So here's kind of a weird story that I wanted to tell about my side trip to Boston.
During my working time in Maine, it turned out that I received an important phone call from a potential customer at Harvard who is moving to Dallas in the next month or so. They have a very complicated application, the kind that it's best to sit down and look you in the eye and talk about instead of trying to interpret things over the phone. If we get the deal, I'm going to be working with these guys for years in their lab--you only get paid once, but you have to face the decisions you make about their equipment for the rest of your time with them...
During the workshop in Maine, I met a guy named Mark, who was a cool guy. Very cool, in fact--I don't think he said 10 words in a row for the first 3 days (the four girls that I was working with started calling him "the mummy"). Then one morning I went down to the beach for a few minutes to get away from all the political BS that was going on at the workshop. The water was just so beautiful and fragrant, there was a cool breeze coming off the water, and I was just hanging out and checking out the scenery and dead ocean stuff on the beach.
It was kind of a cool party trick that I can tell people: I didn't get to touch the ocean until I was in my 20's (which was true although I had been to Boston, Washington DC, and Seattle, for some reason I was always being whisked to one place or another and never got to the water).
I'm not sure if Mark had a different impression of me because he had been around while I was teaching for 14 hours or so the previous day. When you have a roomful of Ph.D's, you have to be in control of the situation, so maybe he thought I was a know-it-all dick or something. The truth is, I was pretty competent at the things I had been teaching, and my portion of it was over at that point, so I was just relaxed about the whole thing.
So on that morning, Mark and I hung out and chatted there on the beach for about half an hour, and, as these things go, found out we have lots in common. He's from Boston and I'm a big Red Sox fan (yes, you sarcastic bastards, even before they won the world series--in fact, when I was cheering for them during the World Series last year, I seriously had to prove this to my friend Chris, a huge Yankees fan, by bringing in my Red Sox t-shirt to prove that it was tattered from years of wear).
When Mark found out I was going to be in Boston, he called in a favor and got us tickets to go to the game together. After my meeting at Harvard, I met him in the lobby of my hotel and we took a cab to Fenway.
I'm from a pretty large city, but Boston blew me away. This is a REAL city with ghettos that you have to go through, people sitting out on the stoops watching you walk by, bums peeing in the vestibules of buildings, and "that smell". The first night there, I went to a sports bar with a buddy of mine to watch the game on the big screen and soak up the atmosphere. I went home feeling like I had smoked half a pack of unfiltered camels and then sucked on the tailpipe of a 73 impala from walking through all of the traffic. The atmosphere of the sports bar was kind of rough, too. We walked in and there were tons of drinkers but absolutely no one behind the bar and no waitresses or anything! We just sat ourselves and it took 3 hours to get drinks, food, and get out of there--we barely dawdled to watch the game at all after we were finished eating. And then there was the drunk guy that came to our table just to hang out--I think he needed a hug or something. The floor of the pub was uneven in areas, and I think this guy would have had a hard time even if it was level, but it was kind of comical to see him sliding sideways around the bar. Overall, people are really different there, and I felt very unsafe just because I'm not used to it. Thinking about it, I could probably find a similar crowd in Dallas if I went looking for it, though.
After posting on my blog that I was going to Fenway, I got some cool Emails and calls from friends, especially from Don, who called while I was waiting for Mark in the hotel lobby. It would have been cool to have other friends coming with me, but maybe some other day. So, by the way, even though he doesn't EVER leave comments, I guess Don does read it...
On the way to the game, the cab zipped through back streets of Boston just inches on either side from unbelievably long rows of parked cars, I guess in blind faith that none of them will suddenly pull out in front of us. I had gone with the doomsday packing plan in case I got mugged or something--I took everything out of my wallet except about a hundred bucks, my driver's license, hotel key, and my credit card, and put those things in my front pocket. Didn't bring my camera because I didn't know what to expect (downloaded the picture of Fenway from the Red Sox website). Mark had completely changed: he was in his element, now, and we were talking about our families and work and the Sox.
When we rounded the corner and saw Fenway, it was breathtaking to me. I mean, I know the park is old, but it just represents baseball to me. Americana--something that truly belongs to MY country. Things I had been contemplating during my time alone driving around in New England, where I somehow felt closer to the heart of America with history that goes far beyond what I sense in my hometown of Dallas. Almost like thinking to myself "This is really America."
The crush of people to get in was amazing as well. We went through the gates and grabbed a couple of hot dogs and a coke--While we were eating, Mark asked me directly "Do people look different to you up here?"
"Yes, they do. I can't put my finger on it, though."
"You know what's the most common race in Boston?"
"What?"
"Irish-Italian." We laughed. I didn't want to hurt his feelings and tell him that I thought girls in the south were a little softer and prettier and perhaps a little more refined (this isn't the same as saying they are meek or not outspoken, because that's not it). Growing up with that, you kind of expect it and get a little shocked when ladies act differently. At this point, I don't know if it's real or just in my mind--it's one of those stereotypes that you pick up on when you travel around.
The next day, I was going to be headed for home after being gone nearly two weeks, and I was really missing my family, especially Fran. We had talked on the phone every day, but the reception was horrible on the island so we had pretty short conversations about the things that were happening. Now, I felt like a person seeing mirages while stumbling through the desert without water: eating a hot dog standing up with a father and son across from me, I remembered talking on the phone with Ryan, and how he was disappointed that I couldn't come home and get him and take him to the Red Sox game with me.
A woman walked by wearing Fran's perfume, and my heart beat a little bit faster and I really would have had to consider trading the game for an immediate trip home. When we sat in our seats, I noticed that the wrists of the girl in front of me and 2 seats over to the left had the exact same wrists as Fran. Poor thing, though--she really needed a nose job. But I remembered the wrists because Fran and I used to play a game before we had kids. I would grab her by the wrists and tell her "When we have kids, this is how I'm going to hold onto them so they can't get away." Then she would wait and try to catch me off guard, yanking her tiny hand away and running away from me laughing.
I didn't mention any of this to Mark. We talked a lot about his recent trip to Italy, where he stayed in a town that was the same as his last name.
Then my attention was distracted yet again. When we were sitting down, a guy and a girl sat to my right. The guy WAS Nate! Nate is my sister Nicole's boyfriend, and he's a very cool guy. He's actually a real scientist, whereas I'm a half-assed science wannabe, and a real fly fisherman, whereas I look like I'm whipping horses with a buggy whip and my roll cast looks like a guy wrapping cotton candy around a stick. He and Nicole sent me the coolest hand-tied flies for Christmas. And, somehow, through some time and space distortion, Nate was sitting 2 seats away from me at Fenway! It was even weirder, because I've only met Nate one time, almost a year ago now, and I have a picture of him with Nicole and he's wearing a ballcap--of course, "fake Nate" was wearing a ballcap, too.
Okay, maybe he wasn't Nate, but he looked EXACTLY like Nate! And he seemed kind of cool and mellow like I remember Nate being, and was wearing a ball cap like I remember Nate wearing. The girl and the guy were kind of into each other, so I didn't strike up a conversation, but they were nice enough. The stadium is 100 years old, and I guess that was before fat-asses like me roamed the earth, so I was squeezed in there pretty snugly against his girlfriend, who, incidentally, did not remind me of Fran at all.
To me, anyway, during the course of a ballgame you kind of get attached to the people that are around you. Unless they are annoying like the chi-chi mamas down the row from me that must have a bladder the size of a thimble and had to get up every inning. So I started joking with Nate and the girl "I guess it's time for our aerobics again" and "let's do the mini-wave" because we kept having to get up because sitting down my knees were impacted against the seat in front of me--I guess 6'2" wasn't too common 100 years ago, either.
So Nate gave me a hard time because I clapped at the wrong time during the game--the other team scored but I was admiring the throw that the outfielder made...anyway, he busts out with "Hey, who's clappin' over there? Don't you see the other team just scored?" and I turned around and smiled sheepishly and he laughed, casually leaning back against the arm of his seat.
So toward the end of the game, one of the old guys behind the couple accidentally spilled beer on the girl. Nate got really pissed off and whirled around and jumped on them pretty badly, saying "Hey man, that's out of line--you've gotten beer all over her seat and in her hair--why don't you be more careful! You've ruined her evening!"
The old guy behind the girl was clearly drunk, and started talking back, slurring "I said 'I'm sorry', what else do you want me to do?" So I started thinking to myself, Anything can happen here--I need to get Nate's back. Seriously, I was closer to the old guy, and for a brief, IQ-drained moment, if he had done something, there is no question that I was going to grab him to back up Nate. I felt my arms tense up and I was on edge.
What????!!!!!!
IT WASN'T REALLY NATE!!!! And I was going to get in a fight with a drunk in Boston over this guy? I wonder if the Boston jail is painted kelly green like the rest of the whole damn city seems to be?
What's wrong with me?
So, the situation kind of calmed down and diffused, and Mark and I got to talking about literature, and he recommended some books to me, a few of which I'm already reading now, and the Red Sox won 10-3 and Manny Ramirez hit a home run in the 6th that landed near us.
Walking out of the park, I decided to tell Mark my idea about southern girls and he actually agreed with me (he had tried to date a girl from Georgia and he told me "I didn't know what to do with her--she was too sweet" so I thought to myself that couldn't help him out there...) so I guess we're still friends. We walked halfway back to the hotel and grabbed a cab, but the cabbie was on drugs or something and we zig-zagged our way back to the hotel and it ended up costing as much as the cab ride door-to-door from the hotel to Fenway, but I didn't complain--I was still buzzing from the experience--it was one I will never forget.
Luckily, for all the right reasons.
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