My Boston Monday

view from the room

We got a late start to our day in Boston. The hoards of fans had already amassed outside our Fenway Park-gazing window. Before coffee touched our lips, the stadium’s bleachers appeared half full. A man stood on the sidewalk hawking last-minute tickets, the only thing separating us from him, the Buckminster Hotel’s century-old glass windows. His cries were irritating as we tried to sleep in, but later, post-caffeine, they sounded endearing. Even my Yankees fans colleagues-turned-travel-partners felt excited.

As we left our hotel the electric air on Commonwealth Ave. smacked us in the face. The street had been closed and empty the night before in preparation for the city’s 117th Marathon, but today, the sidewalks were packed and bustling. The joyous atmosphere was palpable. Despite the unseasonably crisp air, this was shaping up to be the picture perfect Boston day.

As if by impeccable luck or happy coincidence, the minute after we walked out of our hotel, towards the T (the city’s metro), the race’s frontrunners whooshed past us. First, a photographer-laden truck rolled by, the crowd roaring; then the long-limbed ladies leading the pack zipped ahead. The spectators went wild, and so did we. We later found out we’d seen Kenyan Rita Jeptoo, the winner of the women’s race. At that time she had it clinched; a sign told us we were at the 1 Mile To Go mark. We lingered briefly in awe on the sidewalk, gazing upon the sweaty athletes as they momentarily rushed by us.





We descended into the subway headed against the stream of people emerging out of the Kenmore stop. We were seemingly headed in the wrong direction, but we had only one day to see Boston, and little time to spend cheering on the runners from the sidelines.

After a quick trip, we emerged from the green line at Park St, one stop north of Boylston. Unable to find the information booth we sought, we asked a couple cops where we could find it. They happily pointed us in the right direction. Because of the marathon, the city’s police officers patrolled the streets in full-force, scattered through the city and hard to miss, they all donned neon green vests.

A man dressed as a period puritan greeted us at the information booth, advising that a guided tour of the Freedom Trail began in an hour, but we scooped up our own map, set on exploring the trail on our own, and at our own pace.

At high noon the air remained chilly, the wind pierced through my North Face, but the sun reflected beautifully on the state’s gold-crowned Capitol Building, the first stop on the self-guided tour. We followed the 2.5 mile red path that snakes through the city’s streets and sidewalks, made either of red bricks or paint, marking 16 of the United States’ oldest and most historical sites. We marveled at The Boston Common, the nation’s first park, a perfectly manicured green lawn, once the site of duels, riots and many public hangings. We checked out King’s Chapel, laughed at one of the country’s oldest bookstores, now a Chipotle, and explored Faneuil Hall. We walked through the city’s Holocaust Memorial, a reminder of the evil of humanity, but also a lesson in resilience. We stood on the very stones on which the Boston Massacre occurred, not knowing, just two hours later another Boston massacre would take place just seven city blocks away.



Massachusetts State House


We built up quite the appetite after seeing the 11th site, so we headed to the town’s North End for a late lunch. Neptune Oyster on Salem St. was an easy decision, highly recommended by both The New York Times, and some friends. New England oysters and champagne launched our meal, followed by warm, buttery yet crunchy, lobster rolls. I indulged in and enjoyed every slurp, sip and bite. It was a perfect lunch, in the perfect warm and cozy Cape Cod-style bistro. Just as we finished scooping up the last of our crispy fries, my colleague called our attention to a small television screen above the restaurant’s bar. The screen’s graphic read “Explosion at Boston Marathon Finish Line.” “Wow,” we thought. We’d just stood in that very place last night, when we first arrived in Boston. But the longer we watched, the more it became clear to us, the patrons surrounding us, and the people presenting the news, that this wasn’t just an accidental explosion. We quickly realized we were in the midst of a terrorist attack. Suddenly those oysters and champagne didn’t sit so well.



Neptune Oyster


We had a decision to make: do we carry on the Freedom Trail, or resort back to our hotel? The only problem with retreating was that the site of the explosions lay halfway between where we were currently, and the Buckminster. We’d have to cross through that very area to return, and we figured the T would be closed for security purposes, at least temporarily. I supported sticking to our original plan. Taking cues from the many Israelis I know, I thought if we recoiled, they’d win. We still don’t know who “they” are, but that’s what terrorists, in any form, want. They want to disrupt our lives by instilling a paralyzing fear. My travel partners agreed, and we forged on, treading the red path. The irony of the trail’s name was not lost on us.

Our next stop wasn’t a historical site, but it might as well have been. Mike’s Pastry is a North End institution, home to the city’s most beloved cannoli. We scarfed down our crispy cream-filled desserts on the sidewalk.

By the time we reached Paul Revere’s house, text messages inundated my phone. Without prompt I sent a preemptive “I’m OK” text to my parents, who hadn’t yet heard the news. I tried to call, but cell service in the city had been cut-off, a preventative measure by law enforcement to stop any potential remotely detonated bombs. As I read about Revere’s many achievements, my colleague scanned the news on his phone. Law enforcement said to steer clear of any trash bins in the city, potential hiding places for bombs. We all quickly realized we’d been huddled around a garbage can. We immediately scrambled down the cobblestone street.

Next we explored the Old North Church, the legendary home of the “one if by land, two if by sea” lanterns. We hopped over the Charlestown Bridge to check out the USS Constitution, the world’s oldest commissioned warship. Of course, we couldn’t go on it. Security around historical sites, especially of military significance, had been amped up, and the tours of the boat, temporarily halted. Finally, we walked up to the Bunker Hill Monument, the site of the illustrious Battle of Bunker Hill, one of the American Revolution’s bloodiest. Its towering symbol of American patriotism reminded me of the Washington Monument.


USS Constitution

We strolled through the neighborhood’s beautiful stick style homes, and made our way back into the city. After picking up our rental car, we took a drive to Cambridge to explore Harvard. My phone finally had cell service, but my loved ones knew I was safe, since texts still beamed back and forth. The Harvard campus buzzed, but a sense of eeriness lingered in the air. We bought some collegiate gear, and headed back to Boston to pick up our bags at the Buckminster.

The city’s streets, at least those that remained open, were empty. Aside from ubiquitous police, it seemed most people heeded warnings to stay inside. After all, two more bombs were found, but dismantled by authorities. We navigated our way to the hotel, but Commonwealth Ave. remained closed. Now abandoned, and littered with the marathoners empty cups, signs, and trash, the air felt empty. Fenway Park sat bare in the distance. The once pulsing avenue lay still. Only the faint sounds of now omnipresent sirens rang in the distance. We gathered our belongings in silence and packed the car.



empty streets


We still had something to do in Boston, however. It was late, and our uneasy stomachs grumbled once again. In an elaborate plan to circumvent the closed streets, we guided our way back to the North End for dinner. The 87-year-old Regina’s Pizza at the corner of Thacher and Margin swarmed with customers, but we were quickly seated. As I bit in to a steaming hot slice, I gazed up at a TV on the wall. Almost two hundred injured. 10 amputations. Three dead.

As I grabbed my second slice, I drained out the sound of the news resonating from the walls, and focused instead on the beautifully vibrant chatter that surrounded me, remembering the roar of the crowd earlier, and the shivers those cheers sent down my spine.