My work sent me to Boston for a week-long training course. More accurately, I was staying in Andover, about a half-hour drive north of downtown Boston. While an all-expense-paid week-long trip to Beantown might sound pretty rad any other time, I wasn’t looking forward to it at all. 
Consider the facts that I was going alone and I was leaving my 7-months-pregnant wife at home and you can understand my reluctance. The classes had me booked until 5:00 each night, so taking a daytrip to Boston to check out the history was a no-go. Being alone, I didn’t care to get too adventurous at night either; even going to the Chili’s down the street seemed too intimidating (nothing lamer than dining alone). But, hey, I reckoned that I could make the best of it and I had a relatively positive attitude about my trip. While I’d be getting a very limited view of Massachusetts, I’d approach my week’s stay with wide eyes, trying to soak up as much as I could before locking myself into my hotel room at night, as if I were writing the lamest travel journal thinkable for a blog desperate for any new content. Lucky you.
SUNDAY—Getting There
I’m not scared of flying, but being trapped in a tiny seat for hours and hours with annoying strangers and their children with no wiggle room makes me concede that flying sucks. It’s worse when my travel savvy wife isn’t there to guide me through all the gates and rules (shoes off, keys in the bin, ID out, ticket out, laptop out, etc). With some wrong turns and a bit of luck I found my gate and a store to purchase some Nutter Butters and Corn Nuts. With my lunch prepared, I was able to pull out my phone and relax to some music. Thinking ahead, I had programmed my new cell phone with a mix of 50 mp-3’s so I’d have a good soundtrack to my lonely trip out east. As my headphones blared out a slightly psychotic variety from Deicide to Edie Brickell to Faith No More to Carcass to Chris Isaak, I shut myself out from the other travelers who were waiting around me. More importantly, I was able to shut out their annoying chit-chat, gum smacking, and snot snorting while I tried to read my book. Bringing this phone/mp-3 player was one of my best ideas yet! Fast-forward to when I am on the plane and the attendant reminds us to stow away all cell phones for the entire flight. CRAP! Oh well, at least I had a good soundtrack for waiting at the gate and baggage claim.
While I was blessed enough to win the aisle seat lottery, the other two men in my row seemed to hate the fact that the “little” guy got the lucky number. Granted, the guy in the center seat was 6’7” and could have been a bit more comfortable if he had an aisle. Window guy looked at me and sneered to center guy, “How did you get the center? That’s bad luck!” I interpreted that as a subtle hint for me to switch. I wasn’t budging, though. “I’m small. I’ll lean towards the aisle,” I promised. No way am I giving up my aisle seat, sucker.
My phone/mp-3 idea was a bummer, but I was able to sink into my book with little difficulty and few distractions. Every once in a while, I would catch some of the non-stop conversation between Window Guy and Center Guy and I would be so thankful that I wasn’t in their line of work. “Oh you have the X-19’s over there? Can they run a spreadsheet as efficiently as the P-187’s? You don’t say. Well, I remember that I could only run half as much on the P-199, so you should be fine. I sold at least 5 units of those last year. What kind of processor is that? Oh. That won’t work! Snort, snort chortle.” Ugh. Back to my book. (I brought Neil Peart’s newest travel book, Roadshow, with me, which could explain my sudden need to watch every event around me with a travel writer’s eye.)
We somehow landed safely on Logan’s frightening runway (way too close to the windy bay for my liking) and I found my way to baggage (with Descendents, Motorhead, Bjork, and Deee-Lite providing the accompaniment). With baggage in tow, I caught the Budget Rent-a-Car shuttle and acquired my wheels: a forgettable red sedan made by some American car company. In fact, I forgot what it was. Regardless, it had enough pickup for me to speed through the miles of tunnels from Logan to 95N. Scary stuff, that Big Dig. I’m not too fond of driving under water, especially with the recent stories of leaking tunnels and fatal falling bricks. Last time I was exiled to Boston, I watched a documentary on that Big Dig on my hotel’s TV. Seeing how it was done (and the mistakes that were made) did not make me feel better about traveling through it. Thankfully, I made it out of the tunnels safe and sound with downtown Boston in my rear-view mirror and 20 minutes worth of 95N ahead of me.
I made my exit in Andover, happy to see that the Chili’s that was under construction on my last visit was completed and fully operational. I hit the nearby McDonalds instead as I just wanted to check in and get settled in for my first night. With cheeseburgers in hand, I checked in to my Marriot Courtyard mini-suite and put my feet up for the night.
MONDAY—Classes Start!
My alarm(s) got me up just in time to shower, brew some “coffee” and skim the sports of the complementary USA Today before having to be on my way to class. While I was dreading being torn away from my wife and home for a week, I was looking forward to these classes. As the digital machinery at my work is getting more and more complex, the technology covered in the classes are becoming more and more fascinating. Plus, I was looking forward to seeing what kind of classmates I’d get the pleasure of dealing with for a week. Luckily, we had a great group and I ended up enjoying the company of my classmates, rather than merely dealing with them. I never caught a single name (which is in my nature) but I remember them all by location. We had:
· California: an old-school pressman type of guy. He was our ice-breaker. With a constant supply of bad jokes and stories to tell, he made sure that there were no uncomfortable silences during our stay.
· Young Missouri: This guy was straight out of high school with a wonderful southern awww-shucks drawl. He was too young to have any reserve, so he had us constantly laughing with his say-first, think-later wisdom.
· Older Missouri: This guy was from the same business as Young Missouri, but he was the polar opposite. Being a long-haired musician in his little hillbilly town had driven him to be a quiet, thoughtful introvert. When he finally opened up (around Wednesday) he proved to be an intelligent, witty guy.
· Canada 1: Another surly old-schooler who’s been in the business for a lonnnng time. He had to remind me a couple times that Canada was a country, not just a state to the North. I think he was from Toronto, but who cares? Canada is Canada as far as I’m concerned.
· Canada 2: A younger version of Canada 1 and a great source for conversation and laughs. He was very interrogative and interested in everything.
· Atlanta: Another extrovert with lots to say, lots of questions to ask, and apparently comfortable enough to discuss the “Adult” movies he found on his hotel TV. (“They keep the names of the movies off the bill.”) This is probably Young Missouri in 15 years.
· New York: A little guy with a heavy New York accent, kinda like Brooklyn’s version of Michael J. Fox. Speaking of which, while the he rest of the class thought he was a drug addict (behind his back); I think he had the beginnings of Parkinson’s disease. Having read Lucky Man by Fox, I have learned how the frightened young actor tried to hide the uncontrollable movements in his arm. New York had the same moves. Or, he was a drug addict, like the rest of the class thought. I dunno. He seemed too bright for that, though.
So that’s the class. Our instructor was a quiet no-frills type of guy. Nerdy, bald and rolly-polly (and a thin goatee to compensate for all the above), he did a fine job providing us with a week’s worth of material but he didn’t really strive to get us excited about it, either. Finding out later that he played bass for a Boston Jazz band had me laughing for a bit, though. It would be the bass, too. When my boss at my old job was confronted on turning down too many job applicants, he explained to the H.R. lady, “You keep on sending me bass players. I need a lead guitarist.” Perfect analogy: some are the type to play lead. Others are happy playing bass. They may be perfect at what they do, and what they do is important, but it’s in the background and barely noticeable.
After the first class, I headed north to Salem, New Hampshire to find a clothing store. The classrooms were temperature and humidity controlled to keep the digital presses in their optimum working environments. Because of this, I found myself shivering under the mist of massive humidifiers and air conditioners. I found a typical American suburban mall with a Sears. I found a sweet Nike hoodie on clearance and a Dickies insulated flannel for $8.00. Sweat deals, ay?
I also hunted down a Target store and stocked up on snacks for my week’s stay. I grabbed some Pepsi, chips, breakfast bars, and a puzzle magazine. It was nice seeing a familiar face. I stayed a bit too long, roaming the aisles for nothing in particular.
Back at the hotel, I watched the local news report on the upcoming snow and road salt, filled up on chips and pop, and called it a night.
TUESDAY—more of the same
I knew my wife would be proud of me when it was I who broke the silence before class. “How does a Canadian spell Canada?” Canada 2 just looked back, a bit puzzled. “C, N, D.” I told him, “C, ay? N, ay?, D, ay?” Thankfully, both Canadians laughed. “Dat one is good. ‘Mind if I take it home and try it oot?” Finally, I received some appreciation for good humor.
After class I ordered from The Chateau, an Italian(!) restaurant down the street that I remembered from my last stay in Andover. I enjoyed the fried calamari appetizer and my authentic Italian pizza loaded with garlic, tomatoes, and more garlic. I felt my stomach churn a bit as I got my stuff ready for tomorrow’s big day: I had tickets to the Celtics/Lakers game. I’ve never been downtown Boston, but I hear that tourists should never, ever attempt to drive there. The locals, though, told me that the ‘Garden was on the edge of the downtown area and I shouldn’t have a problem getting there by car and getting out alive. With another stomach rumble (half nerves, half garlic) I remembered today’s class where California arrived a bit late and looked like death. “I tried to drive downtown last night. I got so lost. When I saw signs for Cape Cod, I knew it was time to panic!” Uh oh… I reexamined my map and reassured myself that being lost in a car was better than being lost in a subway. Right?
WEDNESDAY—the game!
I made it through another class, but my stomach often reminded me of the adventure to come tonight (as well as the overdose of garlic from last night). It’s one thing to drive to an unfamiliar city at night, but doing it alone seemed a bit much. After class, I bolted to the car and headed south on 95 toward Boston. To make my mind settle down, the news guy on the radio was wrapping up a story about strange devices being found all over the downtown area. The police had to shut down major bridges and highways as these devices were thought to be of the terrorist ilk. This turned out to be a prank/publicity stunt for some Cartoon Network cartoon, but still! C’mon! Did I really need a terrorism scare on the way to the ‘Garden??!!
Finding the ‘Garden was remarkably simple. A few nights earlier, a rep from the Boston Celtics called me to offer any help (read: to sell more tix). I told him I could only get to one game, but I would appreciate any help getting to that one game. His directions were perfect and I was able to call my wife with the “I’ve made it safe and sound” report earlier than I thought.
Being so early, I wandered the streets a little bit to try to kill some time. Being alone, I didn’t feel up to going into the local sports pubs, but I did some “window shopping” of the local spots instead. The dirty, narrow streets in their haphazard layout reminded me a little of St. Paul, but older and more convoluted. I suppose all old cities have the same problem: they weren’t built with cars in mind.
I wandered back to the ‘Garden and watched the rivers of people flow in and out of the trains of North Station. The flow would slow to a crawl until an announcement about Train X leaving for Destination Y would spark an immediate gush toward the gates. We have nothing like this in the Twin Cities, so I wondered how I’d ever live here. I can’t stand being trapped in the human masses of the State Fair, how could I cope with commuting within a sea of people? One must have to be raised in this environment, I reckon.
When the gates finally opened for the ‘Garden, I rushed to the turnstiles to wait in line. I was disappointed by all the Lakers jerseys around me. C’mon, Boston! This is CELTICS/LAKERS! Don’t you know the history here!??! 
Granted, the Celtics were in the middle of an 18-game losing streak, but I expected more support from the Bostonians. While waiting for security to let us by, a young Celtics fan started to trash talk an older Lakers fan. What followed was a creative exchange about whose team sucks, whose team has a rapist for a superstar, and whose team has more history. That’s more like it, Boston! Way to show up.
Before finding my seat, I bought an Italian sausage with peppers and onions and a Sam Adams Boston Lager (duh). 
This was (sadly?) my best meal in Boston. It was sooo perfect. The lager and the sausage and the sautéed peppers and onions were the perfect food for the occasion. My seats were decent for $40, 2nd row of the upper bowl. Arriving so early, I took advantage of my chance to soak in the history around me. I found McHale’s retired number (right next to Bird’s) and I looked at all those championship banners for the Celtics and the Bruins. When the game finally started the Celtics (without superstar Paul Pierce) gave it their all, but Kobe Bryant made it seem so futile. In the end, the Celtics got crushed, but I was already running to my car to beat the traffic. I had a bad feeling about getting back to 95N and I didn’t want thousands of drunken fans around me as I tried to get out of downtown.
Armed with directions from the parking attendant (Right, Left, Left), I drove with confidence toward 95N. I followed signs to a long two-lane highway and headed north. I saw reminder signs every few blocks that I was indeed on my way to 95N, so things were looking good. Then it happened. Without warning, I suddenly found myself coming up to the weirdest intersection I’ve seen in my 15 years of driving. My nice, straight two-lane highway with its constant signs promising me that 95N was on its way morphed into a fan-shaped intersection of 8 corners. Ummmm??? Funny thing, all those signs for 95N disappeared. In fact, I couldn’t find a single street sign! I guessed and veered somewhat straight and left into the middle choice as it seemed to be sort-of north. Within a few miles, I knew I just got myself lost. I called my wife, “I made it out of the game, the Celtics lost, I am out of downtown, but I have no idea where I am. I’ll call you when I find 95N!”
Not quite at the panicked level, yet, I tried to go North and West (my internal map told me I needed to go northwest) with as little turning as possible in case I needed to turn around and retrace my route back to downtown. I saw a lot of Boston’s suburbs with tiny streets, brick buildings, a thousand Dunkin’ Donuts, and not a single mention of 95N or any major-looking road anywhere. Time to panic. The tall brick storefronts along my randomly chosen roads provided isolation from any hint of a freeway, city, anything. I couldn’t see Boston anymore. I was soooo lost now.
Coming up to a “T” in the road, I took a left towards Malden (why not?) since it seemed to be sort of west (?). A nondescript road took me into Malden, home of my savior: the 24-hour Walgreens. I ran into the Walgreens, bought a road map and asked the cashier how to get to 95N. “Go down that road past the church and you’ll hit the rounder. Go on the rounder up to 95.” Wha? Do you know how many friggin churches there are in the greater Boston metropolitan area??! “Do I go north or south out of here?” “I dunno. Go thataway.” (she points “thataway.”)
Remarkably, I went thataway, passed a church, and found a circular ramp (rounder?) to 95N. Midway through my victory dance, I grabbed my cell phone and checked in with home. “YES! YES! I FOUND 95N!!” Within 20 minutes, I was back at the hotel and in bed.
THURSDAY—more of the same
With the adventure behind me, I welcomed the routine of hotel—class—hotel and I was quite content to keep it simple for the rest of the week. California told me he could tell that I was from Minnesota by my accent. I never thought I had an accent, but my reply damned me into believing him. “Yaah? You think so?” Keeping with my safe routine, I made a bee-line to the hotel after class, ordered the calamari and the tomato/garlic pizza from The Chateau, and watched some NBA Basketball on TNT. I spent the rest of my night packing for trip back home Friday afternoon. After I made my nightly call home to my wife (when she’d read the nightly entry in the pregnancy journal), I was thankful that I’d be spending my last night in the hotel room bed.
FRIDAY—last class and homeward bound!
Our class had another series of informative take-it-apart/put-it-back-together drills, but we found ourselves chitchatting a lot more than usual. We knew the end was near and we were giddy. Plus, we made new friends over the past week and it was sort of sad knowing that we’d never see each other again. I connected the most with the two Missouri boys since they had job descriptions most similar to mine. We shared horror stories and amusing anecdotes throughout the week (which always ended in “I’ll grab more coffee, you turn the machine off and on and I’ll check back,” which was our preferred method of troubleshooting a problem). After getting our training certificates and shaking hands all around, we were free to go. While most of my classmates were content to hang back and chitchat some more, I was out the door immediately. I don’t know what my rush was; I still had to go back to the hotel room to wait a few hours before heading to the airport. Hurry up and wait, I guess.
I was able to nap for an hour, read a bit of my book, and make my last paranoid walk-through (looking in drawers despite never opening them before now) for forgotten items before finally checking out. I threw my bags in my nondescript rental car and zoomed to 95S toward Boston.
Finally at Logan, I was able to veg out to some Chinese Food (Panda Express, baby!) while reading more of my Neil Peart book and listening to my phone mix (Herbie Hancock, Basement Jaxx, Fugazi, and Shaquille O’Neal) until it was time to board. I did a little dance when I found that I once again won the aisle seat lotto, but it got better when window seat lady announced that her husband was unable to make the flight and the middle seat was to be empty! YES! We gave each other simultaneous “thumbs up” and I began my first ever in-flight conversation with a stranger (I tend to keep to myself. Duh.).
“I hate to think of this now, but I just saw a horrible movie,” she began.
“Oh, which movie?”
“Snakes on a Plane.”
“Yeah, you shouldn’t be thinking of that movie, on or off of a plane.”
(Chuckle chuckle)
“Have you seen it? Do you know what it’s about?”
“I haven’t seen it,” I replied, “But I could guess it’s about snakes… on a plane?”
“Yes! But there are so many of them!”
We had a couple more minutes of friendly conversation until I opened my book and she opened her laptop. I got in a lot of quality reading as the flight was remarkably quiet and comfortable. Ahhh….
…And then I saw my wife at baggage claim. Perfect ending. We gave each other a long, hard, I’ve-missed-seeing-you-for-the-past-week hug and smooched and hugged again. I said hello to my little bun in the oven and we were on our way home.
Sooooo…. Yeah, I hated going; I hated being there; I hated being away. But I learned a lot, met a few people, and even grew a little. I suppose I have to admit now that I am glad I had to take the trip. Plus, it filled up a much neglected Blog for a bit and that’s a bonus!
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