On day two of our stay-cation, we decided to spend the day in Boston, not as native Massachusettanians (or is it Massachusites) but as honest to God tourists. We know the Pike, so we had a leg up on the buffoons driving the out-of-state cars, especially the New Yorkers. Exit left at Allston/Brighton and shoot up Storrow Drive...done it a hundred times. But admittedly I overshot the exit and almost ended up in the Jewel of the North Shore, Revere (pronounced Ree VEE ahhhh).
A couple of years ago, we took a cruise from Boston to Bermuda, and so did the entire graduating class from Revere High and their big haired, and equally big mouthed maternal chaperones (in your mind, loudly scream "RHONDA, I'M GOING TO THE BAHH FOR A BEE-AH AND CIGGY".) I swear, they should bottle the female Revere accent and sell it as birth control for men. I now understand why so many males from Revere make the trek to Southie every New Years Day to jump into the freezing cold waters of Boston Harbor with the L Street Brownies. Firstly, you get out of town, then you numb your body and brain hoping for hearing loss and permanent male under-enhancement, and lastly you are in Southie where you can get a couple of beers before heading home. If you are lucky, you will contract pneumonia and have to do a couple of nights at Mass General. If you are really lucky, you will take a left out of Sully's Bar and end up at the Irish Riviera for the night, then contract pneumonia and then spend a week at Mass General. And if you hit the mother-of-all jackpots, you take a left out of Sully's, a right onto Mass Ave and end up in Roxbury where you are immediately shot at, and end up on Fox 25 News, then contract pneumonia and post traumatic stress disorder and do a week at Mass General followed by a month at McLean Hospital in Belmont.
But I digress. Our destination yesterday was Quincy Market (pronounced Faneuil Hall) to meet friends and do any and all things touristy that we could muster into an afternoon and early evening. Should we start at the Freedom Trail, or the Trolley Tour? Should we visit the New England Aquarium or the Museum of Science? How about taking a ride down to the JFK Library along the beautiful and aforementioned Irish Riviera, or board Old Ironsides in Charlestown and pretend that have Boston accents (like Ben Afleck pretends he has in all of his box office smash hits)? So many choices.
So many bars. We decided to re-enact the Boston Tea Party, which really was more about a few tanked up Colonists who got their ideas in a local tavern. After all, we wanted to get into the spirit of things, so we headed over the the Union Oyster House to get some "idea lubricant" and a few oysters (which by the way are banned in Revere because they are male aphrodisiacs and produce very bad morning after effects, not to mention the urge to jump into a freezing harbor).
With our thinking caps now properly lubed, we decided to board the Duck tour and visit the harbor (like the Colonists did, not the suffering bastards from Revere). The tour was great, starting with the bus driver/biker chick that drove us from the aquarium over to Charlestown. Giving us the full flavor of a true Bostonian, she made fun of pedestrians along the way, cut off other motorists, complained about her boyfriend, and barked out the window at competing tour bus drivers. It was sort of like The Kardashians meet Orange County Choppers, which when you think about it was enjoyable for both the men and the women on the bus. The non-English speaking foreign tourists on the bus of course did not get all of the nuances of the commentary, but seemed to enjoy waving hello to the other motorists with a single finger, and learning the pleasant Bostonian greeting, "Frucku-jerk."
The actual Duck tour was less colorful, but very educational. John Hancock had 16 children (his wife was not from Revere.) Paul Revere wrapped the oars of his boat with cloth so that he could cross the mouth of the Charles River in silence before he began his famous ride to Lexington and Concord. Or it might have been that Charles Lexington from Revere used cloths to wrap the mouth of his wife instead of beating himself with an oar...I don't remember. But anyway, one if by land, two if by sea and Ben Afleck is the worst actor to come from Massachusetts since Mitt Romney tried to play Governor.
As early evening hit, we took to the streets of the North End in search of a great meal, and we were not disappointed. If you cannot find good food here, then you must be a New Yorker. There are so many choices, so many great aromas, and way too many restaurants to want to go into. We settled in at Trattoria Il Panino and were very glad that we did. The food was authentic Italian, meaning that they did not serve the Americanized Italian food like chicken or eggplant Parm, or antipasto, which to an Irish guy like me is like saying that corned beef and cabbage was not invented in Dublin (I simply will not listen). The food was great, the place was quaint, and the waitress was not from Revere.
We then walked around a bit, visited a couple of local markets to buy some take-home treats, and visited Modern Pastry Shop on Hanover St. which is heaven on earth. It would be impossible to go into this place and not smile...and gain a couple of pounds...but so worth it.
After a quick walk over to, and around Quincy Market (pronounced "tourist trap") we paid what used to be a month's rent in our first apartment to get our car out of the garage, proceeded to get lost on the streets of Boston, bid a pleasant "Frucku-jerk" to a couple of Boston cabbies and headed back to the hills of Central Mass.
Boston is and always will be a Pesky little town, and I will always have been glad to have been there when the news broke that Johnnie Pesky joined Ted Williams for another inning in the sky. I took away from my visit that Boston has produced so many heroes like Franklin, Hancock, Adams, Pesky, Orr, Yastrzemski, and Ben Affleck. But to me Revere will always hold a special place in history. Not only did he warn us that the British were coming, and produced some fine silver bowls but he gave us the name of a place where women can puff their hair as big as the fireworks on the Fourth of July, puff their "ciggies" and drink their "bee-ayh", and forever puff the amorous desire out of the men of the North Shore.
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