August 2005 Archives

Hope and I showed up Friday night at New England's largest Italian Religious Festival - the Feast of St. Anthony in the North End (Little Italy). We didn't know what we were in for.

The six blocks were speckled with pasta, tripe, eggplant, and cannoli stands, bustling with loud-mouthed Italians and tantalizing scents and colorful trinkets and stuffed animals. Some of it was junky, some worthwhile. We found a daiquiri stand, selling four flavors in your cup of choice for $10 with free refills (imitation rum, of course). Hope got a tall wooden cup engraved with some kind of animal. The vendors handed us complimentary beads later on. A little farther down the street, some folks had started gathering around a small building that you entered via purple curtain. A West Side Story-type punk sat on top of the building with some of his similar friends, jeering at his buddies down on the street. We asked a couple Italian ladies, Carmela and Norma, to tell us what was happening, and they explained that the statue of St. Anthony would soon appear and be marched down to the chapel. The crowd grew quickly, excited, chatty, anticipating the main event. Sure enough, the distant sounds of tuba and snare drum came closer - the North End marching band had arrived, hailing the replica of one of the Catholic Church's most beloved saints.

The statue came out, adorned with dollar bills and buttons. The boys on the roof threw down bucketfuls of confetti. Italian crooner Aaron Caruso sang a rousing version of the Star-Spangled Banner. Fireworks erupted at the other end of the street. All of this happened simultaneously. I didn't know what it all meant, but I was caught up in the thrill anyway. I skipped the public prayer to St. Anthony, however. Some things I can't justify biblically.

As the city grew darker, the partying grew more lighthearted. Caruso, in his bright red shirt and black rock star pants, joined a diva from L.A. in several cheesy choruses on center stage. We danced. Every once in a while we'd hear and see the marching band, weaving their way through the streets and up into buildings. We drank more daiquiris - strawberry, banana, blue hawaiian - and ate minestrone and fish at a local restaurant. We were happy, confetti in our hair and all.

I love the way Italians look - seasoned and hard and wiry.

Something about an old graveyard makes death more immediate. Yesterday I discovered that the Granary Burial Ground is near my office. It resembles something you'd see in a Tim Burton film. Through the fence I could see the shoddy tombstones of Samuel Adams and five victims of the Boston Massacre, including Crispus Attucks. Paul Revere, John Hancock, and some other notables are buried there, too. It looks small, but around 5,000 people lie beneath the slate stones, interwoven with pedestrian walkways and quiet tourists. I went in and found that someone had planted a Sam Adams Lite bottle next to his modest grave, and I chuckled at the image. Wish I had had my camera.

When I read about historical figures, I think about what they did with their lives. When I see their tombs, I think about what they did with their lives, and then I think, "They're dead." It's not so one-dimensional. Mortality, of course, brings everything into perspective.

The Frog Pond Pavilion does turn into an ice skating rink in winter. This I learned from a woman who chatted with me over lunch (I ate sushi and she, McDonald's). I'll hit it up at first freeze.

Funny how you never know what you're going to see in the city. Yesterday, at the Park Street station, I saw a man shaped like a box. His right arm was longer than his left, and his frame was short and square, with his neck stuffed somewhere into his body so that his head met his shoulder at a right angle. He stood with a perpetual shrug. Everything else about him was normal - suit, hair, etc.

Today as I lunched on the Boston Common, I spotted a small woman marching towards me in a red colonial-style dress, holding a lavendar parasol. She had a cell phone attached to her apron straps. An actress, no doubt, but still amusing.

And speaking of the Common (truly a "common," where mingle the homeless and brahmins alike), there's a new hot air balloon in the middle of the park. It's free, and a long rope will keep you from flying across the Atlantic. The business who sponsors it wants to put a balloon in every city. There's also a wading pond with a fountain, which makes me wonder if it transforms into a skating rink in winter.

I'm not sure why I bought these pants for work. I'm going to take them back to Filene's at once.

My blog title and description are shout-outs to those men whose spirits permeate this area: Hawthorne and Thoreau. Essentially, they describe what life is and what it ought to be. They inspire me to focus on singular passions as I embark on Beantown adventures.

What excites me about living here:
taking voice lessons
volunteering at NPR
helping plant a church in Dorchester, a poor neighborhood in Boston
eating food and staying warm with my roommates
taking a dip in walden pond
applying to graduate school

oh...and berating the Red Sox.

I'll catch up with you all when I change these colors.