Snippets from a suspended Saturday

Wanderlust prevails! My day was a giant, meandering pedestrian lap, precisely what I'd hoped for but thought too demanding to request.

It started at the Common; ended there, too. Although I use the term "day" with a loose, artistically licensed hand, as I'm compiling my scrawled snippets in Central Square, aided by a latte during the final business hours at 1369.

(Got a problem with my desire for symetry tweaking with time? It's my story, so suck it. Tee hee.)

I'm sitting on a marble seat at Downtown Crossing, waiting for the Red Line to swoop in and whisk me off to Central Square. I just got my fix of roasted almonds - or the scent of them, anyway, which is all I desired.

I never go out of my way to pass by the vendor, but it's a pleasant turn of each trip to Boston. I think time here would feel a bit incomplete without an intake or two of the smoky sweet air laced with salt.

(This moment, as always, has been sponsored by H&M.)

I've come into the city on my own this morning, having advised Michelle to sleep in and recharged her overworked and exhausted head. But it was a partially selfish move, I have to admit. I enjoy the chance to strike out on my own. Independence provides me the luxury of not worrying about the need to be considerate, no matter how accommodating my companions happen to be; I've the chance to walk playfully within the lines of the red paint road provided by the Freedom Trail and not feel too goofy or juvenile.

I also can let my feet bounce in time the private Counting Crows concert being performed into my ears. I danced a bit as I made my way up Temple Street. Why? Because I could.

***
"And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings."
- ADuritz

***
Now, my train speeds travelers and I up high above the Charles, the sparkle of blue that keeps Boston and Cambridge at a comfortably cordial distance. The skyline extends behind me, the city working the kinks of a St. Patrick's Day hangover out of its system. I've been smiling knowingly at the lack of typical Saturday crowds, imagining the lines at diners and restaurants, where bleary-eyed patrons seek relief in Bloody Marys and mimosas...

***
"She sees shooting stars and comet tails, she's got heaven in her eyes, she says, 'I don't need to be an angel, but I'm nothing if I'm not this high...'"
- AD

***
My coffee cup is orange. It matches every fourth stripe in my sweater, the sleeves of which are pushed up as I sit with the sun to my back, the barista area stretched out before me, past the counter at which I'm perched.

I never come to this coffeeshop as often as I should. A double injustice, really, as the staff hooks me up. "You don't pay here."

I also don't drink anything less than divinity in a paper cup here, so it seems.

***
I can't tell you how far we walked.

"We're not going anywhere in particular. You know that, right? That's cool?" We left the Middle East and turned onto a side street, our hands both tucked into jacket pockets.

"That's great. Perfect." Cambridge ended back at the Charles. Over the BU bridge, down Commonwealth. We wandered through the open arches I want to investigate each time I drive up this road, Paradise-bound. Through Kenmore. Down some other random series of streets. Hang a right, hook up with Newbury and walk past the shops. Another turn.

Across the street from the convention center, he pointed out The Foggy Goggle, a pub that now occupies space formerly reserved for the Odinero. I'd asked about the Odinero more than a decade earlier, as we stood in line outside Hynes, waiting for All-Star weekend festivities. Think of it this way: two clocks. OdinerO. A blonde moment that became family legend.

Past the Pru. Past Copley. Down to the Common and Arlington, where he hopped onto the T - hours after our adventure began - and I turned back to return to the Pru and my impending Sephora meetup with Michelle.

I know that everyone - or, at least, the fortunate ones - boast about their siblings. Discuss how amazing they are. I would never be one to dispute their claims.

But this has proven, without a doubt, that I am sister to the best of the best, who just happens to be one of my favorite people on the planet.

Sorry, that's just how it is. Rest of you will have to learn to accept it.

***
To be filed under "Why yes, you do want to kiss me":

My lips now taste and smell like mimosas. Hello.

***
Postscript: To sit down and talk writing - to really talk writing - is rare. So I sipped my latte slowly as Michelle and I sat, open notebooks in front of us, and discussed the writing process.

Get into your head at the same time that you get out of it. Just write it. You'd better read it to me later.

Before I knew it, the chairs were stacked and it was time to return to the car and the journey home.

I cued up some Counting Crows...