May 6, 2006
My wife and I had breakfast at TGI Friday’s at DFW airport at about 8:30 am. My wife had a bacon cheeseburger, which I found appalling at such an early hour, so I opted for a plain burger. They had no jalapeños at all. They thought they had battered pieces, but no.
On the plane, I started circling all the places on the American Airlines maps that we (one or both of us) had been. London, Newcastle, Paris, Lisbon, Barcelona, Amsterdam, Berlin, Munich, Prague, Vienna, Stockholm, Helsinki, Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, Dhahran, Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, Muenster, Guadalajara, Cancun, Monterrey, Mexico City, Vancouver, Calgary, Toronto, Montreal, Halifax. The U.S. cities were too numerous to name.
That afternoon, after we arrived in Boston where we were met by my wife’s sister and her boyfriend, we went to Club Caravan in Revere. It’s a tired old place, looking much like it sprang from the 1940s as a big band club, but had gone through a lot since then. My sister-in-law’s boyfriend knew the guy on the keyboards, a fellow named Ray Santisi. Other band members played trombone, sax, bass, percussion, etc. A young woman from Paris was there as a guest and a sang a couple of songs. The door to the east side of the place was open, letting in light and noise…and the occasional view of a passing T-train. The place was a jazz-joint for geezers, mostly, with a modest $5 cover charge. That notwithstanding, it was an enjoyable place, relaxing and real; the people there were being who they are, not pretending to be someone they are not. I like that. I liked the music, the atmosphere, the grittiness of it.
An interesting tidbit about the place, as told by the boyfriend: He pointed out the numbers on each table, metal numbers affixed to the edge. They used to have lights on them, he said, and the tables had telephones which could be called from other phones in the place by dialing the table numbers. Guys would watch women on the dance floor and, when they returned to their numbered tables, guys would call them to ask them for a dance. The woman could accept or not…and no one was any wiser of the success or the failure of the request.
Later that afternoon, we went to Santarpio’s for dinner, where we had lamb & beef & sausage combos and pizzas. My wife and I shared a hot pepper, garlic, and pepperoni pizza, which was wonderful.
That evening, we went to Wonderland Greyhound Park, a tired old dog-racing track. Neither my wife nor I had ever been to the dog races, so we were intrigued by the idea.
Wonderland is far, far beyond its heyday, with badly chipped paint and an obviously overlooked maintenance schedule. Only a handful of people, compared to what it must have hosted in its prime, were present on that Saturday night. The betting booths were staffed, for the most part, by hard-faced middle-aged women who tried to smile, but whose hearts weren't in it. Everyone fit the atmosphere, because they, too, were well past their prime. Their eyes were vacant or desperate, I can’t decide which, and they looked to me like this was their last best hope for achieving something, even if it were a cheap bet that returned $4 on a $2 wager. The “rabbit” the dogs chased was called “Speedy,” an apt name for a creature that had to stay in front of some phenomenally fast creatures that streaked around the track.
May 7, 2006
Our hosts took us to Donna’s in Revere for breakfast, one of their favorite haunts. The walls are painted with dinosaurs and Disney-look characters. It was good food and very definitely a non-touristy place…a real local spot that meets the needs of hungry families.
After breakfast, we took a look at the Madonna Queen National Shrine in East Boston. It has a 35-foot statue of the Virgin Mary at the end of a large “mall” of stone. It overlooks Boston harbor (at a distance) and is really an impressive place. It’s near the Orione House, a place that I believe is an old folks home.
Our hosts took us to the Saugas Ironworks, which is ostensibly the oldest ironworks in the United States. It’s now a national park, with huge old water wheels and bellows and other parts of the ironworks preserved. After trudging around there for awhile, we stopped by Threadwell’s Ice Cream for a treat.
There's more to all this, but I first have to find my notes. I don't quite understand why I find it so interesting to document these relatively mundane experiences; they are interesting to me and we enjoy them, but I am not sure they warrant being recorded for posterity. Oh, well, they are being recorded, so I'll just have to get used to it.
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