There is no better comparison than to say I was like an accordion.
Stretched to my limits.
And still trying to belch out cheerful sounds.
I think I was fairly successful on that last bit despite the prior two burdensome grievances. And damned if I was going to put any damp, dark marker on my one weekend in Boston—my three days with Chloe. A mother/daughter weekend extraordinaire like none I’ve ever had.
I thought it would be 72 hours of us fixing up her new tiny flat—a space Harry Potter would have called a snug fit when compared to his hovel beneath the stairs. And I also thought we’d be shopping for groceries. I was pretty determined to make sure she had all the necessities since her miniscule weekly shopping budget seemed just about right as long as she had the appetite of a two-pound gerbil.
But my visit turned out to be time spent doing neither of these.
Chloe had planned for every minute available to us—and, as it turned out, many more that weren’t. She’d booked activities requiring the precise timing that would have made a Swiss watchmaker glow with pride. But I think we’re all pretty familiar with the old adage If you want to make God laugh, plan a picnic.
Now just apply this to public transportation timetables and you’ll have just revealed the fat glitch in her ‘planned down to the second’ schedule of events. I can still hear the echo from the cackling deities.
The first thing she said upon meeting me at the airport, and snapping the first of a million selfies to catalogue our time together, was that she hoped I’d clocked a few extra hours in my sleep bank, as nightly rest was not something she’d taken into consideration before writing out the agenda—a roster of events I was guessing would be taped up on her bedroom wall in the form of several pie chart diagrams, bar graphs and schematic flowcharts.
My response to this was to ask her where the nearest wine store was in relation to her apartment, as I was likely going to want to purchase a bottle to help get me through the breakdown of the activities lecture surely awaiting me once we arrived at her flat.
She then told me that Boston was expecting an uncharacteristically intense heat wave for the next three days, that her room was on the top floor of a five floor building, and that air conditioning was for wusses—or that they just didn’t have any. It could have been either. I couldn’t hear over the roar of the subway station we’d entered.
My next response was to amend my prior request for one bottle of wine. Yelling out that I’d likely need a heftier supply of vino to soften the weekend’s unexpected challenges was probably not a great idea as I had no clue how far a voice could carry in the cavernous tunnel of a tube station—especially after that roaring train instantly disappeared.
We did, however, find ourselves with a little more elbow room after that so I suppose it wasn’t a total loss.
She wasn’t kidding about the heat. Nor the size of her room. So, as a consolation prize, she informed me that she shares a bathroom with about six other girls, although after using it I updated her description of “girls” to mean two Yetis, a Sasquatch, the band members from ZZ Top and the showering rights of Chewbacca.
Hair is really important to college women.
Losing it, not so much.
Reclaiming it, not at all.
So instead of doing a rundown of every activity we managed to squeeze in, I will give you the highlights I thought most important to share:
Boston has a lot of public libraries. Some of them have books you can check out. Unless you’re hoping to take them back to Virginia.
Or into the women’s bathroom for an extended, relaxing read.
There is a bucketload of beautiful churches in this city. Almost all of them are locked. Especially when you need to use the bathroom. Even if you’re not sneaking a “keepsake” from the Boston public library beneath your sundress.
Museums are no longer free. Unless you’re a college student.
I can no longer pass for a college student.
Museums are not terribly wine friendly.
The subway is filled with people. But oftentimes surprisingly bereft of trains.
The subway has no issues with beverages of any description.
People who go to the Improv are usually people who auditioned for the Improv but were rejected by the Improv.
I can still run three miles in flip flops. Especially when told that the world as we know it will end if we don’t make it to a reservation we were supposed to have shown up for thirty minutes earlier. And “TWO WEEKS’ WORTH OF SOMEONE’S PITIFUL HOURLY WAGES WILL GO OWN THE DRAIN FOR NOTHING, MOTHER!”
Wine is essential after running three miles in flip flops fueled by nothing more than guilt.
The Farmer’s Market in Boston was filled with booths belonging to painters, sculptors and photographers.
And one farmer who sold goat yogurt.
Goat yogurt tastes surprisingly good with wine.
Boston’s Freedom Trail is a 2 ½ mile long path that highlights the patriots’ determined fight for liberation from the British.
It must have been a path littered with booby traps as it is filled with scores of cemeteries along the route. Haley Joel Osmond could never survive in Boston.
Apparently, folks are generally discouraged from taking selfies with the tombstone of Paul Revere whilst making a duckface.
If you’re going to be visiting the dead all day long, the only way to rouse yourself from the incredibly somber mood you’re falling into is to agree to make duckfaces whilst snapping selfies.
Making duckfaces while snapping selfies as you stand behind national monuments is so much easier if you’ve first had some wine.
I’m fairly sure Boston has placed a moratorium on air conditioning.
I’m incredibly grateful that the patriots chose to toss the crates that held all the tea and not the barrels that held all of the wine.
So, all in all, my trip to Boston was chock a block full of a bazillion activities where we made some serious memories. Although I may have to review each of our pictures in order to remember them all.
Or any of them. *hic*
PS. Next week. It’s Chloe’s version of the very same 72 hours.
Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all talked about down in the pub. Plus, you can see more of Robin Gott‘s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone.