There'll Be Stahs in Your Pahk

That's right. Every sound uttered by a Bostonian was repeated with aplomb and a hand gesture by the 7 year old. "I know he's from Boston 'cause he said 'heah' instead of 'here'."

"I'm sure he did honey. Now stop that. You're gonna get us hurt."

"Heah, heah, heah, Bawston, Bawston Bawston."
"Stop that right now."
"Heah, heah. Bawston, Bawston. Motha, can we go to a pahk?"

It's a testament to the good nature of the city folk that we made it home in one piece. And it was such a great place to visit. I had been there once before but that was two decades ago when visiting my student brother and the entire memory is one of dark basement bars. I didn't say it was a bad memory, but anyone who has ever survived a pub crawl would understand that now that I have entered damnable, respectable tourista age, this absolutely qualifies as a first visit.

I fell in love with Boston when I fell in love with Johnny Tremain. It's a simple as that. Now that my chances of scoring more likely fit within the catagory of a toothless and tenacious John Adams, the city still holds its sway.

I walked about violating my most sacred of travel rules, displaying a crumpled up map at all times. (I didn't care. The streets got confusing. I kept getting lost. I didn't care looking like a tourist. With one in five individuals being students or connected with the universities in and around the city - I can't remember what the tour guide said - I figured that another 10% had to be visiting next of kin and almost fogotten lovers and then another 5% cheap tourists, what with it being the discount month of February.) So I was open season for a well intentioned local who saw me fumbling. I had already passed the Omni Parker, the haunted hotel where Dickens was to have placed A Christmas Carol and was looking for the Old South Meeting House. I could have hit it with a stick, and kind of knew it, when the man said to my daughter and me, "Can I help you ladies?"

(con't after I get some work done)