Boston Walkabout #1

Shifting into an "I will rush no more" mindset calls for some action - to put some "feet under it." What better way than to periodically have a walkabout day. A destination, the briefest of agendas, an openness to melting into the experience and the time to let it all just happen. Sounds just about right.

The destination was Boston. The agenda was to take a day off from work, play hookey in a sense, and walk around the city.

I missed the early commuter train, ok, I felt like sleeping in an extra half-hour, but, hey, what's the big rush. Did my morning meditation and was surprised to feel some anxiety. Some of it was just plain excitement, something new, and some of it was apprehension. Like, how will it work out, will it meet my expectations, what are my expectations, will I lightly freak out without the structure? It was really just a little anxiety, but I think those were the components.

I drove to Riverside Station in Newton and found the last parking spot in the lot. From there I rode the MBTA into Boston. First real problem of the day was when I realized I wanted to tell people that I was on a "walkabout," I actually wanted to braodcast it, but at the same time there was this big social hesitancy. It helped the there weren't too many people on the train.

So instead I asked a question of a man across from me: How do I get to the Back Bay station? (It's not that complicated if you have a basic idea of the Boston train system but don't forget there was that song years ago about how a guy named Charlie got lost on the train and never came back - the refrain was: "no, he never returned, no he never returned and his fate is still unlearned." I can well imagine the same thing might happen if your name was Igor or Pierre and your English was as weak as my Russian or French.) He told me to get off at Copley and walk a bit. He then offered an alternate of transferring from the Red Line to the Orange Line and then rambled about how the Orange Line could "be dangerous" at times. I had the impression that he really wanted to say more but didn't quite know how to get into it. I had the same feeling and also felt that he was on one line and I on another.

I took the opportunity to make a tactical retreat to my seat.

At the next stop there was a rush of people and a woman took the aisle seat next to me. Same situation, I wanted to tell her about the walkabout day but felt she would have "freaked out." So I just looked out the window pondering how to get into a conversation. Oh, it dawned on me again, ask a question. We were passing by a beautiful park-like area so I turned to her and asked what that was.

Oops, her eyes are closed and she’s resting and I apologized but she said that it was ok. She said it was the greenway and that it was designed by a man called Olmsted, the same man, she thought, who designed Central Park in New York. A man behind us jumped in and said something about how it was the hospital area and I said it was good that "they" had the forethought to put aside park area in the city.

I had a sense that people were curiously listening to us but maintaining their own personal spaces of isolation.

I couldn't quite get it out that I was "doing a walkabout" but I managed to say that I took the day off and that I wanted to explore Boston. That seemed to work and I figured that people could relate to that and it wouldn't seem too odd and might increase the chances of conversation. One thing led easily to another and before long we were both gabbing; me about how I made a decision - how I will rush no more - and she talking wistfully about how fast it all goes and how her son owns a jewelry shop on Newbury Street and that she helps him out three afternoons a week. It flowed easily after that.

At her stop she offered me her hand. That hello and goodbye moved both of us.

I got off at the next stop. As I was leaving the original man made a point of wishing me well. I sensed the same pent-upness with him but enjoyed that he had extended himself. Two conversations, both real, one easy one less so, two moments.