Boston, MA

Friday noon, Harvard Square, wicked smaht kids in North Face are late to class, Becca and I are late to breakfast. Can't seem to find a place serving. I finally find Finagle A Bagel, but the place has moved, downsized, and really fallen off since last time I was here. We settle for lunch at Cafe Crema and discuss the day ahead. 

Duck Tour, gotta do a duck tour. Freedom walk, Faneuil Hall, Newbury Street. Definitely. We leave lunch excited, but the pouring rain causes us to reconsider all of the above. And so we hurry into the Harvard Bookstore and read. Pachelbel is playing. Very academic, us two. 

We get in the Equinox (two parking tickets) and I now regret my complaints about New York. Driving Boston exponentially worse; exits aren't marked, streets don't have names (or have two), traffic is unrelenting. After a few near-collisions and illegal u-turns, we arrive at the Hotel Marlowe and check in.  A fire's cracking, and Alex behind the counter hooks it up with an upgrade, a view, and reservations at Bacco. The day's looking up.

I run a little five-on-five at the Sports Club/LA on Boylston (upset about my Suns, the rain, the traffic, my nagging cold... I have a chip on my shoulder, and am playing a little rougher than my competition, it's cathartic). 

We clean up and head to the North End, an area that is either well-preservered or poorly-renovated, depending on your mood. Designed to resemble a bowl of spaghetti from above, the streets are cobbled and curvy and wide enough for two bikes, just.  It looks, feels, smells like old Italy, and every corner is occupied by a Giavanni's or Giacomo's or a Cafe d'Italia. Very authentic, albeit a little hard to navigate (don't even attempt to park). We do pasta dinner at Bacco, which I would describe as robust, and go to a bar to watch the Celtics game. They lose. They're not supposed to lose. The bar patrons file out, cursing Doc Rivers, Joe Johnson, Eli Manning. 

Saturday brunch at Sonsie on Newbury, then we go searching for a good table to do some internetting. Not easy to find, you'd think there were 100+ universities in this town (wiki'd that, there are). We find a two-top, at a Starbucks regrettably, and get some work done. I book some flights, pay some bills, arrange accommodations in San Francisco, and then walk Newbury Street from top to Common. 

Taylor and Corey meet us at Fenway. The place is classic, and by that I mean the seats are unbearably hard, there's a pole obstructing my view, and there's one bathroom. But the crowd is great, totally in it.  In the 5th inning, a 'Yankee's Suck' chant breaks out. In the 6th, the wave. The Sox get a hit, so we do it again, and again, and it works everytime. At least seven times this happens, it's remarkable. The Sox thump the Devil Rays, it's not even fair, and all is well in Bean Town. 

Just don't mention Eli.