Finally, a post!

I wouldn't want to presume such a thing as a readership but in case these ramblings are noted by anybody, probably a hermit in Outer Mongolia, I should apologise for the lack of posts recently. On the one hand this is good, because it means I've been busy and should have something to say, but on the other hand it means that my friends have been contacting me asking if I'm still alive. The answer is, I'm afraid, yes. I'm sat in front of a spangly new laptop, yey, which means I can now write my posts at [hic] home whilst [hic] enjoying a bottle of [hic] Californian white. Did I say "home"? Indeed I meant "my flat in Boston", different to "home", which is of course Yorkshire, or to be more precise, Leicester, which is a city in Yorkshire for all those foreigners who might read this.

Anyway.

Em came to see me last week! :-) Of course, I've missed her like nothing else while I've been here, and it was more than a treat to have her here for a week. I would have liked to to say that I turned up three hours early at the airport and was eagerly awaiting her arrival with a bunch of flowers (as was meant to happen, honest Em), but anybody who knows me is aware that, even if these had been my intentions (as of course they were, my darling) then something would go amiss. The first is the fact I forgot the flowers, which I have to admit is partly my fault. The other is that I trusted the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority (the T) to get me to the airport on time. I turned up at the Central Square T station with a T token (a token, issued by the MBTA in return for $1.25, that one would assume would let me onto a T train, as they do on all the other T trains I've been on. Ha ha! Yeah right.) I of course had to queue up at the machine to exchange my token for a ticket to let me on the platform, and in doing so I BAed*. Obviously I hadn't allowed any leeway in my plans so this set me back ten minutes. When I got South Station I transferred to the silver line, a bus which apparently took 17 minutes to get to the airport. OK, so it might have got to the airport in 17 minutes, but it took a damn sight longer to get to terminal E, which was both my destination and, of course, the last stop at the airport. As the bus fought its way past a queue of fifty others at terminal C I was aware that, even allowing for baggage and immigration, I was cutting it fine. After a few civilizations had risen and crumbled to dust I arrived at terminal E, and pegged it up the stairs to Arrivals. Desperately looking around, I couldn't see her. Balls, I thought, she's arrived already and caught a taxi or summat, am I going to be in for it! How pleased was I when I saw her walking out of the arrivals gate... "Hello!" said I, "What took you so long, I've been here ages!" She didn't believe a word, of course, because I was panting like a dog and my face was a bright shade of scarlet. For once I had cause to bless airport delays...

So I hit upon the idea of hiring a car and heading north, which is, of course, always the best direction to head in. I had left it too late to actually be able to choose the garage and type of car, so I had to make use of the best available: a Toyota Avalon at a garage 0.6 miles from my flat (according to the website anyway, ha ha you know what's coming don't you...) Yes, it was actually 0.6 miles from my street, which anybody who's been to an American city will know doesn't help in the slightest when it comes to actually pinning down a location, as the buggers go from one side of the city to the other, five light-years away. Anyway, we eventually arrived at the garage after spending what seemed like the majority of the morning walking to the bloody place and signed on the dotted line. The bloke took me outside, showed me the bumps and scrapes and gave me the keys. We got in and looked around. Well, this wasn't too bad - luxurious interior, GPS, 184 cup holders, the lot. Clarkson would be impressed. And even though I was sitting on the wrong side of the vehicle because of the French Revolution**, I was confident that I'd 'be reet'. Of course I wasn't. I was sat in an automatic car, and I, a PhD in space plasma physics, couldn't even figure out how to use the bloody gear stick thing that wasn't really a gear stick. It wouldn't budge! I got the car instruction manual out, which was useful if I wanted to use the fifty-option central heating or 184 cup holders, but absolutely useless if I just wanted to know how to make the bastard car move forward! After five minutes of informing Em that I, as The Man, of course knew how to work the stupid car and I was just enjoying the scenery, I went back inside and informed the bloke that I was used to a 'stick shift' and asked him how to make the car move. He looked at me like I had insulted his mother and grumbled his way to the car. Apparently I had to press the brake down and push the gear-thingy down to make it move. Of course, dur. Anyway, so we were off! On roads in Boston! Only after I set off did I realise the magnitude of our peril. They come from all sides: left, right, front, back, above, below... I actually think, as a traditional couple in this situation, we were quite candid to each other - I can think of only seven or eight times when we swore at each other. We eventually made it onto the I-95 and headed north, towards Cape Anne, which is a very picturesque (sorry to use that horrible word) region that fits the popular image of New England - small harbour villages with plenty of lighthouses and, at this time of year, colourful foliage. Driving on a motorway in the US takes some getting used to. Obviously there is the wanton abandonment of any road traffic laws that I have allured to in previous posts, but also the concept of a 'slip road' is alien here. "No, it's fine, at every junction we'll let almost stationary traffic merge with a lawless tumult of barely in control vehicles with no problems, what? Eh?" And every now and then Em would calmly inform me that I had forgotten that there was some car to the right of me and she would be most obliged if I would keep both halves of the car on the actual motorway, please. Anyway, I don't know how, but we arrived safely at our destination: Essex, which is in Ipswich (look, I've stopped asking by now). More precisely, we arrived at the Crane Estate, which is one of the most beautiful places in New England, apparently. This place used to belong to a Chicago plumbing magnate (eat your heart out Bill Gates) and is now owned by The Trustees of the Reservations, a kind of approximation to the National Trust. We paid five bucks to park the car, but were informed we couldn't go round the house because it was being used for a wedding. So I guess this is where the first photo comes in:



The Crane Estate was very beautiful. It lay on a hill surrounded by salt marshes and the sea. Here are some more photos:























I'm happy to report that we returned the car with no extra scrapes, and that I only induced one external hoot during the entire day. Not only that, but as we were nearing the garage I commented to Em that I was not a proper Bostonian driver until I had honked at someone. Thirty seconds later, somebody visciously cut me up at a junction and I rammed on the horn and shook my fist... the fact that this turned into a punch of the air and a shout of "Yes!" is of no consequence.

It was a blessing that Em was here. Not least because I could say "Fancy a curry?" and the answer wouldn't be various ways of saying "Pull the other one". We went to a curry house in Kenmore Square that I had heard was pretty good, although as a Leicesterite I was reserving judgement until I had partaken, thank you very much. Anyway, I was wearing a Leicester Tigers top, which I assumed would give us preferential treatment in any curry house around the globe. No such luck. I ordered a lamb vindaloo, and the waiter sucked through his teeth and shook his head "Oh no, no, no, 'tis very hot!" he exclaimed. I informed him that I was used to it and that he should bring it on. Not only that but there was no Bangla and I was forced to drink a Cobra approximation. Anyway, the curry arrived and I'm pleased to say that it was tasty - I would bring other Leicesterites here - but it was not a vindaloo, I'm afraid Sarah. It was more akin to a Nila madras, which I would have been happy about if I'd have ordered a madras... Anyway, the point is that it was much better than the previous curry house I'd been in in Central Square where I'd asked for a vindaloo and they asked me if I wanted it medium or hot, (I said hot, please, and it arrived milder than a diluted korma) so I'd like to assure people that I think I might just survive on the curry front. But a Fed Ex'd bottle of Bangla might do the trick...it's not that I miss the Palace or anything, but, you know... chicken tikka garlic bhuna...

We went whale watching. These trips leave the Long Wharf and take punters out to the Stellwagen Bank, where there is a large underwater plataeu, which forces plankton up to the surface, hence the whales follow and use the place to have a breathe and flap about for the good of the tourist industry. We left Boston Harbour on a catamaran, and I managed to take this cracking shot of Boston:



The vessel was capable of shifting, and they had to move those of us stationed at the bow back inside because the sea was too rough for us to be at the front - which was probably true, as after an hour or so I reckon three quarters of the passengers couldn't give a monkeys about whales and only cared where the next sick bag was coming from. Fortunately I knew the antidote.





When we did eventually get there, we saw some whales! It was slightly spoiled by the fact that whenever a whale was spotted the entire shipful of passengers shoved and elbowed their way to that side of the ship to catch a photo before they all disappeared for good (the whales, not tourists, though the latter has an appeal...) Em and I stuck to one corner, and I mananged to take one or two photos, although I'm afraid I didn't elbow enough to get some great ones:





All too soon Em had to go home, but it won't be long until she's here for good :-) Roll on Christmas, I say!

*Missed a T - Get it? Well I was proud of it, you Philistines!

**Yep, the left side of the road is the most sensible because if you're right-handed, you want to keep your sword nearest potential opponents (assuming, of course, that they'll be stupidly coming towards you). Thus, the aristocracy rode on the left, forcing the peasants onto the right. After the French Revolution, it wasn't a good career move to be associated with the top nobs, so everybody rode on the right. Then Napoleon went and tried to take over the world and it kind of stuck, despite him being mullered at Waterloo... Anyway here's some advice given by the MoT: “Visitors are informed that in the United Kingdom traffic drives on the left-hand side of the road. In the interests of safety, you are advised to practise this in your country of origin for a week or two before driving in the UK.” Does anyone else see the fatal flaw in this advice? Or is it part of the UK government's drive to stop immigration...?