Archive tale: Shipping out to Boston

So last summer, Brownsox invited me to come crash at his mother’s place with him in Boston. I, unemployed at the time, accepted. What followed was an epic journey through both the cultural heart of both Beantown and the clan Brownsox.

Now the week before, I was with my family in Cape Cod. This meant that instead of having to suffer through flight, train, or bus to get to Boston, I could take a ferry over there Friday night. Let me tell you, sitting on the stern deck of a ferry watching the sun set as we motor over to Boston Harbor beats the Chinatown bus’s multiple delays any day (and the Chinatown bus does not have a bar in it).

I arrived at the south harbor about 2 hours before Brownsox was getting into town from NYC (on the before-mentioned-and-insulted bus), so I looked around for a place to grab a bite. Wandering down the harbor, I see a little sign saying “No Name Seafood”, with an arrow pointing down an alley by the dock. Normally, this would sketch me out, but Rockstar, another Boston Native, had recommended it to me, so I counted my blessings and headed down the alley. I gotta say, No Name delivered. For under 50 bucks I got beer, fried scallops and shrimp, fries, and Lobster. The place seems to cut cost by using large picnic tables and paper everything, but screw it, who needs décor with this much cheap good seafood.

My belly full of the sea’s bounty, I decided it was time to head over to the bus station and meet Brownsox. To do this, I needed to use the T. For anyone who has never been to Boston, the T is the local mass transit system, akin to the subway or the L. The T trains however, only have to cars to a train, and sometimes run on the streets, forcing them to obey traffic lights and Boston traffic. It makes the L look like efficiency perfected. Now to get to the bus station, I had to take the Silver line. On the Silver line, instead of a train, it is a bus that runs on electric lines that travels down an underground tunnel. Budget 1950s sci-fi is alive and well in the Boston transit system. Despite its goofiness, it got me where I needed to go, and I met up with Bownsox at the station.

After dropping our stuff off at Mama Brownsox’s lovely Cambridge pad, we decided to hit a local watering hole. It was here that the main cast of characters were introduced. There was Brownsox, who introduced me to his cousin, Mr. Chelsea. Mr. Chelsea is from India, is studying to be a priest, and is taking a coast to coast trip of America visiting family before going back to school. He was a Futbol fan, backing Chelsea (not everyone is perfect), and was a lovely chap. Also in tow was Brownsox’s big brother, Nilus. A word about Nilus; he is clearly a good brother and son, and evidently quite the intellect. Watching him interact with society however, is akin to watching a man try to hammer a nail with the crowbar end of the hammer. He is close right, but it just ain’t working no matter how hard he swings. Nilus lived in Evanston for a couple of months, and he was fired from a job where he, Harvard grad, had to wrap sandwiches, after the first day (Hubris did this job every Saturday on 5 hours of sleep, hung over, for a year). Some men were not meant to leave the ivy covered campus. It is hard to fully explain Nilus, so I will try to point out some Nilus ‘magic moments’ which happened over the weekend.

We headed out to the local grad student bar, the Thirsty Scholar. This place won me over with wood paneling, great tap, and futbol on the telly. We discussed the beginning of the EPL season, and I had a fairly intelligent conversation about religion with Mr. Chelsea. After a couple of beers and shots, we headed back to Casa Brownsox, where we watched the Die Hard music video on Youtube 7 times in a row (worth every minute).

Saturday started much more civilized than expected. Mama Brownsox had gotten us tickets to this hot art exhibit at a local museum (I am sure that both the featured artist and the ‘local’ museum are both very famous, I just don’t remember the names of either). It was actually pretty cool, and it featured the famous painting “Nighthawks” or as I had previously knew it, ‘that really well known painting with the sad people in the diner’. This was followed with some sightseeing in Boston, mostly for the benefit of Mr. Chelsea as I have been to Boston many times. After a nice walk, some lunch in the historic cobblestone-y district, and some tea at the harbor, Mama Brownsox left us to our own devices.

A note on Boston as a city. In the summer, it is as great a city as you can find in America. It has the right mix of new buildings to historic sights, it has tons of stuff to do, better parks than I remember, and sitting by the harbor having a drink outside is just beautiful. This ignores all the many problems of Boston, such as the goofy mass transit, horrible drivers, freeze-you-to-death-and-I-know-cold-I-lived-in-Chicago winters, and of course, Patriot fans. Those factors make living in Boston dubious, but for a summer weekend, it is perfect.

After Mama Brownsox left us, we decided to meet up with an old friend of Brownsox at the Cask and Flagon, over by Fenway. I was impressed with how easily the T could get us within 5 blocks of Fenway Park. Being a Mets fan, I am always shocked when in other cities ballparks are both easy to get to and surrounded by things other than empty lots. The Cask and Flagon, or anyone unfamiliar, is THE Redsox bar, as it is literally across the street from Fenway. It is the closest thing I have seen to Nevada Smiths for Baseball, as far as atmosphere and excitement, all it needs is some singing. It also was one of the biggest bars I have ever been it, and there still was a line to get in. I have to say if you are ever in Boston, it is a must visit. Nilus had a magic moment, where he, the Boston native, stood in this famous sports bar next to one of the most beloved ballparks in this country, holding a beer that I believed had a redsox logo on it, turned to me and said “There sure are a lot of redsox fans here.” That comment does a pretty good job of describing Nilus and his grasp of the world around him.

After a couple of rounds, the need to eat struck us, and we headed out into the night. After more wandering around Boston (we would do that a lot that weekend, partially to soak in the atmosphere, partially because Brownsox and Nilus are not good at making decisions and we had to wander around until they did). We did meet up with another friend of Brownsox, a very lovely lady who was a groupie of Brownsox’s old A Cappella group (I hope reading that hurt you as much as it hurt me to type it). After a while we stumbled on a restaurant called Whiskeys, best described as a Brother Jimmies that didn’t suck, and ate there. Our new female companion quickly impressed me with both her love of Bourbon and his discussion of blowjob etiquette. Nilus had another magic moment when he ordered a vermouth on the rocks, and then turned it back when it was the wrong type of Vermouth. This experience was a frequent occurrence over the weekend. He also enjoyed a vermouth and tonic with a cherry in it, and turned the drink back when it came sans cherry. Nilus is never odder than when he is at a bar.

Full of food and booze, we headed back to Cambridge to drink there. As luck would have it, Arsenal and his girlfriend (now known as C.C.) were in town, attending some family event with C.C.’s mother. We met them up at a Starbucks in Cambridge (I was again shocked with the T’s ability to get us to where we needed to go), and then headed to a bar. The place we headed was a micro-brewery, one I had been at years ago, when the Vanisher and I had visited Brownsox right after we graduated college. I am not sure if my tastes had increased or decreased, or if levels of inebriation played a part, but I found the place less pleasing to the palate than I had three years earlier. We did have a lovely time, the mass of us. Mama C.C. not only bought me a beer, but told me how much she loved a show I produced a couple of years ago. I need to meet more people like her. Arsenal, in a fashion typical of him, bolted early, and we needed to find a new bar.

We wandered around Cambridge for a while, looking for a place still open at Midnight on a Saturday (college town my ass). As we wondered, I witnessed a brutal cockblocking barrage, as Nilus totally attempted to hit on this girl who was with us, despite the fact she had come into town to most likely hook up with Brownsox. Later conference with Brownsox confirmed that he had hooked up with her earlier this summer, and a repeat was all but guaranteed in a better situation. This barrage continued all night, after we found some shady backroom bar where the booths were run down vinyl and the staff seemed pissed we showed up and dared to ask for booze in exchange for currency. I chatted with Mr. Chelsea and some of Brownsox’s old friends, while out of the corner of my eye saw this crime of brother against brother, laughing to myself. Eventually, it was time to go, and the girl in question decided to crash with other friends, not surprising after suffering a two brother attack (if you couldn’t guess, Nilus’s game makes me look like Warren Betty in prime). Brownsox, distraught by the fraternal betrayal he had suffered, went to bed.

The next day, we woke up earlier than desired (9 am), and headed out into the world. Brownsox went to meet some old friends for breakfast, and Mr. Chelsea and I headed back to the Thirsty Scholar for some futbol goodness. I am a huge fan of any bar that will open its doors to me and offer both the Beautiful Game and pre-noon beer, and found this local joint lovely, if a little quiet compared to my normal game day haunt. The bartender was an old Englishman who was thrilled to see our fandom, and went on a rant saying how Cricket is better than Baseball (Mr. Chelsea agreed, I just nodded). We watched the Chelsea-Liverpool game, which ended in a 1-1 draw with little excitement on either side. On our way out, the bartender shook my hand and told me Arsenal would suck for at least the next two years. I look forward to returning to this bar soon and having a laugh (cause we’re the top of the league).

Now came the real point of the weekend, Brownsox and I were heading to a redsox game. We debated drive vs. T, but found we were short on time and drove down. We parked about a mile away from the park (Yay Boston) and walked over. Now I have not been to that many ballparks, but I have been to a few, and Fenway is an experience all itself. Besides being surrounded by sports bars, walking into Fenway is like walking into a walled-up baseball town. The whole building has its own streets with shops and vendors and all sorts of crap. Our first round of beers were usual overpriced ballpark fair, but when we came to round 2, Brownsox demanded better. In our quest, we walked all the way to the other side of the park to find a special bar that served Harp, Bass, and Guiness. Now of course on our way back, we found a similar bar much closer, but that’s not the point. The point is that I was at a ball park drinking Harp instead of Old Style or worse. It was a good game, we had pimped out seats behind third base, but the sox lost to the Angels (I hate the Angels, mostly because if I do not, my roommate will beat me to death with a chair. There is nothing funny about that sentence). After the game, we hit up the Cask and Flagon for another metal encased brew, then headed back to Casa de Brownsox. The car ride and mile long walk to find the car was key in sobering me up for the family Brownsox.

The rest of the evening was spent having cocktails and dinner with Brownsox and his extended family. This included Brownsox’s very cool cousin, his WASP wife, and Brownsox’s grandparents. I drank far too much wine on top of the many beers I had had that day, and ended a fabulous dinner debating with Grandpa Brownsox if Barry Bonds should be allowed in the Hall of Fame. Luckily for me and my drinking problem, Brownsox’s Indian family has a New England sensibility to it, so my buzz went unnoticed by the fun-loving family.

The plan for Monday morning was as follows. Brownsox was going to help Nilus pack up his car, and then drive with him to Michigan State, where Nilus is in grad school. When that was complete, Mama Brownsox was going to drop me off at the train station, and I was going to train back to NYC. Now to say that Brownsox and Nilus were inefficient in their packing and timetable would miss the magic of their foolishness. At one point, I just starting packing the car myself, as the two were bumbling about trying to get out of the house. The entire clan Brownsox watched as their young bucks were barely able to pack a car and leave in a timely matter. But eventually the car got loaded, the boys headed west, and I caught a train heading home.