Roads

It's about a ten minute walk from my place to the office, but on the way I have to cross one river and five roads, and walk under/over a further three roads. This is because, of the three types of American university, Urban, Suburban, or Rural, BU is definitely in the first category. It straddles Commonwealth Avenue, a huge artery transporting 30,000 vehicles a day (none of which are Nissan Micras, let me assure you, [despite my personal opinion that these cars, especially grey ones with orange seats and three inch spoilers are God's Own Cars and not at all girly]), with three lanes each way plus a T line down the middle. It also sits on top of the Massachusetts Turnpike, the I-90, the longest interstate motorway in the country, connecting Boston on the East with Seattle on the West. The best way I can describe the Mass Pike, which I walk past several times a day, is as a busy version of the M1. On the other side of our building is Storrow Drive, which is another major route out of/into the city (think of the A1 here), and in my opinion is the worst of the lot because it falls between BU and the Charles River, spoiling what would be a relatively tranquil area. It was apparently the last of Boston's land reclamation projects, which on the one hand created a lovely park next to the river and on the other spoiled it by dumping a bloody huge road next to it. There's talk about sinking it underground, a pastime that Bostonians seem to do a lot of. They've spent the last twenty years burying their major roads in a project called the Big Dig. We complain in the UK about the millennium Dome and Wembley; this project started in 1985 at an initial estimate of 2.5 billion dollars - it was completed in January of this year, having cost about fifteen billion dollars. Not only that, but sections of it have started collapsing, with at least one fatality.

Anyway, I have a lot of roads to cross. This, like tipping, is an art that I have yet to fathom. The obvious fact that I have to consciously overcome 27 years of habit of looking to the right at a junction notwithstanding, there are plenty of other factors. Bostonian drivers for one. It seems that knowledge of the traffic laws (I assume there are some), and the willingness to follow them, are not necessarily prerequisites for being allowed to drive a lethal weapon over here. Signalling is optional, whereas hooting is not. I have visions of potential driving test candidates practicing their horn-lore ("If someone makes the barest hint that they may cut up the person three cars in front of you, what is the appropriate length of hoot? (a) 2 seconds, (b) 10 seconds (c) three minutes")*. Another factor is that I have to walk past one of the few roundabouts ("rotaries") in the country. Bostonian drivers seem to be unable to cope with a curvy road, and tend to drive into each other (and hoot appropriately) with abandon. Yet another factor is traffic lights. These seem to flash randomly - there have been more than a few occasions when a light has instructed me to cross whilst the transverse traffic light was blatantly green. The upshot is that I tend to hover nervously at junctions trying to look in six directions at once, trying to gauge which drivers are going to let me cross at the zebra crossing (which they are legally obliged to do, apparently). Everybody else seems to have a sixth sense and know when they can brazenly step out and when to hold back. I'm sure that eventually, with practice and more than a bit of luck, I'll get the hang of it. For now, I'm happy being a nervous hoverer.

*The answer is apparently (c).

Evil squirrels

I've just been attacked by a squirrel. I was on my way back from Central Square carrying a newly acquired trash can (yeah I know, I know) along with some other random shopping when I stopped to blow my nose and suddenly I was pelted by nuts. As I dodged for cover I looked around for the pesky kids but couldn't see any. It took me a few panicky seconds to realise that the aerial assault was coming from the tree branches above me and the perpetrator was a bloody squirrel! The little buggers are about half as big again as the ones back home, and they've clearly had military training. I shouted at the thing and waved my bin at it, but it just sat there defiently with its ammunition, eyeballing me. I backed away from it and managed to get to the shelter of my flat without any more attacks, for which I was grateful. So, this is how the squirrels want it, eh. With their surprise Pearl Harbour-like attack they've declared war, and they don't know who they're messing with. This is a war that will not be over any time soon. It's going to be long and messy, and many sacrifices will have to be made. I shall fight them on the beeches. I shall fight them in the parks and in the streets. I shall never surrender.

Leaves

A particularly New England phenomenon at this time of year is leaf-peeping. This isn't as dubious as it sounds, rather it's the simple act of oggling at the foliage. And there's a particularly good reason why people do it round here, and that's because in the Autumn (sorry, Fall) the many deciduous trees turn from green into a remarkable array of colours from light yellow to deep red. I mention this because I've just noticed that the first tree in the park next to my house has started to turn. I took a photo so you can cyber-leaf-peep:





They actually have foliage forecasts on the news and dedicated leaf-peeping holiday websites. If you don't believe me check out www.yankeefoliage.com. These holidays are popular, not only because of the leaves but because the weather is very pleasant at this time of the year. It's not too hot to be uncomfortable and it's not yet started to become snot-freezingly cold. That's next week. Seriously, the weather can change very quickly here because we're right on the border between various weather systems and the difference between a northerly wind (ice-blast from Canada) and a southerly one (tropical breeze) is striking. The Fall weather can apparently be spoiled every now and again by a passing hurricane, but so far Gordon and Helene have turned away from the US mainland.

Incidentally, I've been trying to get a good night-time picture of the view of Boston from the BU Bridge, but it's not coming out well enough on my little camera. I think I need to get a new one. In the mean time, here are a couple of dusk shots.

Walkabout

Gosh, it's been quite a busy week, and I fear I have a lot to report. Aside from the fact that I've finally got something to get my teeth into at work, I've had the opportunity to get out and about in the evenings. On Wednesday I had my first training session with the BU karate club. This was very different to what I'm used to! I'm willing to give it time, after all it was only the first lesson of the year, but it did seem very strange. I'm used to a fairly disciplined type of training session, and this was anything but. And of course there was the old chestnut that the members were all undergrads - and therefore too young to go to the boozer afterwards, but I really should have expected this by now.

On Friday night I found myself in the company of some Aussies in the John Hancock Brewpub in Harvard Square. This was good in two respects, the first being that I could count on them remaining there for more than one iced tea, and the second being that I could remind them at every opportunity who currently holds the Ashes. On Saturday I was invited to two events. A guy whose real name I don't know but whom everyone calls Goosty (hey, this is America, it might be his real name for all I know) was celebrating his fortieth birthday by hosting a barbecue. This was being held at his place and I was to meet a fellow Brit in a pub in Central Square in Cambridge beforehand, from whence she would lead the way to his place. Unfortunately, it turned out that she didn't know the way either and she had to phone Goosty and ask for directions. These were actually quite simple (go down a road and turn right and you can't miss it) but, at the risk of playing to stereotypes in reporting this, she instantly forgot which road we were to turn right on, and when we did get there promptly turned left. After a few minutes of wandering up and down people's drives we eventually found the correct house. The barbecue was worth the extra effort involved in getting there - a proper feast of burgers, chicken, fresh corn on the cob, potatoes, tortillas, etc. was laid out. Goosty turned out to be a really friendly guy, and the reason he knows my fellow Brits is through his near-continuous presence in a local pub called Redbones. I had a great time, although I was reminded that I was in America when I made an amusing shape with a corn on the cob and two potatoes, and was looked at by Goosty's more serious friends like I had just spat on their burgers. Following this, my friend Matt and I left to attend the second event of the evening, a housewarming party in South End in Boston. This involved a bus ride on the No. 1 down Massachusetts Avenue ("Mass Ave."), and what initially promised to be a very mundane journey was made vastly more interesting by an African American gentleman who boarded the bus rather wobbily and declared to everyone that he was the "Alabama Slammer, baby!" and proceeded to serenade us with a medley of motown and soul hits. The party itself wasn't bad, if slightly nerdy. There was the mandatory piss-taking of our British accents and lack of baseball knowledge, and a bizarre "Us-Weekly Fantasy League Award Ceremony". Apparently the contestants each had a 'team' of celebrities whose tally of column inches in the magazine "Us-Weekly" had been kept, and the result was this event involving acceptance speeches and the lot. It was a rather strange evening!

Today, I have been for a walk. In order to prepare for this exertion, I decided to eat breakfast out. I had been told of a place in Central Square called The Brookline Lunch Restaurant that, despite its name, apparently cooked a cracking breakfast and so I sought it out. Even before I went in I could tell they did good breakfasts because it was rammed! Admittedly it was a fairly small place, but there wasn't a free table in the place. Fortunately for me, some people were just leaving and I took advantage, clearly annoying everyone behind me by taking up an entire four-person table by myself. He he he. Feeling only slightly guilty about this I ordered a "two eggs and bacon" breakfast with pancakes and a side of toast, and was pleased to discover that my coffee cup was "bottomless". This is on my check-list for a good American breakfast. When the grub arrived it was clear that I had done my usual trick of completely underestimating the portions. Not only that, but I had essentially ordered two breakfasts by asking for pancakes as well, which turned out to be a stack of four monsters six or seven inches in diameter. The eggs and bacon also came with sauted potatoes, peppers, tomatoes and onions - they didn't tell you this on the menu! My eyes boggling at the plates in front of me, I tucked in. I have been brought up to finish my plate, and by the end I had worked up a fairly decent sweat. There was no doubt that this was a King of Breakfasts and, best of all, the bill was eight dollars. Four quid for a hearty meal that has kept me full all day! Even now at seven in the evening I am not hungry. As a Yorkshireman, I am impressed by this value for money. It will take a lot of willpower to stay away from that place, if only for the sake of my arteries!

Following breakfast, I waddled off to catch the T into Boston. I didn't have any real concrete plan apart from "wander around the North End and see what I see". I had decided to visit the North End because it's an area Em and I missed when we visited Boston briefly in June. Stepping off the North Station, I found myself standing over a red line painted on the ground. This was the Freedom Trail, which winds its way around Boston via the major tourist attractions. The Freedom Trail (or Boredom Trail, depending on your point of view) provides two key services. The first is to provide a very easy way for sheep-like American tourists to see Boston's major historic landmarks, and the second is to confine said tourists to a specific route around the city and let the rest of us get on with living here in peace. Well, today I was a tourist. I decided to follow the Trail across the Charlestown Bridge in order to see the U.S.S. Constitution and the Battle of Bunker Hill Monument. The former earned its nickname of "Old Ironsides" when in 1812 British cannonballs reportedly bounced off its sides. I remain patriotically unconvinced by this story, but I took a photo anyway:



The Battle of of Bunker Hill Monument (photo below) is just up the road from the Constitution, although it shouldn't be. Amusingly, the Battle of Bunker Hill actually took place on Breed's Hill (the next Hill along), although apparently this minor geographical fact seems to have bypassed the early Americans. The battle is viewed by Americans today as a symbol of their Freeeeeeedooooommmmm but, along with its location, they sometimes seem to forget the equally minor fact of who won it. The British, that's who, although the number of British casualties (about a thousand men) convinced the rebels that they could win the war eventually, and in this lies the battle's significance.



I beat a path back over the bridge (which, incidentally, seems to have been constructed out of waffle irons and thus affords a disconcerting view past your feet to the waters below) and into my original destination the North End, or Boston's Little Italy. This area is the real historical region of Boston, mainly because a very significant proportion of the rest of the city is built on reclaimed land, and the North End represents the original land area. It is characterised by old red brick warehouse-like buildings built on streets that meander over the land's contours (contrasting with the gridded flatness of the reclaimed regions of the city). In this respect Boston's North End reminded me of the industrial cities of England's North End, albeit with the exception that these days the buildings here mainly house Italian restaurants. Apparently these are the best in the US, although I was still too full from breakfast to contemplate sampling one. The North End also houses various old churches and houses of persons involved in the Independance malarky, as was apparent every time my path crossed the Freedom Trail. It was also the site, on 15 January 1919, of one of the world's most bizarre disasters. A tank of molasses (a kind of treacly syrup used to make rum) blew up and sent two million gallons of sugary gloop surging through the North End, taking out 21 people and injuring some fifty more, and causing a 12 foot tsunami in the harbour that sank a boat. Apparently locals reckon that you can still smell molasses on hot days in the North End. It was quite warm today and I took a good sniff, but I'm sorry to report couldn't make out a distinct molassy smell.



Heading down towards the sea I came across the various wharfs (wharves?), the busiest of which is Long Wharf, from where various ferries depart for harbour island or whale-watching trips. This region is very much on the tourist map and the Christopher Columbus Park was rammed with people taking in the sun by the sea. Not that you can actually see the sea proper from here as there is so much reclaimed land in the way it's difficult to see where the sea actually begins.









I finished my tour by meandering between the skyscrapers of the Financial District in order to get to the Park Street T station. I quite enjoyed walking between these majestic behemoths, and praised the Freedom Trail for attracting the mob away from here. Just a block away from the packed wharf I came across the wonderfully quiet Post Office Square Park (photo below). The Financial District had been given a drubbing in my guide book for being "impersonal, claustrophobic, and the essence of a big city", and no doubt during the week this region is packed with suits, but on this sunday afternoon I really enjoyed being here.









Boston's really interesting in that every neighbourhood seems to have its own characteristics, from the style of buildings to the people who populate them. I'm sure I have much more to discover!

Sept 11

It's September 11th today, and the mood is appropriately sombre. The news channels have been full of 9/11 stories for the last week. Last night ABC screened the first part of "The Path to 9/11", a 'docu-drama' that, despite their disclaimer declaring "for dramatic and narrative purposes, the movie contains fictionalised scenes, composite and representative characters and dialogue, as well as time compression", has been panned for giving a distorted view of the Clinton administration's attitude to the terrorist threat. The three main sticking points are:

1. The film's claim that the Clinton administration was too preoccupied with the Monica Lewinski affair to deal with the threat.
2. The administration was too wimpish to kill Bin Laden when they had the chance.
3. The Secretary of State informed the Pakistanis of the missile attacks before they occurred, and someone in Pakistan then tipped off Bin Laden.

I suppose the accuracy of the film will be debated for a long while. I watched it, mainly because it was on one of two channels that I can watch on my TV. (Yes, I have a TV! It was brought round by someone from work who was going to tip it anyway. But I haven't got cable yet and the signal at my gaff is terrible, so I have a choice of ABC news or a channel of infomertials. I find it quite ironic that since I came to the US I have a fewer TV channels than when I was back in Blighty.)

Of course, while the main focal points of the 9/11 tragedy were New York City, Washington DC and the field near Shanksville where the fourth plane ditched, the two planes that went into the WTC took off from Boston's Logan Airport. It's that proximity that I have here now that makes the whole thing more 'real' - and scary - than it did from the other side of the Atlantic.

FitRec

I have found the university Fitness and Recreation Center (sic). I found it because apparently I need access in order to to join the karate club, as I intend to do, and also because I decided to go for a swim. Now, I'm please to say that it's very impressive. Four floors of sportshalls, squash courts, cardio machines, resistance machines, running tracks, punch bags, competition and recreation pools, and spas. After a good wander around gawping at the facilities, I found a locker room (read changing room) for the swimming pool. After I'd got changed I realised that there were no lockers free. Well this was strange, given that there were about 200 lockers in the room and there were certainly not 200 men using the pool! I put my T shirt back on and went back outside to speak to somebody official.

"This might seem like a stupid question, but how do I use a locker in the changing rooms?"
"Sorry, they're all taken I'm afraid"
(Yes I can see that) "By people who are not here at this moment in time?"
"Er, yes."
"So where do I put my stuff then if I want to go for a swim?"
"You can use one of the day lockers if you want"
"Right, so where are they?"
"Down the corridor down there" (points away from the changing rooms)
"So I've got to get changed in there, walk the length of the building over there in my swimming shorts to deposit my stuff and walk all the way back to the changing rooms to enter the pool. Is that what you're telling me?"
"Yes. I'm afraid it's not very well designed"
(Cheers, Sherlock) "No it's not"
"I can put you on the waiting list for a locker if you want, but it's a long wait."
"How long, exactly?"
"About a year"
"A year! OK, well you might as well put me down anyway. Do I have to pay for the day lockers?"
"Not if you've got a lock"
"What if I haven't?"
"You can hire one from us for a dollar"
(Ah here we go) [Sigh] "OK then"
...

After this palaver, I eventually entered the pool area (past the clearly incorrect sign saying "Pool Closed"), and wandered over to the recreational pool, which was slightly smaller than the competition pool and had various polystyrene shapes and rubber rings floating in it, along with a serpentine channel around which a current flowed and an associated spa. I was about to enter the water when a life guard stopped me and said the only bath I could enter without a swim cap was the spa. Bloody hell, all I wanted was a float in a swimming pool! I wasn't going to go back out again to buy a swim cap so I contented myself with sitting in the spa ("Do not stay in spa for longer than 10 minutes to avoid overheating") for 40 minutes. When I showed no signs of being dangerously overheated, I got out and asked the life guard if there was a sauna, expecting the answer to be no. Yes there was, he informed me but it's only available to faculty and staff, he was afraid. Aha! My luck had turned! I gleefully informed him that I was a member of staff and duly acquired the code to the staff changing room. Which was so much nicer than the student changing rooms! And it had a sauna with stones on the heater and everything! So from then on I've started every morning with a dip in the spa and a sauna. It's a very nice way to start the day. And, given that it's Friday today, I'm going to finish it in a very nice way by wetting the inside of me instead.

Beer

Up until last night I was a saddo. Going to the pub was a solo affair, sitting self-conciously at the bar trying to have a conversation with a busy barman and attempting to avoid looking like someone with no friends. I inevitably failed, as the barman would be more interested in talking to the group of female students down the other end of the bar, and said group of females would view me with undisguised contempt. But not anymore, haha! Last night I went to the pub with a bonafide group of 'people I met'. OK, so they were physicists and I'm probably still a saddo but at least I was a saddo in company. The department had held a party in order to welcome the new PhD students and afterwards a few students and I (I was the only staff member to go out) went to the pub. We first went to The Dugout, which is a scruffy studenty place over the road from my office, and from there we repaired to the Boston Beer Works which is a "brewpub" (i.e. they brew their own beers) situated next to the Fenway Park baseball stadium.

Now, there are various issues with suppin' a pint in the States:

The first is getting someone to go with you, and as you have probably gathered this isn't the easiest of tasks. If you are lucky enough to entice an American to the pub for a beer it will probably be for just that - a beer. More likely it will be for an iced tea or some other abomination.

Second, you need to get into the pub, and without some form of ID (it has to be American or a passport) you won't get in. This country has some strange topsy-turvy laws. At 18 you're old enough to enter the military and die for your country but you can't buy a pint. So I have to carry my passport with me until I obtain a Massachusetts driving licence, which isn't ideal. Anyway, in some respects being 27 and asked for ID in a pub is quite nice!

Third, whatever beer you order, you won't get a pint of it. It might look like a pint glass (the US pint is slightly smaller than the British pint), but it won't be full as the theivin' buggers have a habit of leaving the top inch empty. I have found it best to order a '20oz' beer and make sure they fill it to the brim (this is the Yorkshire Tea Party blog afterall!).

Fourth, whether you've ordered a pint of ale or lager it'll be cold and fizzy. Why this is the case I don't know, but cold and fizzy bitter is just, well, I don't know it's just... wrong! And US beer is generally too hoppy for my taste, but at least they try and I do appreciate the range of beers they have here. I was surprised to find that I can buy Boddingtons, Bass or Guinness in most pubs, but to be honest I'd rather have a good local brew like Sam Adams than a bad imported one.

Finally, the dark art of tipping. I just haven't got used to it yet - the concept of tipping a barman for opening a tap for thirty seconds and then extending his arm to put the full glass on the bar is just strange. I know all the arguments about the wages being poor and the bar staff depending on the tips for money etc. but for me a tip should be an optional payment for good service, not a mandatory payment for them doing their job adequately. In other words, they should get paid more in the first place. The result for the punter is that if you don't tip at the bar, you won't get served by that barman again. Ah, but then, how much does one tip? A dollar (or two) per visit, a dollar per drink, fifteen or twenty percent of the bill? I haven't figured it out yet so I just ask the native I'm with - oh, that's assuming I did manage to get one into the pub in the first place.

The result of all this is that simply ordering a pint is a minefield for the unsuspecting Yorkshireman. Happily, it's one that I'm prepared to brave as many times as it takes for me to become good at it.

Labor day

Today is Labor (sic) day, which is celibrated, ironically, by being a public holiday. According to Wikipedia, "The origins of the American Labor Day can be traced back to the Knights of Labor [a kind of working men's union] in the United States and a parade organized by them on September 5, 1882 in New York City... Forms of celebration include picnics, barbecues, fireworks displays, water activities, and public art events" (their Oxford comma). I can't claim that it's a bank holiday, though, because:

1. I went into a bank and opened an account today
2. It's sunny and I'm in my shorts again

Anyway, I thought I'd share some piccies with you.

This is the outside of my flat (it's the nearest ground floor window):



This is the street in Cambridge where I live:



This is the little park outside the house my flat's in, where people sit and read or do excercises:



And this is the view of Boston from the BU bridge, which is on my way to work:



I'll get a night-time version of this online soon.

Furniture update: I now have a bed (yey) and a futon, both of which I acquired from the MIT furniture exchange.

Anyway, as it's a bank holiday (or not, it seems), I really shouldn't be in the office at half past six.

Latitude

As befits a bank holiday weekend, it's raining. The weather hitherto has been very pleasant, in the twenties with a mild breeze and strong sun. That's the thing - with all the talk of Boston's freezing winters I forget that with a latitude of 42 degrees we're actually reasonably far south here - comparable with Rome's 41 degrees - so when the sun does come out it's quite intense. Another side-effect is the fact that the transition between day and night is earlier than back home, and occurs very fast indeed. Tonight in Boston the sun will set at 7.15pm, compared with Leicester's 7.49pm, but well before 8pm it will be pitch dark. So no lazy late-summer evenings sitting in a beer garden drinking G&T then. Another curiosity is that the 'bite' out of last night's waxing moon was much lower than I'm used to, but I'm sure no one else cares in the slightest.

Bedding

As promised, I went to a shop called Bed, Bath, and Beyond! (my Oxford comma) to purchase bedding. Like everything American this place was huge, and was laden with stacks and stacks of household items along with an equal number of newly-arrived students karting them out. I made my choice simple enough by locating the cheapest bedding I could find, which was easy enough for everything except the duvet. All I wanted was a duvet. Could I find something labelled a "duvet", could I hell as like. I found a duvet cover, so presumably the things existed, but all I found was a bewildering array of fiberbeds (sic), featherbeds, comforters, alternate down blankets and alternate comforters, each with a "threadcount" and some special reason why it was the best thing you will ever have the fortune to buy (for only $399 plus tax!!!). Even the pictures didn't help, because they all depicted smiling, seriously comfortable people lying ON TOP of the particular bedding item. Were these some kind of mattress covers? Is that what "comforter" meant? Well, in the end I thought bugger this for a game of soldiers and just bought something that at least looked like it should be a duvet, even if it's designed to, I don't know, drape over the walls or something. So I ended up lugging two pillows, a possible duvet, and all associated sheets and coverings (including shams - what is a sham? I have no idea, but I now own two of them) the mile back to my apartment (see - I'm getting used to the lingo). Once there I unpacked it all and realised that I'd bought the world's worst sheets/coverings and that the pillow cases were far too small to fit the pillows in. Undeterred, I pumped up the (single) airbed and ceremoniously covered it with the (double) sheets etc. Tired out from my walk I flopped onto the bed for a well-earned rest. Only to find that the airbed was quietly deflating, slowly but surely dumping me on the floorboards. A quick inspection revealed underneath what is technically know in the trade as "an 'ole". Bugger. This now being half past nine at night I wasn't in the frame of mind to tramp all the way to a shop in the hope of them selling a puncture repair kit. So, I resigned myself to the floor for the night, and surprise, surprise I had the worst night's sleep I've had in a long time. Never mind, the good ol' jet lag kicked in this morning, waking me up at 5am anyway. The consolation is that I discovered my morning walk to work involves crossing the "BU bridge", which allows a spectacular view of Boston (photos pending) that I paused and gazed at for a good few minutes, and I'm sure I will every day.