For a change, when I refer to the city I mean Boston and not Paris.
I was reminded recently of why I love living in this vibrant international city. The occasion was a 30 minute walk to my dentist's offices near Faneuil Hall .
Leaving the house around 9:30 in the morning, I crossed the inbound side of Commonwealth Avenue to enjoy the shaded mall for the four long blocks from Exeter Street to the Public Garden. It was a late Spring day - sunny and warm.
Although, at its conception, the Commonwealth Mall was intended to be strictly a green space free of structures, at least one bronze structure now adorns each block. These statues are as much a part of the Mall as the beautiful trees. Approaching Dartmouth Street, I passed a larger than life William Lloyd Garrison, prominent abolitionist and supporter of women's suffrage. His family was not pleased with the likeness, but he was looking pretty good to me.
The Mall is a regular part of daily life for many locals. I passed an older man sitting on a bench reading a newspaper in the shade. Periodically he checked on the sleeping infant in the stroller beside him. Surely there is an interesting story to be told about those two.
Further along, a dark-haired terrier was being walked by a dapper white-haired man wearing a dark suit, highly polished shoes and a folded handkerchief tucked neatly into his breast pocket.
A handsome man in a stetson, leather jacket and cowboy boots sat smoking a cigarette on another bench, He nodded and smiled as I walked by, "Nice camera," he said. I gave him a big smile in return. "I want to take your picture," I thought, knowing that a quick snap wouldn't suffice and wishing that I had left more time before my appointment. A jogger in shorts and a tee-shirt ran towards me. He smiled in response to my lingering smile and said hi as he passed.
Entering the Public Garden any time of year is like walking into a beautiful oasis. This day I found the tulips almost gone, soon to be replaced by annuals that will last until the frost. The weeping willows brushed the water in the lagoon. In the distance a helicopter hovered, its blades making a racket at odds with the calm ambiance of the garden.
The Public Garden is popular with tourists, but it was still too early in the day for it to be crowded with out-of-towners. As I approached the gate that would take me across Charles Street to the Boston Common, however, the crowds increased and I began to hear the music of many languages. On my walk that morning I heard conversations in British and Australian English, Chinese, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, various East European languages, Japanese, French and others I could not identify.
This is a picture of Charles Street taken looking towards the Charles River. The Public Garden and the Back Bay are on the left; the Common and downtown are on the right.
I was struck, as I always am, by how different the Boston Common feels from the Public Garden. It is more sprawling, less idyllic, dirtier, more urban. It is hilly, full of old trees, squirrels, pigeons, hustle and bustle. People emerge from the underground parking garage, kids play ball, groups of people exercise their dogs and chat with each other, a regular in a wheelchair invites passers-by to help him fly his kite. The benches along the various paths hold locals in animated conversation, tired tourists, mothers with strollers by their sides, lovers, readers, people watchers. The paths are dotted with carts selling lemonade, hot dogs and souvenir tee shirts. Street musicians of diverse talents perform, sometimes drowning each other out. An occasional pan handler solicits donations.
On this day I saw something I had never seen before: a narrow, little truck that reminded me of the sidewalk cleaning machines in Paris. It was chugging along the edge of the main path through the Common making lots of noise and spewing a gritty dust that was carried in my direction by the breeze. The truck didn't seem to be accomplishing anything other than producing a noxious exhaust. Ugh. I gave it a wide birth, noting as I did that signs on the vehicle proudly proclaimed it to be a Green Machine. Intrigued, I took a moment to figure out what it going on. Ah ha. It was chewing up little leaves and dirt that has gathered along the edge of the path. The results were being ejected high into the air, covering the adjoining dirt and grass with mulch and nearby pedestrians with grit.
A little further along I came upon three Heritage Trail guides in colonial dress
waiting to do their thing. Later, near the same spot, I heard a woman guide warning a group of Junior High kids that she was going to be their worst nightmare. Looking charming in her colonial dress and cap, she announced sternly that she wasn't going to tell jokes or silly stories. She was going to tell them how it really was in the old days. Then, just to be sure she had their attention, she revealed that she was a former middle school history teacher. The kids looked mildly alarmed. I laughed out loud.
Once out of the Common, I walked through the downtown crossing pedestrian area. It looks more rundown each time I see it, which is more than a little depressing. The area, which includes part of what used to be called not so euphimistically, the Combat Zone, is an urban experiment that hasn't quite paid off. Or perhaps it is just a victim of our current economy. I hope it experiences a revival soon.
Most days I bypass the area and walk along Tremont Street beside the Park Church Burial Ground where Benjamin Franklin's parents and Charles' ancestors, Abiah Floger and Josiah Franklin, are buried. But this day, for some reason - perhaps because it had been my route to work for years - I took Winter Street to Washington Street instead.
As I approached the Old South Meeting House on the corner of Milk and Washington Streets, things picked up. An open air vegetable and fruit market brightened the scene, reminding me of Paris where fresh produce markets can be found in every neighborhood.
An hour later, I was strolling through the Faneuil Hall on the way home. The area is colorful and, at midday, it was bustling with activity.
From there I passed the huge, concrete monstrosity that is Boston City Hall. There is talk of tearing it down and building a new, more environmentally friendly seat of city government, but there are other voices that feel that this example of brutalist architecture should be preserved.
(Don't you love the term "brutalist" to describe the huge, concrete, sterile structures built in the latter half of the 20th century?)
Anxious to get back to the Boston Common I walked briskly past office buildings whose varying architectural styles provide a stolid but nonetheless revealing history of the city.
Entering the Common across from the state house, I walked downhill over green lawn, past sunbathers, to the main path that would take me back to Charles Street and the Public Garden.
The Garden, still calming to enter, was busier now. There were more tourists. The Swan Boats were open for business. Passengers of all ages sat back and enjoyed the ride in stately boats that moved slowly through the water powered by pedaling young men or women. Those kids work hard, but they must have one of the most coveted summer jobs in the city.
Exiting the Public Garden I had only four leisurely, long blocks t
o home.
The huge shade trees provided protection from the midday sun. People sat on the benches eating takeout lunches purchased on nearby Newbury, Boylston or Charles streets.
Folks walked their dogs. People snoozed on the lawns. A woman stopped to take a picture of the bronze statue of Revolutionary War hero, General John Glover, between Berkley and Clarendon Streets.
All in all, it was a very satisfactory outing. The pleasures of this round trip walk no matter what the season almost make me look forward to visits to the dentist. Almost, but not quite.
