I'm That Girl

I wear 4-inch heels when there's snow on the ground and the sidewalks are slippery. 

(Image from www.endless.com)

I bring biscotti to happy hour at Tico. And lemon squares to an afternoon at the Aquarium. My friends really aren't surprised anymore when I arrive with dessert.

I stop and stare at the copper panels and arched windows of the Puffers Building on Cambridge Street. Don't mind me. I'm just in love with architecture.

September Days

Sunday:

Hanover Street, North End

Monday:

Boston Public Library, Copley Square

 Tuesday:

Whole Foods, Central Square, Cambridge

Downtown Crossing: The Mingling of Past & Present

"Nature and man have combined to divide Boston into eight distinct and sharply defined districts, each with its own personality, its own flavor, and its own romantic history. Each district has its colorful past, its vivid present, and its promising future." -- George V. Weston, Jr. in Boston Ways (Beacon Press, 1957)

Downtown Crossing is a funny place. It is betwixt and between -- it is neither the Financial District nor Chinatown nor the Common. The jewelry stores and the fine Italianate details of the Filene's building remind us of Downtown Crossing's glory days -- when it was the place to shop and be seen -- but the massive hole in the ground nearby reminds us of its economically depressed reality.

I move down Washington Street and across the invisible boundary between Downtown Crossing and the Financial District. Right in front of the soon-to-close Borders, a dance crew has set up. They energize the crowd ("Showtime! Showtime!") with flips and turns. And they're clever too: "Obama wants change... we want dollars!"

I retrace my steps and I cut over to Tremont Street. At Thinking Cup, I don't hesitate. I haven't had coffee yet today and I want an iced latte. I'm thrilled to see that Thinking Cup brews Stumptown -- it's the first cafe in downtown Boston to carry Stumptown. I know where I'll be buying my beans from now on. The barista looks up, calls out my name, and knocks two shots of espresso into the waiting cup of milk, ice, and foam.

The cafe -- glass topped tables, brown leather banquettes, and black chalkboards -- is a welcome addition to the area, where there are few independent coffee options. Customers are a mix of college students -- all Converse sneakers and spiral notebooks -- and businessmen. There's a hum of chatter and the music goes straight from Thievery Corporation to Ella Fitzgerald. I like it and I want to come back to have the French Hot Chocolate.

I come back the way I came. And there's lots to stop and look at.

At Sabella Couture

On West Street, I stop short when I see the carts and bookshelves of books that have taken over a small parking lot. Totally retro psychology and sociology textbooks, political texts, classics and books of poetry in metal carts, against brick walls and a true blue sky.

I find a 1957 book entitled Boston Ways, a history of this city with black and white photographs.

The book has that old, musty smell and, when I go into Brattle Book Shop to pay the $5 price, the air is thick with the same smell. And, a few pages into the book, there's a photo of Brattle Book Shop in the 50's. I compare: Downtown Crossing then, Downtown Crossing now.

What is its future? 

Boston is Made of Glass, Brick, and Pie

A rule to live by: Saturday afternoon walks should end with dessert.

Boston Cream Pie petit four at Cafe Vanille, Beacon Hill. The pastry cream is flavored with rum -- a Boston Cream Pie all grown up. And I love the perfect dots, though I think I prefer a super chocolate-y Boston Cream Pie....

Water to Water

With MIT at my back, I run over the Longfellow Bridge. I've crossed this bridge countless times on the Red Line train -- As the train rises from underground to a panoramic view of the Charles, I always twist around in my seat for a look. The first time I ran over this bridge was unbelievable and crossing the Charles today is just as good.

In the sunlight of this perfect Friday morning, the river shimmers. To the right, the Statehouse's gold dome, the bricks and the leafy trees of Back Bay, glass skyscrapers, and the CITGO sign, looking not so tall. To the left, the cables of the Zakim Bridge, framed by Science Park and stocky MGH buildings.

God, it's a gorgeous day -- the kind of day Bostonians pray for -- and I'm sharing the bridge with runners and others walking to work. A right on Charles Street, and I'm in Beacon Hill. I'm aware of few things -- the smell of coffee brewing, commuters in shirtsleeves and spring skirts, the uneven sidewalk. My right sneaker strikes the bricks in time with the beat of DMB's American Baby.

A left on Beacon Street, up the hill, past the Statehouse. I cross Tremont Street, sprinting across the street as the light changes. Left on Washington, right on State. The small streets of the Financial District are busy -- black cars and black suits -- and I'm weaving through crowds.  It's a straight shot now to my destination. I pass office buildings, construction sites and cops, Irish bars. The blocks go by quickly and I'm across Atlantic, passing the Aquarium T stop and the Chart House, and then suddenly at the end of Long Wharf. River to harbor, water to water.

The harbor is spectacular and I give it a moment's look, knowing I can't possibly appreciate the view fully. Then I turn to find landmarks laid out in front of me. I pick out the neoclassical Custom House Tower -- I just read Dennis Lehane's Prayers for Rain, so I think right away of the character who jumps off the observation deck, commits suicide, and sets in motion the intrigue of the book.

Is that the Old Grain Exchange off to the left? There was a time when I knew every monument and historically significant building in Boston and could cite the year built, the architect, and the style. I'm an architecture and urban design junkie: I like old maps, floorplans, and photographs of intricate moldings and ironwork. I like the way that Beacon and Commonwealth run parallel to each other, converge and cross at Kenmore Square, and then switch names. I like that the only building Le Corbusier designed in North America is on the Harvard campus and I like the elegant curve of the Sears Crescent block, following the curve of a road that no longer exists, in contrast to the angular and imposing City Hall building. These facts and landmarks frame my consciousness, my understanding of Boston, my sense of distance, place, orientation. And I play a game of Connect-the-Dots: I string together buildings, roads, alleys, and views to make my own mental map and to choose my routes through Boston.

But, enough about architecture. I begin again, picking up my pace quickly. This time, harbor to river.