So, I was going to write the second part of my Pt. I post, but after trying to get back into the story multiple times, I just. couldn’t. do. it. (shoulder shrug emoji.) That happens to everyone right?
Instead, I asked my fiance what to write about and she said, “I think you should look through your phone and find a picture that sparks inspiration. Then, write about that.” And that’s exactly what I did. I scrolled to the top of my camera roll and some of the first pictures were of a trip I took to Boston. (Thanks, babe! Great idea!)
Here’s one of my favorite experiences from that Boston trip.
“This is my daughter, Tara!” My Dad said to the bartender.
“Hi,” I said, with a smirk.
“She just flew in from California, and she…” He continued.
I stopped listening and looked around the restaurant. I was tired from the full day of traveling and still freezing from the short walk to the bar from our Airbnb. It was a restaurant, unlike anything we had in Orange County. Everything was dark. Dark painted walls, dark tiled floor, dark wood chairs and tables, and it seemed like even in the daytime, it would still be dark inside. Everyone was talking loudly and had large coats hanging on the backside of their chairs. I assumed the servers hated working there. By the time I made it back to the conversation between my Dad and the bartender, she was handing me a glass of red wine. “Perfect!” I thought to myself.
The rest of dinner was nice. I had a bowl of spaghetti and two more glasses of wine. My Dad and I caught up. He had been in Boston for a few days already and knew a lot about the area. He told me where he got coffee in the morning and the other places he ate dinner, while we made the short walk back to our Airbnb. I had a few glasses of wine in me, so the cold didn’t bother me anymore.
Once we made it back to our one-bedroom apartment in the basement of a brick building, I knew I didn’t want to go to sleep like my Dad was going to do. I was ready to explore! I tried to talk him into going to another bar with me, but after several failed attempts, I went out by myself.
I added a few more layers on, looked up a street on maps that had more than one bar, and headed out into the night. I walked through the empty, small streets of the North End of Boston, passed a small park, over some train tracks, and into another city-like area. Every push of air into the city let out a huge ball of condensation. The images reminded me of something I’d read in old American literature.
I finally came upon a bar, packed, with people inside. After only a few minutes waiting at the bar for the bartender to make her way over to me, I was over it. Everyone was having such a good time in their groups, screaming and laughing, and made me feel so alone. I stepped back out onto the street and kept walking past the crowded bars until I found an almost empty one. It was brightly lit, but only had a few people at the bar and one table filled with people, so I stepped inside.
I chose a seat at the end of the bar that had three empty seats on both sides of me. The bartender greeted me with an attitude, but because he was the only person the acknowledge me on my lonely embark, I was overly friendly. I asked a ton of questions about wine, furthering his annoyance, and somehow, by the time he was handing me my chosen red wine, he knew my name, that I was from California, that I had recently come out as a lesbian, that I was upset about my parent’s separation, and that I really wanted a cigarette. Luckily, he was no longer annoyed and told me that the first glass of wine was on the house. In between pouring drinks for other patrons, he’d stand at my end of the bar and talk with me, never leaving my glass of wine half empty.
By glass I-have-no-idea, I had made friends with three flight attendants who were in Boston for 12 hours. One was from Africa, one from Spain, and one from Ireland, all of whom, thought that 12 hours was plenty of time to get drunk. I’d also made friends with two guys that were friends of the bartender and were visiting in hopes that he was going to be off soon. I also made friends with a newly engaged couple. The girl was from Florida and her fiane was from Eygpt. They had met while she was studying abroad. We all chatted, laughed, and got wasted. I didn’t realize how drunk I had actually become until I realized I was talking about the Civil War with one of the bartender’s friends. I was trying to explain to him that that’s where we were in my American Literature class and that I really enjoyed reading the Literature about that period, but all that was coming out was slurred words of slavery and African-Americans and all I could see was a confused and worried look on his face.
“I should… probably just…. stop…?” I slurred to him.
“Um, ya. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He said, genuinely worried.
With that, I took my cue. I told the bartender “thank you for all of the wine,” which was completely for free and for the nice talks. I layered on all of my winter pieces, said goodbye to my new best friends, and stepped back into the cold.
During my drunken excursion in the bar, I didn’t even notice that it had started snowing. There was a brand new blanket of white, fluffy snow lying upon everything in sight. It was untouched and I thought, “fucking beautiful!” I jumped up and down and skipped away with a huge smile on my face. I walked past the other bars, which were now emptying out, past the other bar I was glad I didn’t stay at, through the snowy city, back over the train tracks, past the now snowy park, and through the North End. I made it back to my Airbnb’s alley, out of breath and with a million new photos on my phone.
I didn’t want this moment to end, so I went into a different snowy alley I didn’t know existed and found a spot to pee. I learned the next day that my new found alley was just the trash area for the building, filled with dumpsters and the awful smell of rotting food. In my drunken state though, it was the most beautiful snowy alley and the perfect place to lay on my back for a snow angel. While on my back with my arms and legs stretched out, the apartment building jutted up into the dark sky and small snowflakes fell on my face. It was pure magic. I thought, “I’m living my best life,” and knew I wanted to move to Boston immediately.
Here’s a photo I took from that trip: