Being a Grown-up -- Boston, MA

I'm starting this post from the corner chair of room 540 at the Omni Parker Hotel. For how luxurious the hotel as a whole is, the room is pretty basic. Two beds, too many pillows, a mirror, a TV, a chair and a desk. And the walls. Are paper thin. So thin that my coworker and I got security called on us last night for our unruly behavior of... ummm... talking.

"There has been a complaint," the security guard said stiffly. "This is your first official warning."

"Uh. Okay. Thanks," I flashed an irritated smile and shut the door. "What the heck?"

Danielle complained about the silly incident this morning before I walked her to State Street Station to take the metro to the airport. The woman at the desk listened to our story, smiled sympathetically and gave us vouchers for coffee (this hotel has also done away with continental breakfast).

"If we can't even talk and laugh in our own room," I vented to Danielle, "then I think there's something wrong with the hotel. I mean, I have no problem with them asking us to talk more quietly -- but they could have said something like, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but we've received a complaint about the noise. Maybe you could tone it down a little? Just because the walls are so thin." I would have responded to that so much better than, "This is your first official warning." Jesus."

We walked out the revolving door and headed down School Street towards the metro stop. After asking three different people how to get to the metro station, two different people how to buy the ticket and Danielle's card declining three times, a very kind fellow just let my her use his pass for the trip.

Other than the incredibly brusque security guards, Bostonians appear to be super friendly and helpful. 

I hurried back to the hotel, feeling absolutely chilled to the bone. It's 21 degrees right now. With humidity. And a 12 mph breeze. Next week, the weather warms up to 67 degrees, but today, tomorrow and Saturday?

Blistering highs of 35, 35 and 39.

Note to self. Don't visit Boston in early March. Ever. 

My host can't meet me until 5:00 this afternoon, and check-out is at 12:00, so I'll need to find a way to keep myself warm for the five hour interim. Any other time of year, a five hour gap between housing wouldn't be an issue at all. It would be an opportunity to have some alone time wandering about a beautiful new city.

But 21 degrees, humidity and breezes do not make this vagabond feel like wandering. They make this vagabond feel like curling up into a tiny ball in a giant mess of blankets and pillows. With perpetually warm hot chocolate close at hand.

Our first day of training was spent learning about how to implement voluntary services and understanding the effects of historical trauma. Although the information was interesting and useful, I was able to realize one of the reasons I could never work at a desk job.

Sitting.

For eight hours.

Is a horrible, terrible thing.

We were given an hour and a half lunch break, so Danielle and I stretched our legs and hurried down to Quincy Market in search of something to eat.

However, as I'm gluten-free and Danielle is deathly allergic to dairy, even the vast Quincy Market couldn't provide something that satisfied both of us. Danielle apologized for being "picky" as we searched for other options.

"Um. No. You're not being picky. You want something filling that won't send you to the hospital. That's normal." 

We finally settled into the dungeon-like Hub Pub, where Danielle ate steak and I ate some manner of seafood goodness. Boston is full of seafood goodness. Seafood goodness in the form of Nantucket stew, clam chowder, crab cakes, lobster, and fish of many sizes, colors and flavors. 

Also, donuts. Based solely upon my observations over the past three days, I am thoroughly convinced that Bostonians survive off of seafood, Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks, sandwiches and falafel. They need nothing else to survive and live a happy, fulfilled, Bostonian life.  

We reluctantly returned to those loathsome chairs for another three hours of training. I believe my favorite part of the conference was just sharing a space with hundreds of other men and women who have similar struggles. Sharing stories of things that worked and things that didn't. Feeling very much less alone. 

After the very beneficial three hours of learning about historical trauma whilst trying to remain still, to suppress yawns (tired yawns, not bored yawns), and remain focused (and mostly failing miserably at all three), Danielle and I were freed for the day. We spent a few minutes figuring out where to eat, settled on a place called 75 Chestnut, and then stuffed hands into pockets and ventured out into the icy afternoon. 

The Boston Commons park has an ice skating rink.  I can't imagine how magical this would be with snow on the ground. 

the State House

Old, brick sidewalks. One of the interesting aspects of Boston is seeing how the old is juxtaposed with the new. Skyscrapers getting cosy with old clock towers. Cobbled sidewalks next to asphalt streets. Old brick buildings with a fluorescent "Chipotle" sign in the window. 

 Danielle and I found our restaurant with no trouble. 75 Chestnut was located on... 75 Chestnut. The menu was so incredible that I did the irksome thing Boy sometimes does and asked the waiter to surprise me with one of the two impossibly delicious looking dishes. But he wouldn't let me. He made me choose.

"He didn't  play along," I moaned to Danielle after he'd retreated into the kitchen with our orders. "They always play with Troy."

But even though I was bitter at having been forced to choose, I was not unhappy with the choice. 

Danielle's steak. Girl likes her protein. 

Nantucket stew. Is not gross. It has shrimp, scallops, salmon, swordfish, halibut and sea bass. Half the ocean was in this bowl. Which I, incidentally, was unable to finish. 

I'd hoped to stroll about the city for a bit longer, but Danielle was cold and tired, so we walked back to the hotel. Where I worked on a blog and she read until we turned out the lights and went to bed, exhausted from a long day of suppressing yawns and trying not to fidget. 

We slept until 11:45. When the fire alarm sounded and everyone in the massive hotel was asked to meet in the lobby as the fire department investigated the reason the alarm had been activated. It was, of course, a false alarm. But it was a false alarm that totally ruined the rest of the night for both of us. It's hard to drift back to sleep when your senses have been abused for the last twenty minutes with violent ringing and a woman's voice saying on repeat, "May I have your attention... May I have your attention, please. The fire department has investigated the -- " 

The next day's training was over trauma and secondary trauma. I learned a lot, but again, my favorite part was just feeling connected to the other people in the room. The most powerful moment was when we all had to write down three ways secondary trauma manifested itself in our lives.

My three.

#1 -- There are days I can't stop crying.
#2 -- An overwhelming sense of hopelessness
#3 -- Anxiety -- inability to sleep.

Then we were asked to mill about the crowded room. We'd give someone our card and read theirs. Then move on. Exchange cards. Then move on. Exchange cards. Then move on.

I saw all three of mine on other cards. Everyone nodded. Everyone understood. It was like handing total strangers a list of my weaknesses and having them tell me, "It's okay. These are my weaknesses too."

The Museum of Fine Art is free on Wednesdays after four o'clock, so I boarded the metro after we were released from our training at four thirty. I asked Danielle if she'd like to tag along, but she was feeling a bit ill (probably from her mighty suppression of yawns and fidgets), so decided to stay in the hotel room.

I'm not big into pots, and the Museum of Fine Art boasts a lot of pots. Pots and Egyptian statues and African masks. None of which pique my interest. However, their selection of Picasso did, my interest, pique.

The selection of American art was superb. And I really just can't get over how much Jack Black looks like Paul Revere.

As I'd been able to spend so little time walking through Boston, I decided to forgo the metro and stroll back to the Omni Parker House.

It was bitter cold.

But there's absolutely no way I could live with myself if I'd spent two full days in Boston without a single stroll. 

My body was goose pimpled for hours afterwards. My fingers were stiff. I tried to buy some Lebanese food, but couldn't hold onto the pen to sign my name.

Boston's cold goes deep...

Unless you're a fan of the cold, don't visit Boston in early March. Or go ahead and visit Boston, but bring wool socks, long underwear, multiple jackets, hats, gloves, scarves, face masks -- all the things.