I can hardly imagine an everyday situation more awkward than sitting in a half empty T-car all the way down the line. Well, we didn’t go quite that far, and at least I wasn’t alone. But still. In the air trembles the elephant in the room – the fact of everybody’s lack of activities to be busy with and awkward unwillingness to engage in conversation with a stranger. There you have it – the East Coast. There was a man sitting across from me who dealt with the elephant by knotting bracelets out of shoelaces, a brilliant idea considering the situation. Others read or scrolled aimlessly through their text messages. A few sheepish looking fashionistas crossed and uncrossed their legs, staring into space and mentally berating themselves for forgetting to bring their knitting.
Anyway, we got to the center.
Once there, the Little Ones, with their characteristic bluntness announced a need for Chinatown instead of the The Museum of Fine Arts. My stomach growled and an understanding passed through us all. To Chinatown we would go. After passing a few beggars and a crying child, we found ourselves in a dim-sum restaurant called the Winsor Dim Sum Cafe. It is popular and has been featured in several magazines. It deserves completely the merit. In particular, I recommend the peanut pork dumplings, an exquisite blend of pillowy softness and water chestnut crunch with the lingering aroma of spices and a hint of peanut taste. The sticky rice was good too. Needless to say, everything was gone before you could say “fattening.”
At this point, with our bulging waistlines and contented lethargy, we figured the Museum of Fine Arts, which was a forty minute walk away, could wait for another day. With a quick stop at 101 Pastry for some rich provisions, we were off, headed for the nearby Boston Public Library.
Unfortunately, we couldn’t stop eating. It began with a stop at the park where Make Way For Ducklings was set – to eat our sesame balls and taro pastry. We made it through the rest of the park without refreshment. But then a cry from the Bigger Little One for a drink. Sympathetically, we stopped at Au Bon Pain and bought an extra large lemonade. We sat down in the restaurant’s chic and air conditioned interior and drank the lemonade which was good paired with lotus-paste-filled spongecake. Stomachs fairly sagging to the ground, we continued. We would fight! We would not stop! The destination was in sight!
Surprisingly, we did make it. I attribute our success to the distractions of an open air market with live music and a couple crazy women along the way. The first woman was elderly. The one word to describe her was “tottery.” She looked like she might topple any moment for her long spindly legs were set on high heels and she was swaying to and fro erratically and alarmingly. With a few swaying steps, she was past us like a dream. Only a whiff of stale perfume and an impression of wealth and white hair was left on the sidewalk where she had walked moments before. The second woman was young. Rather the opposite of the first in every way. A rotten stream of profanity met our ears and we saw her, a filthy young woman dancing around the perimeter of an alley. She was obviously high or drunk or insane or all three. I caught a fragment of her shrill monologue: “You don’t have to dance back to England. Do the moonwalk. . . .” My mom tugged us quickly past her.
There was also a crazy man. Oh, he was a weird one all right. At the entrance to the park, he stood yelling and clutching a bunch of kale. My mom grimaced. Halfway through a health fad, she had eaten oodles of kale in the last couple of months. Now, she didn’t want to glimpse it on her plate anymore. Perhaps she saw in this man her inner health demon – an obnoxious, insistent beggar nagging at the back of her mind every time she took a bite of a sesame ball. Perhaps she simply didn’t want to see him in her mind’s eye every time she ate some kale. Perhaps her stomach would feel upset.
The Boston Public Library is a sight to see. The architecture of the building is just as shocking as that of its counterparts in Europe. Intricate, with mosaics on the ceiling and statues at every corner. We wandered our way to the Children’s Section and sat there for an hour, reading, then wandered out again, ready to get home before rush hour.
Quick walk to the T-station. No snacks. Tired. Boarding the T. Taking the Green Line. Switching to Red Line. Oh, it’s Ben and Dad! Hi! My dad: Do you want some brie? Me: Oooh, sounds wonderful. But no, I’m too full. A smile. T-ing. T-ing. Half empty car awkwardness. Zooming through tunnels. Zombie stares. Arrived at destination. Through turnstiles. Up escalator. Car. Boston traffic and crazy drivers. Home.
Farewell. The day is done and night casts a veil, modestly shading the beauty of the world in velvety black. But Bostonians aren’t so seemly as demureness is sadly out of date. Traffic lights and headlights and lit windows and laughter illuminate what used to be called sleeping-time. But that title is no longer trending. For the city never sleeps.
Put a post on Lizzie day.