Rockin Beantown

Being booked for the 6 a.m. flight to Boston was beyond my control. So was the fact that I hadn't made it to bed until 2 a.m. the night prior. As was the additional fact that I slept through my alarm for the first half an hour that it went off. It's not my fault that I lack that biological trigger that propels one swiftly from sleep mode into wake mode; my transition into the land of waking is an excruciatingly gradual process, which the snooze button was actually designed to accommodate. I know people who bound out of bed in the morning, click their heels and do a little jig, then burst into song as they are greeted by bluebirds at their window with the sunlight pouring in. I am not one of those people - in fact, I very much try not to loathe those people. My room, aka "The Cave", gets no natural light, which means I could quite possibly sleep straight through the day without even realizing that daylight had come and gone. I do not sing or dance or smile first thing in the morning. For the first hour or so that I am awake, you're lucky if I will look you in the eye or say anything to you at all, and even then, you're likely to get little more than an unintelligible grumble of sorts.

Imagine then, if you will, my state of being this one early morning after something like three hours of sleep when I arrived sans coffee at the airport at such an ungodly hour that even the birds were like, "Seriously?" My roommate had insisted that we needn't be to the airport more than an hour in advance of take-off, and because his theory worked so well in my favor as it allowed me to oversleep that much longer, I went along with it, despite some lingering reservations I had. I may be chronically late for some things, but flights have never been on that list, right up there with movies at the cinema. I will go early and sit through the thousands of previews just to ensure that I get the seat I want. Likewise, I will generally arrive early to the airport just to avoid the quiet panic that sets in when being told I'm too late to check my bags, and I have to take the next flight, which is two hours from now and packed full, so basically, I'm fucked.

"Um, no, I have to get on this flight."

"The flight is boarding as we speak, and you can't check your bag."

If there's one way to wake me up that does not involve a caffeinated beverage or a gun, it's telling me I'm about to miss my flight to my first work conference ever. I went into instant 'go' mode and in the middle of the airport, I threw open my bags, shoving this and that here and there, emptying all liquids with which I could build a bomb, and at one point, sitting on my suitcase in order to get the damn thing to zip closed. I managed to consolidate my three bags into two, and miraculously breezed through security, which is slightly unnerving because I later discovered all the gels and liquids and sharp objects still left in my bag with which I could have caused all sorts of mayhem but had gone undetected on the security screens.

I was literally running down the concourse to the gate in my knee-high boots that are in fact not made for walking, let alone running, and I got to be that person who is last onto the plane after everyone is all settled in and already contemplating their drink orders. All eyes up front to the jackass who's delaying our departure.

I located my seat (conveniently at the back of the plane), and as the plane was taxiing onto the runaway, I had a private laugh with myself, in a mix of utter disbelief and relief that I had actually made it onto my plane, bags and all.

For most of the four days I spent in Boston, the city consisted of little more than the Hyatt Regency hotel, where the conference was being held. I was obligated to flash smiles and pleasantries for a multitude of new people, most of whom I had little to nothing in common with, beyond the fact that we happened to be sharing the same breathing space. The days consisted of business talk and formalities, while the evening consisted of booze, booze and more booze. The conference attendees in general were spouses and parents who clearly didn't get out much, at least not since their Sigma Chi or Kappa Kappa Delta days, so they were letting it all hang loose as this was more or less a vacation for them. Our firm, being arguably the youngest and hippest of them all, despite our affiliation with retirement planning, kept up the fast pace and made our presence well known, particularly on the night scene. For two and a half days this went on, and I essentially went along in a sleep-deprived daze, juggling my professional mask with the party one, and managing to sneak away to my room now and then to do some work and catch a few minutes of sleep.



One night, while riding in a cab sandwiched between two guys whose names I couldn't remember, I declared that it was my goal of the trip to have a Boston boy "talk Boston" to me. Talk Boston? they asked. Yeah, like when Casey Affleck says in Good Will Hunting, "My boy's wicked smaht."

One of the guys proceeded to disagree with me that it was actually Ben Affleck who said that line, and a full-fledged debate ensued, which carried on for the rest of the night and surely annoyed everyone around us. My opponent, who was very clearly wrong, foolishly bet me $50. He then managed to rope in someone else who was even more foolish and declared that she would bet her house that it was Ben.

Here are the results, my friends (wait 'til the end):



Indeed, I rest my case. I never got my $50 or the house, though. Bitches.


Andy and I managed to make some cool friends from the conference though, and that last night in Beantown we ditched the hicks from the Red states who were looking for a face-to-the-pavement kind of evening, and went off on our own to hit every variety of bar imaginable for a true sample of Boston nightlife. We wined and dined in Little Italy, rubbed shoulders with the blue blazer boys at Liberty Hotel while they were on dates with Buffy and Cricket, visited the frat boys over at Whiskey's and crunched some bared sandal toes with the spikes of our high heels, then stalked Andy's doorman at Whiskey Pete's - who was ultimately straight and quite content with his girlfriend, which meant all of us were simply S.O.L., so we just danced the night away instead.

The last day in Boston, after the tedium of the conference had come to a close and everyone scattered like ants, a few of us went on somewhat of a speed tour of the city, devoting some time to traumatizing the Christian Scientists and dancing in public fountains.



Before Boston and I were able to get very well acquainted, however, it was off to the airport (an hour and a half early, this time).

As it usually goes for me, my trip home couldn't simply be normal, and my flight was overbooked by 60 people (still not quite sure how that happens), so I got bumped to a later flight. I gave my most pitiful, doe-eyed expression to the lady behind the counter, and said, "I need to be spoiled. Can you tell?" She happened to agree and set me up with a first class ticket and a voucher for a free flight. Victory!

I sat under a solitary light in the darkness of first class, while everyone around me slept, and I read my book and sipped my English tea, feeling rather content with things. I never did find the Boston boy to talk Boston to me, but I'll be back.