star quarterback. Wait, wrong sport. First base man and star batter. We fit right in! We yelled when everyone else yelled and got big fat hot dogs and shitty Coors (that’s beer for all you refined folks) like everybody else. We even faked our accents by taking tips from the Kettle Corn guy, “Kettel cowan, get ya kettel cowan.” Nobody even knew we were visitors (we like to consider ourselves spies, actually). We owned the game.
It’s a bit chilly, but the sky is holding out. Then, Travis says the ‘r’ word. And down it comes, pissing out of the sky with a vengeance. Rain. Buckets full by the fourth inning. Ok, it was only drizzling, but you’d think it was God’s scourge upon the earth the way the locals reacted. The lady beside us, jerked her finger in our direction and said, “Blame those two. They said the ‘r’ word.”
It sounded like she said, “aah woyd.”
There we are, bottom of the ninth inning. Tied. Tampa (the suckass team) has just struck out. We’re wet, cold, and eager to see the Sox pummel Tampa back to Florida. Just as the Sox are about to bat, a stream of men come running onto the field with a giant canvas sheet. They call the game. It’s a rain out. 1-1, last inning (it’s been drizzling since the fourth with no change in intensity) and they cancel the gd game. Can you believe the noyve of those people? I mean, seriously. Somebody oughta calla umpiyah or somethin’ —get things movin’. Flarin’ a Boston temper over heeyah.
Anyway, we had so much fun, we didn’t mind being crammed onto the subway with thousands of moist, angry fans. It was a riot. You should try it. Just once.
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