June 04, 2007

Of Beans and Buildings

You know what’s nice? When you remember you actually do have friends, they just don’t live anywhere near you, so when you visit one you get emails from two more saying they want to see you when you’re in town. That really just made my year. My friends are sweet people, and it’s unforgivably cheesy, but it was my sweet and hilarious friends who really made my vacation perfect. [So… why do I have so many pictures of food, and none of Adrianna? Hm.]

Lunch with Ian began with me dragging him down the blue line, driven by a need to get to the water. I wanted to walk until the land stopped, and then I wanted to sit. It was a beautiful day, and the ocean’s just sitting there—how can you not take advantage of that? Luckily, Ian was up for wandering, and it’s just as good a place to catch up with friends as any.



This is me looking relaxed, which I sort of am, save for the direct drop into the water at my left (seriously—there’s no rope, which shows an unsettling faith in the public). That’s the bag I was forced to buy when the temperature shot up to seventy million and I had no pockets; this one won out because it was cheap(ish) and accommodated a jacket, cash, wallet, Charlie card, cell, inhaler (sexy), snacks, change of clothes, bag of Smurfs, coat rack, a Sherman tank, seven wayward ducklings and a small ornamental breakfast tray. It rocks.



This isn’t really Ian. This is somebody who looks nothing like Ian, whom I hired to play the part of Ian because Actual Ian was too busy sunning himself in his Dockers and J Crew muslin tee to consent to photography. His stand-in tells me Actual Ian is well, but grumpy. And as everyone knows, the best way to combat grumpiness is with cornbread and baked beans.



These baked beans. These are from the Union Oyster House, and if you haven’t had them, you should rectify that while you’re young. They taste like a smoky, sugary shoe. Like coffee and molasses, brandy with a hint of leather, like mustiness and heritage and dirt and libraries. With sugar. Worth the flight. [This is also a crime scene shot, as here it was that Daniel Webster stole my batteries. I guess even dead orators need to power their otherworldly clickers (or, um, other things that require two AA batteries. Ahem.)]



Because you have to poke around and do something touristy, the Old State House. The site of the Boston Massacre, contested by historians close to me, is (not) just outside the door (un)marked in a cobblestone circle. At least, that’s what they want you to think.

My lunch date with Adrianna included a trip to Lush, something I had never experienced and am ill-equipped to do again, because you need to be a Hilton sister to afford the full line. Which, after they exfoliate your hands with sea salt and moisturize them with eternal youth serum, you will want. Luckily, the Amazonian massage bar was budget-sized, and now it is mine. [I’m kind of a sucker for patchouli—it smells like dirty cotton, renaissance faires and earthy, long-haired sex. In a good way.]



The Hancock building. This is the blue-ribboned Best Vacation Shot; it’s the one where people perk up from the slideshow and go “oooh!”. I took it while walking (yay camera!) from Newberry street, still high on Lush fumes. I think the contact-Lush gave it sparkle (don’t judge if you haven’t been). I met Norah and Chad for dinner, declaring I had ‘new hands’ and ‘smelled like sexy people.’ They humored me.

I tragically have no picture of the delicious fish sandwich I ate that night, but it lives on in legend, if my family’s requests for me to “stop talking about the damn fish sandwich” are anything to go by (however, since said fish sandwich was perfect in every way, I believe it was an ethereal fish sandwich, and wouldn’t have shown up on film anyway). I heartily recommend The Green Dragon, and not just when the line out the Union is around the corner and you’re starving: The Dragon has just as much history, the prices are far more reasonable, and the food alone warrants its own damn star on the map. Seriously. Fish sandwich. Order it with a Guinness and it’s like a mud mask for your soul.

To avoid vacation-post tedium, I’ll end each of them a drink, because I drank every damn night and had fried things every day and I’m not even a little bit sorry.



Sangria! A pitcher for two. Dangerous.
Tomorrow: Oooh, burn!

3 comments:

Ian said...

In a wonderful fit of cosmic karma, that doesn't look nearly as bad as I thought it would. In fact, if I'd gotten a little more warning *cough cough* I dare say it might have been made to look... Good. There, I said it. Shut up.

Sarah Beedoo said...

You do look good, you just look like you're sweltering under your thousand layers. It's a shame we couldn't have gotten a picture together, we and my nose won't fit in the same shot.

Ian said...

Why must you project your temperature-related insecurities onto me? I have plenty of insecurities of my own, thank you very much, and they get very jealous. Perhaps they should talk to your nose and we can all work something out. Like, maybe convince them to take the day off together so we can get a picture or two.