USA - Boston, Massachusetts
There was a point when I wasn’t sure whether we’d make it in one piece. Around about the time that the British Airways stewardess angrily told a frankly reprehensible young gentleman to sit down amidst a fearsome bout of mid-Atlantic turbulence, and following on from a rather perfunctory message from the Captain, I came to the conclusion that only Dean’s Rubik’s Cube (and watching him complete it in an impressive two minutes and twenty-four seconds) could stop me from a full melt-down into aerophobia. Fortunately for all concerned, not least my fellow passengers aboard the flight to Boston from London, the bouncing around at 36,000 feet abated, and the rest of the journey was concluded without noteworthy incident.
This, then, is the beginning of the adventure: four weeks schlepping my ridiculously large suitcase around from city to city, state to state, in the USA. My good friend Dean (he of Rubik’s Cube and manageable-sized suitcase fame) will be with me for the duration; other Habs Boys now exiled in the Colonies are slated to make guest appearances throughout, as we move from Boston to New York, Ann Arbor to Chicago, Nashville to Dallas. Planes, trains and automobiles will be the order of the month, alongside a video diary, a battered but appropriately travel-weary guitar and Dean’s hair-straighteners.
Jet-lagged and slightly disorientated, we arrived at Boston Logan Airport in somewhat of a cloud. Literally, in fact. Clouds, clouds, everywhere clouds. The weather upon landing was frankly atrocious: dense fog and mist with torrential rain. Hardly what you would hope for when leaving London in the early winter, but we were assured that the next day would be brighter. The rest of Wednesday was as you would expect after a long flight. We mooched around, we sipped coffee, we found Dean a jacket (a necessity given this trip includes Michigan and Illinois in November), we managed to eat less than a quarter of the world’s largest (and obscene) salad in the Cheesecake Factory, and we went to bed. In separate beds.
Thursday, refreshed, showered, contact-lensed to the max and excited for some cultural and historical musings, we began the heralded Boston Freedom Trail: a remarkable stretch of red bricks that lead through Boston’s busy streets from Downtown to Bunker Hill, taking in the many important sites and landmarks in the city’s, and indeed America’s history. It is no wonder people describe Boston as the ‘Cradle of the Revolution’. It was here that British soldiers fired on restless colonists, angry at being taxed without having representation in Parliament. It was here that John Adams (eventually America’s second President) riled against King George’s politics and legal system. It was here, that angry residents marched down to the harbour and decided to throw 342 crates of tea into the Atlantic. As a result, Americans place great emphasis on the heritage of Boston and have preserved the sites of this revolutionary spirit, the landmarks of liberty, in an impressive way, merging them against the skyscrapers as if to point out that the later progress of these United States was borne out of the struggles of the people of Boston in the first place. E pluribus unum (out of many, one) may well be the Latin motto of the United States, but it is perhaps fair to argue that in the case of Boston, and all it represents, it could read: ‘Out of one, many.’
Dean and I saw the Massachusetts Old State House, the King Charles Burial Ground, Faneuil Hall, Bunker Hill and Charlestown Navy Yard, and each stop enforced the impression that Boston punches above its weight in terms of its significance in proportion to its size. You can walk around the city easily in a day, and literally breathe in the historical relevance. In many ways, the study of American history and society is a little easier than other areas, for two reasons. Firstly, there is not as much history here as, say, the UK. Second, and more importantly I feel, America wears its cultural identity so obviously, so profoundly on its sleeve, that you can watch the symbiosis between the ideals of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, and the modern-day commercial attitude and innovation, almost take place in front of your eyes.
Later, our natural British cynicism returned when we visited Cambridge, home of Harvard University. Perhaps unfairly expecting something along the lines of our Cambridge back home, Dean and I felt America’s most famous academic institution lacked a suitable ‘wow’ factor, although this may be attributed to the many tourists and few students we encountered. It was nice, but that was really it. The Science Block resembled the University of Nottingham Coates Building (hardly a heady feat), and they seemed very reluctant to offer an eatery of any kind. Do Harvard students not like food? Are they too busy working? Alas, we shall never know. All I can say is that there are more food options available at Chicken Joe’s in the Nottingham University Portland Building than there were in the entirety of Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Dusk fell quickly on that Thursday, as if reminding us that this was not the height of summer, but in fact the rapid onset of winter in this part of the world. A clear day gave way to a frosty night, though it was pleasing to catch the twinkling lights inside Boston skyscrapers for the first time, given the mist the night before. Boston is, being a harbour city on the Atlantic, famous for its seafood, in particular Clam Chowder, a sort-of fish pie/soup, where clams and potatoes are warmed gently in a creamy sauce. Trying it out in the Legal Seafoods restaurant in the Prudential Centre, we were both pleasantly surprised. There’s a market for that in England, I’m sure. Less good was the frankly vile Ommegang beer, brewed apparently in Belgium, but only popular really in America. How anybody could enjoy it is beyond me. Just a few moments after drinking a few sips, I was so taken aback that I promptly lost my voice. That is not even a joke. I literally lost my voice. I was back on the Corona in a sports bar near to Northeastern University after dinner, where we met up with two of Dean’s Spanish friends from Madrid who are now studying in Boston. Though still tired and jet-lagged, this is the sort of student-friendly pub that America is famous for, and we both hope to visit more during the next few weeks. The less said about the game of pool, from my point of view anyway, the better.
Now, switching back to the present for a moment, I sit and type this on an Amtrak Train service to New York. I’m reminded of that line in The Great Gatsby, where Nick talks about his commute into the City, telling us that “I began to love New York, that racy, adventurous feel of it at night.” Small town USA is just around the corner, but for now we have a weekend in the Big Apple, which will include watching the North London Derby at an ungodly hour in the morning New York time, and sampling Halloween USA style, which I fear may be a little too full-on for my taste. Still, there is something exciting about heading for one of the world’s great conurbations. Emma Lazarus had it correct in her poem now adorning the Statue of Liberty. New York does indeed take the “tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Hopefully it can also find room for two travellers from London, England, yearning to breathe fun and frolics in the city that never sleeps (apart from when it is a little tired and has to get up early).
Until next time!
This, then, is the beginning of the adventure: four weeks schlepping my ridiculously large suitcase around from city to city, state to state, in the USA. My good friend Dean (he of Rubik’s Cube and manageable-sized suitcase fame) will be with me for the duration; other Habs Boys now exiled in the Colonies are slated to make guest appearances throughout, as we move from Boston to New York, Ann Arbor to Chicago, Nashville to Dallas. Planes, trains and automobiles will be the order of the month, alongside a video diary, a battered but appropriately travel-weary guitar and Dean’s hair-straighteners.
Jet-lagged and slightly disorientated, we arrived at Boston Logan Airport in somewhat of a cloud. Literally, in fact. Clouds, clouds, everywhere clouds. The weather upon landing was frankly atrocious: dense fog and mist with torrential rain. Hardly what you would hope for when leaving London in the early winter, but we were assured that the next day would be brighter. The rest of Wednesday was as you would expect after a long flight. We mooched around, we sipped coffee, we found Dean a jacket (a necessity given this trip includes Michigan and Illinois in November), we managed to eat less than a quarter of the world’s largest (and obscene) salad in the Cheesecake Factory, and we went to bed. In separate beds.
Thursday, refreshed, showered, contact-lensed to the max and excited for some cultural and historical musings, we began the heralded Boston Freedom Trail: a remarkable stretch of red bricks that lead through Boston’s busy streets from Downtown to Bunker Hill, taking in the many important sites and landmarks in the city’s, and indeed America’s history. It is no wonder people describe Boston as the ‘Cradle of the Revolution’. It was here that British soldiers fired on restless colonists, angry at being taxed without having representation in Parliament. It was here that John Adams (eventually America’s second President) riled against King George’s politics and legal system. It was here, that angry residents marched down to the harbour and decided to throw 342 crates of tea into the Atlantic. As a result, Americans place great emphasis on the heritage of Boston and have preserved the sites of this revolutionary spirit, the landmarks of liberty, in an impressive way, merging them against the skyscrapers as if to point out that the later progress of these United States was borne out of the struggles of the people of Boston in the first place. E pluribus unum (out of many, one) may well be the Latin motto of the United States, but it is perhaps fair to argue that in the case of Boston, and all it represents, it could read: ‘Out of one, many.’
Dean and I saw the Massachusetts Old State House, the King Charles Burial Ground, Faneuil Hall, Bunker Hill and Charlestown Navy Yard, and each stop enforced the impression that Boston punches above its weight in terms of its significance in proportion to its size. You can walk around the city easily in a day, and literally breathe in the historical relevance. In many ways, the study of American history and society is a little easier than other areas, for two reasons. Firstly, there is not as much history here as, say, the UK. Second, and more importantly I feel, America wears its cultural identity so obviously, so profoundly on its sleeve, that you can watch the symbiosis between the ideals of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, and the modern-day commercial attitude and innovation, almost take place in front of your eyes.
Later, our natural British cynicism returned when we visited Cambridge, home of Harvard University. Perhaps unfairly expecting something along the lines of our Cambridge back home, Dean and I felt America’s most famous academic institution lacked a suitable ‘wow’ factor, although this may be attributed to the many tourists and few students we encountered. It was nice, but that was really it. The Science Block resembled the University of Nottingham Coates Building (hardly a heady feat), and they seemed very reluctant to offer an eatery of any kind. Do Harvard students not like food? Are they too busy working? Alas, we shall never know. All I can say is that there are more food options available at Chicken Joe’s in the Nottingham University Portland Building than there were in the entirety of Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Dusk fell quickly on that Thursday, as if reminding us that this was not the height of summer, but in fact the rapid onset of winter in this part of the world. A clear day gave way to a frosty night, though it was pleasing to catch the twinkling lights inside Boston skyscrapers for the first time, given the mist the night before. Boston is, being a harbour city on the Atlantic, famous for its seafood, in particular Clam Chowder, a sort-of fish pie/soup, where clams and potatoes are warmed gently in a creamy sauce. Trying it out in the Legal Seafoods restaurant in the Prudential Centre, we were both pleasantly surprised. There’s a market for that in England, I’m sure. Less good was the frankly vile Ommegang beer, brewed apparently in Belgium, but only popular really in America. How anybody could enjoy it is beyond me. Just a few moments after drinking a few sips, I was so taken aback that I promptly lost my voice. That is not even a joke. I literally lost my voice. I was back on the Corona in a sports bar near to Northeastern University after dinner, where we met up with two of Dean’s Spanish friends from Madrid who are now studying in Boston. Though still tired and jet-lagged, this is the sort of student-friendly pub that America is famous for, and we both hope to visit more during the next few weeks. The less said about the game of pool, from my point of view anyway, the better.
Now, switching back to the present for a moment, I sit and type this on an Amtrak Train service to New York. I’m reminded of that line in The Great Gatsby, where Nick talks about his commute into the City, telling us that “I began to love New York, that racy, adventurous feel of it at night.” Small town USA is just around the corner, but for now we have a weekend in the Big Apple, which will include watching the North London Derby at an ungodly hour in the morning New York time, and sampling Halloween USA style, which I fear may be a little too full-on for my taste. Still, there is something exciting about heading for one of the world’s great conurbations. Emma Lazarus had it correct in her poem now adorning the Statue of Liberty. New York does indeed take the “tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Hopefully it can also find room for two travellers from London, England, yearning to breathe fun and frolics in the city that never sleeps (apart from when it is a little tired and has to get up early).
Until next time!
