[continued from previous entry]
Boston. October sunlight shining through autumn clouds. Ongoing highway construction everywhere. Heavy traffic.
Arriving from the north, the interstate is flanked by old neighborhoods, big-box superstores, expanses of old warehouses and industrial buildings. Big sloppy displays of graffiti cover warehouse walls, the side of one building crowded with repeated tags of the word NOSE. All that gave way to the grounds of the appropriately bunker-like Bunker Hill Community College, the boundary line marked by four beautiful college tennis courts -- clean, fenced securely in, empty and still. Beyond the college, a hill rose gently to its apex, the sharply phallic thrust of the Bunker Hill Monument reaching upward from there (not, despite its name, located on Bunker Hill, but on Breed's Hill, where most of the battle took place -- go figure). The slopes of the hill lay covered by old three-decker apartment buildings, packed up against one another so tightly it's amazing the residents can breathe.
Pulling into South Station, we passed another bus, oversized Chinese characters painted in gaudy style on the back along with the words FUNG WAH BUS. I'm looking at this, Cadet Butterfingers next to me wakes up, spots it, exclaims, "Fung Wah!" I could only nod.
The subway -- crowded with an impressive mix of physical and ethnic types -- delivered me to Cambridge. A neighbor of my hosts/friends supplied the key to their flat where I found that the heat had been set to bake and the radiators continued cranking it out, to the point that I had to flee back out into the mild afternoon for some relief. Made the hike to a decent Mexican cafeteria-style joint. The 20-something Mexican guy behind the counter seemed to get thrown by every single question I asked, didn't matter if I spoke English or Spanish, each of us becoming more and more tentative as communications went less and less smoothly. Finally scored a decent plate of food, ate it in leisurely fashion, pondering the days of travel that lay ahead.
Back at the flat, I discovered one of my friends had a lovely heavy-duty laser pointer which I immediately put to use entertaining/annoying the two resident cats. I have no idea if they actually thought the point of light was alive or if they did the willing-suspension-of-disbelief bit -- didn't matter, they chased the bugger everywhere I pointed it.
Cambridge, MassachusettsFriends came home from work, we packed the car, headed down to the Cape, eating Chinese food as we went, traffic thinning as we traveled south. I took the wheel about halfway along, my friends almost immediately conked out, the car quieting apart from the occasional soft intake of breath from one of the sleepers. I managed to ignore eyelids that grew progressively heavier, the rest of the traffic evaporated as the car found its way further out on the Cape. By the time we pulled into Provincetown, the road was empty, the local world dark and quiet.
Next morning, woke up to television noise. S., a confirmed member of Red Sox Nation, had the box on, eyes glued to coverage of the big post-world-series tribute/victory parade. All other programming had been pre-empted, giving way to many hours of commentators blathering, ball players waving at big, happy crowds, confetti spewing from cannons as amphibious Boston Duck Tour vehicles threaded their way through jammed city streets, plunging finally into the Charles River Basin for the last leg of the lovefest, fans lining riverbanks and bridges. One hyper-stimulated celebrant hurled a baseball that whanged off Pedro Martinez' forehead, leaving him with a slight headache and prompting yet another pre-election terrorist alert by the White House.
It's a strange, interesting place, Provincetown -- out at the end of a long, narrow spit of land, water on three sides. The air feels soft, sea gulls glide overhead, the sound of breaking waves, of distant fog horns comes and goes. Tourists, arty types, gays and hetero folk mix in generally relaxed manner. Restaurants rub elbows with art galleries, shops selling tourist dross, the occasional more normal store (drugstore, grocery shops). And plenty of activity, plenty of life in the street, most people visibly enjoying it.
And it has a reputation as a party town, where when the occasion calls for it people act out with few inhibitions. Meaning Halloween weekend there = entertainment.
Saturday night: walked into town looking for a place to dine. A trickier process than you might think, as most joints of any quality either require reservations or are heaving with customers during peak hours. Walked through the village, one place after another full, until we found one with a promising menu and a wait of only a few minutes. On entering, every table I could see was entirely occupied by either men or women -- no mixed groups. Something I'd never experienced before, anywhere. A group of 12 males waited for a table, most working on martinis as they stood around, all of them in drag -- three worthy of note: one guy done up as a woman from India, sari and all; one in an off-the-shoulder outfit that didn't look like much until you studied it more closely and saw that it was completely covered by rows of flip-flops-- dress, handbag, earrings, you name it; the third was the most convincing of the bunch, looking like a confident, slimmer, more attractive, effective version of Divine, with a balcony you could do Shakespeare from. Don't know how he managed that last bit -- he wore an off-the-shoulder number, like flip-flop guy, yet showed serious cleavage.
We wound up seated next to those twelve males, their conversation not only high in entertainment value but providing answers to questions I'd never pondered before. (Q: The best place to pick up drag clothing? A: Dress Barn.)
But enough about phony cleavage and shopping at Dress Barn.
People had taken to the street while we were inside, when we stepped out into the cold air crowds lined both sides of the street to get a load of some serious costumed revelry. All sorts of outfits were on display, some simple and understated, others wildly elaborate. Did not bring my camera, and I regretted it.
Sunday: beautiful, almost summery. Returned to Cambridge that evening, where I discovered that the my jacket zipper had lost its zip, the little part having disappeared without a trace, leaving me with no way to, er, zip up. Wasn't in the car, wasn't in the flat. May have been back in P-town, three hours away, there's no way of knowing. All of which meant the next day's pre-flight hours would be less leisurely than expected, me running around trying to find either a place that could fix it or a decent replacement jacket. No luck finding repair help. Found a nifty green suede jacket I convinced myself might work for me over the coming winter months ($10 at Oona's Experienced Clothing in Harvard Square, the source of my current beloved, now zipless leather jacket), came to my senses after leaving the store. Left it draped over a chair at my friends' place, have as yet sent them no explanation re: its mysterious appearance in their living space.
[continued in next entry]
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 1:13 PM [+]
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