It was my last day in Boston, and I spent part of it waiting in the lobby of the hotel with my bags and my luggage trolley. Not that I minded. I was riveted to a nonfiction work called Wages of Sin: Sex and Disease, Past and Present, which I reviewed for LGNY.
F and L did show up. Seems L had a wee accident resulting in the side-view mirror coming off the car. Luckily, that was the only casualty, and it happened right in the garage.
We went to F's parents' house for a barbecue. F's mother reminded me of my grandmother. She was very welcoming and demanded that I eat something, seemed very disappointed that I couldn't stay longer, and insisted I take some food along for my train ride. And I only just met this woman today. She's one of those rare creatures who just accepts into her homes anyone her children approves of. It's like you have instant credibility just for knowing her son. L's parents were also there. It was a real family day. F's mother said, "Visit us again so we can get to know you better." It's a nice change from suspicion and isolation, so rampant in New York.
L took me to the Davis stop of the Red Line of the T, and I got to South Station in plenty of time. I wound up seeing C at the station. C is my co-worker and she was also up in Boston for the weekend. We were separated by class distinctions for the train ride. I was in business class and allowed to board ahead of everyone else. That doesn't make me a better person; it's just convenient. Besides, who wants to be too reminded of work after a vacation.
The Acela trainride home had no footrests, as the train up did. I eman, is this busienss class or not? That's Amtrak all the way. It's half-assed, which, according to The Simpsons, is the American Way. It was a nice ride home, though. You ride along the water a good deal of the way; Long Island Sound, marshes in Connecticut, little islands in Pelham Bay in the Bronx, Hell Gate Bridge as you cross into Queens. Astoria from an elevated point-of-view, though, is still Astoria. There's something about a train that's magic; there's something about Astoria that's not.
I missed the fireworks along the Charles River up in Boston, and I missed them in New York. I did hear them, though. I had a 20-minute wait at the taxi stand at Penn Station on the Eight Avenue side, and could hear the fireworks in action. If my train was just an hour later, I would have seen them from the train.
When I got home, my cat sitter was still there, to berate me for "being late." She was there because of the noise from the fireworks, and potential for the cats being scared. She means well, but let's face it: after a long trip, being greeted by a cranky 82-year-old Swedish woman after a longish sweaty trip, having lugged my bags up four flights of stairs, is not the post-holiday coda one anticipates.
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