Back from another rock and roll-oriented trip to Boston. This was the third trip in less than a month. Monday night, I saw Teenage Fanclub, one of a handful of mid-90s post-punk bands still making meaningful music.
Live Teenage Fanclub (Paradise Rock Club/Boston)
The show was at the Paradise, near BU. I looked for something relatively affordable and ended up at a Residence Inn by Marriott, not much further away than a strong Dwight Evans’ right field howitzer to the plate from historic Fenway Park. My seventh floor room offered views of one of MLB’s oldest and revered diamonds, as well as the iconic Citgo sign. It was a mile walk to see the show and I could hop on the Green Line back, afterwards.
Too early for baseball
On my way to North Station to catch a train for home, I stopped at one of my five favorite places in the city—Boston Public Library. Libraries like this one are holdovers from the days when wealthy people made investments in public infrastructure that benefited all citizens, and wanted their government to do the same. What is being added for future generations by the current greedy bastards in power?
From my hotel, the walk there was slightly more than a mile. I’ve been battling left knee tightness, but I think my city-walking therapy the past few days seemed to be help. The route was also one Mary, Mark, and I made countless times during the early 1990s when the three of us would drive down from Maine and park off Boylston, across from the Sheraton. We also stayed at that property many times during a long weekend when we availed ourselves of other non-baseball options during an extended Boston stay.
Boylston Street passes The Fens, part of the city’s Emerald Necklace, another example of equitable public build-out benefiting all citizens. Birds were chirping, and the approach of spring had allowed many of the park’s pathways to be free of snow.
Back Bay Fens (along Boylston St.)
Since I got on the train in Brunswick late Monday morning, I didn’t have a single conversation, other than with people facilitating my travel—hotel staff, train conductors, club staff, and the workers at by Chloe where I had lunch after checking-in. On my return trip, it was the same. This was something new for me. I didn’t go out of my way to engage with strangers, either.
It’s quite likely I passed thousands of other humans, earbuds wedged into eardrums, texting on smartphones, or simply fixated on where they are headed. Boston is certainly an urban environment, and geography affects people’s interactions. So does our embrace of evermore technology.
Walking around Boston, it was impossible not to pass many landmarks I’ve walked by with Mark. His spirit is everywhere in the city.
Grief inflicts many things on the grieving. While your life never returns to the previous equilibrium, you learn that for the people around you, their lives do.
As much as I’d like to be able to have more interaction with humans (or perhaps I really don’t want this at all), people move on and often, move away. Then, you are left with memories, solitude, and you have to figure out what all of this means to you in that place where you are forced to reside, forever.
Sometimes it feels like what I imagine a ghost feels.