I’m not a very good airplane passenger. I tend to get…well, nervous is a nice way to put it.
Twitchier than a crackhead is another.
But I’m proud to write that I made it to Boston with little to no flop-sweat on my brow.
My conference doesn’t really begin until tomorrow, so today I just spent the afternoon wandering around downtown Boston. Actually, I spent most of my time in Boston Public Garden and Boston Common. I drank a three dollar cup of lemonade (more watered down than the margaritas at Fiesta), gawked at an old Asian man with a kite who obviously had never flown a kite in his entire life (I waited around hoping he would kamikaze the kite into the head of a jogger but after a few near-misses I moved on), and round about my second lap of the Frog Pond I came to a realization: traveling alone sucks.
I miss my Lele. It’s no fun making fun of people if no one is here to laugh at my wittiness.
Anyways, I took a pretty cool picture of some local art. Check it out:
Whenever I travel, I always make it a point to peruse the artistic stylings of the locals.
I have to admit, this hotel is far too swanky for my tastes. I started to go wandering at dusk, but when I got to the steps of the hotel I looked up and noticed the weather was threatening rain. As I stood there wondering whether or not to chance it, the concierge appeared from nowhere and insisted I take his umbrella. I politely declined, and then I told him I had a pullover in my room and I’d rather go back and get it. So I acted like I was going back upstairs, but instead I snuck out the back and decided to check out the Irish Pub.
Now, I don’t know about you, but when I hear the term “Irish Pub,” some very specific images spring up in my mind. I expect to see some drunk, pasty dudes ready to fist-fight at the drop of a hat. I expect the beer to be warm and the bar food to be greasy as hell. I expect to hear House of Pain’s “Top O’ The Mornin’ To Ya” on the jukebox. What I don’t expect to see is dudes with popped collars, some lame-ass instrumental shit on the PA, nine dollar draft beer, flat-screen TVs adorning every wall, and fucking “Blackened Angus Burger” on the menu (half pound of black angus beef blackened with grilled onions & melted cashel blue cheese).
I’m pretty sure that real Bostonians and real Boston culture exists somewhere in this city, but I’m not sure it exists in this location. To put my experience thus far in perspective, I feel like a tourist in San Antonio who has only visited Taco Cabana restaurants and watched “Sabado Gigante” on the hotel TV.
I got so depressed that I resorted to ordering room service. When the waitress brought my food in she asked if I would like her to pour my coke out of the bottle and into my glass. I thought the woman was joking.
More to come…