Boston
When I stepped out of the T (Boston’s version
of a metro) and onto the streets surrounding Copley Square, I tried to locate
the direction in which I should march toward my hotel. In doing this, I spotted
some kind of memorial to the left and walked toward it, as if drawn. It
reminded me immediately of the post-9/11 scene—hand-written notes, personal
tokens of affection, photos, flags, crosses, candles. The only difference is that
the finish line at Copley Square has a fence partially enclosing the
space, and this fence is draped with running shoes and marathon bibs.
Thursday morning, I awoke, grabbed a quick
breakfast and tea, and then walked directly across the street from my hotel to
the Westin, where the ALA is hosting its 22nd annual Conference on
American Literature. My panel, “Aesthetics and Sentiment, Early and Late” ran
from 10:30 to noon. I presented first and managed to finish just under my
20-minute mark. The two other presenters on my panel wrote papers that
intersected with my own and with one another’s, a circumstance that easily lent
itself to dynamic conversation. I received some helpful feedback, and one
participant suggested that I incorporate another of Bishop’s poems, “In the
Waiting Room,” which will be a pertinent addition to this chapter of what will
become my dissertation.
From there, I listened to a panel on
Melville, followed by two others on Emily Dickinson (both of which sessions included in the audience Paula Bennett, author of Emily Dickinson, Woman Poet…pretty incredible). I then indulged in
a bowl of clam chowder and glass of Malbec, letting my brain process for a bit.
After some grading, I ventured out to a wine
bar in Brookline called Barcelona where my dear friend Jason is the General
Manager. Jason and I met while I was working for RA. He was my GM in Corona,
and then we worked together again when we both transferred to RA’s Tustin
location. Barcelona is gorgeous. After a short ride on the T, I stepped off the
train and walked less than a block to Barcelona, the exterior of which is decorated
with reclaimed wood and iron, giving it an industrial feel, but not cold in the
way it might sound, but instead, warm, candle-lit, inviting. On the walls were
black and white photos of couples kissing… well, at least these were the prints
I noticed. The wine and food was incredible, and much of it is imported from
Italy and Spain. The place further endeared itself to me when I heard a song
I’ve never heard before: Wyclef Jean’s “Maybe.” I also ate and fell in love
with a vegetable I’ve never had before—fiddlehead ferns. From there, Jason, his
girlfriend, Shira, Shira’s best friend, Anna, and I all headed over to a local bar
called The Abbey, which also had great décor and impeccable service. In fact, less
than two seconds passed from the time a glass emptied to the time our attentive
bartender offered the drinkless member a refill.
The next morning, Friday, started again with
tea and breakfast, and I then wandered over to Boston Common to start on the
Freedom Trail. Though it was raining, and though it took me nearly all morning
and part of the afternoon to complete the 2.5-mile trail, the sites brought
with them some of the most valuable learning experiences of my life. Seeing the
oldest parts of our nation—the bricks, the stories, the purpose—instilled in me
a renewed sense of patriotism and pride. Suffice it so say that it was
incredibly moving. And I am grateful that I recently read Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography, as well as some
“hell-fire and brimstone” sermons from Cotton and Increase Mather. Helps put it
all into perspective.
From the trail’s end at the Bunker Hill
Monument in Charlestown (which showed some of the most beautiful housing I’ve
ever seen, including brick homes with black shudders), I wandered over to
Cambridge to see the campus of Harvard, where I was ecstatic to see some rowers
on the Charles River. It seemed to be the quintessence of Harvard… at least
from my very limited knowledge. Walking back from Harvard, I came upon The
Raven, a used bookstore on JFK Street, where I happily bought Robert Lowell’s Selected Poems for the bargain price of
$7.50. Per the recommendation of Jason’s head chef, I visited Upstairs on the
Square, a strangley decorated restaurant that hosts a tea hour on Saturdays. I
sat at the bar for a glass of wine (the tender poured me a Pinot Noir, which
happened to be Talbott, my favorite wine of all time). The light fixtures in
this restaurant are stunning and eccentric. I have never seen anything like
them. Just go to their website; see the colors, the chandeliers, the booths. It
was sort of like being in Alice’s Wonderland, meaning, a place I never wanted
to leave. See for yourself:
Once back at my hotel, I changed outfits and
ventured out again, this time in the pouring, relentless rain, to an art
exhibit called “Above the Standard” in Waterfront, per the recommendation of
Clark Hahne. The artist, Ari Hauben, was sadly not there, but I did have the
pleasure of getting a personal hour-long tour with the exhibit-space owners,
and this was easily one of the best hours of my life. Will, one of Ari’s
friends from college at RIT, explained Hauben’s techniques in such fascinating
detail that my appreciation for art and the process of making it doubled. My
favorites are “Stop Staring at My Tusks” and “Buckminster Fuller.” Certainly
worth checking out the website:
http://www.arihauben.com/above-the-standard/
From there, and again, per the recommendation
of Mr. Hahne (a recommendation confirmed by Jason’s chef), I went to Drink,
the swanky bar that lives up to its name. There are no tables in this place.
Instead, there are three sections that appear to be bars. Much like Benihana’s
seating arrangement, Drink creates sections that make up ¾ of a square for
seating, centering the bartenders. Actually, they are more like mixologists
of the highest caliber. I, the lone diner, soared past the others in line for
the 30-minute wait, took my single seat at the middle bar, and perused the short
but alienating menu (I didn’t recognize over half of the items listed). As my
mixologist approached, I said, “I like vodka and Saint Germaine.” He nodded, got
to work in his lab, and poured for me a drink so appetizing that I nearly
downed it in one gulp. I ordered the house-made, pan-fried sausage and the
artisanal cheese board for dinner. When the time approached for a refill, meaning in five
minutes, I switched over to wine to compliment my dinner. I had
the choice between a red wine and a sherry. Since I’ve never had sherry, and
since I wanted to be able to walk out of the place, I selected the wine. But I
wrote down the name of the sherry: Lustau Almacenista. It is certainly a
sipping beverage, to say the least. Though higher in alcohol content, you can’t put
them down as fast as wine. Seems like an even trade. My mixologist kept me
quite entertained during my meal. Watching him maneuver around his product was
fascinating. I saw the authentic way to make an Old Fashion and Gin Fizz, and I
saw a few other extraordinary cocktails come into being. He ended our time together by making
me one last drink, a Southside, which was gin, mint, sugar and fresh-squeezed
lemon. It was delicious. And I typically do not enjoy gin. But it was
delicious.
On my ride back to Copley, I thought about the day I had just had and how memorable and wonderful it had been. Even though it is tough to
navigate a new city alone, and even though it takes much more courage than I
knew I had to sit alone at a restaurant on a Friday night for dinner, this trip
challenged me in a good way. I always enjoy solitude because of the struggle
and thus growth that it brings, but Boston seems like the appropriate city in which to forge such a battle. I remembered
things about myself that I forgot. I learned that I actually like gin, at least
when served properly.
On Saturday, my last full day, I devoted
myself to the conference. The line-up was beyond enticing, so I’ll recap the
best two. The first session was on Elizabeth Bishop, my favorite poet other
than Keats, and the second was entitled “Robert Lowell as Friend and Guide:
Bishop, Plath, Rich, Sexton” (four of my favorite female poets, needless to
say). Thomas Travisano, a leading Bishop scholar whose work I have included
much of my own writing on Bishop and who published the complete correspondence
of Lowell and Bishop, was in the audience at the first panel and then presented
at the second, along with Kathleen Spivack, poet, scholar, and writer of her
experiences with poets such as Lowell, Plath, Sexton, Rich, and Kunitz. Very
inspiring to be in the presence of these giants. Here's a sketch of Lowell and Bishop:
After that, I set out for my last dinner in
Boston. Once again, I took the advice of Mr. Hahne (and a recommendation again
confirmed by Jason’s chef) and went to The Butcher Shop, which was the perfect
way to prepare me for my transition to Paris. It is set up like a local butcher
shop, where you can buy meat other such accoutrements.
At the Butcher Shop, I met another lone diner
and a couple. They advised that I try the Oak Bar in Copley Place. When I
arrived and waited for service, the wine display had me in awe. I saw bottles
of Frog’s Leap Cabernet Sauvignon of Stag’s Leap Cabernet Sauvignon. For
context, I am brining two collections of poems with me to Europe: Lowell and
Sharon Olds’ latest collection called Stag’s Leap, named after said winery.
Everything intersects.
Boston certainly won me over. The cold, the rain, the solitude, the history… it all created for me a moment in my life that no amount of schooling could teach. The time alone was bountiful. Though painful at times, I enjoyed each minute in this city.
Boston certainly won me over. The cold, the rain, the solitude, the history… it all created for me a moment in my life that no amount of schooling could teach. The time alone was bountiful. Though painful at times, I enjoyed each minute in this city.
