Day 91: Knit Me a Sweater!

The Sunday after Christmas, I helped throw a baby shower for Boston Lindsay at my parents' house. She is one of the many women in my life that is expecting a baby in the spring.

All of these pregnant friends means lots of baby showers in the months ahead. My mom mentioned months before, “You need to learn how to knit so you can make these new moms some gifts.” I think she was kidding.

I was not. And on Day 91, I made my mom teach me how to knit for the thing that I’ve never done before.

My mom walked back to her room and returned with two knitting needles and some yarn attached to a scarf that she had already started. I told her I didn’t want to knit a scarf. There was a reason for my challenge here: I wanted to knit some booties for Lindsay’s baby. Or a hat.

She looked at me, annoyed.

“I don’t know how to knit booties. But if you don’t know how to knit at all you’re not just going to start with making booties,” she said. “You have to learn the basics.”

Once again, my impatience had reared its ugly head. The learning, the perfecting of skills is just not something that I want to deal with. For knitting. Or for anything, really. I’ve tried a lot of things in my 29 years, but I am a Jack of all trades, master of none. I hate that about myself.

Like most skills, there is a natural order of learning to knitting. Learn the stitches, practice them, and once you've mastered the basics, then you can move on to make booties, or hats, or whatever.

I wanted to sit down, learn to knit, and crank out a few pairs of booties right away. I fully expected to take them to Lindsay before I returned to Atlanta and she went back to Boston.

My mom killed that dream. Instead, I learned to knit and purl on her practice scarf.

My dad, who snapped a few pictures of me trying to tackle these stitches said sarcastically, "Wow, I can't wait to read about this in the blog."

True, knitting does not make for exciting reading, or cool pictures, so I'll do us all a favor and keep this short. I look pretty miserable in this picture, but I'm not. That's just intensity. Knitting intensity.

Expectant moms in my life, you can all rest assured that I'll be consulting your registries for your baby gifts this spring. I don't think I'm going to be knitting any booties anytime soon. But if you'd like a piece of the hideous practice scarf my mom and I have been working on, I think I can make it happen.

Day 43: A Green Monstah Goodbye

One day left of the Team Whatever tour, and I'm sure if you asked Mountain Man he'd tell you we saved the best for last because Sunday we went to the one place in Boston that he probably knows more about than Lindsay: Fenway Park.

The last day of vacation, Day 43, was full of more things I've never done before: tour the home of the Boston Red Sox to see the Green Monster and eat New England Clam Chowder in New England.

Part of the reason why Sunday's activities were so much fun for me is because it gave me an opportunity to try out my best Boston accent on words like "chowdah" and "monstah." Sometimes I'd throw a "wicked pissa" and "pahk the cah on Havahd Yad" out just for good measure, but those two phrases were difficult to work into normal conversation. I love a Boston accent, but my version needs a lot of work.

Though not a huge baseball fan myself, I've watched enough Sportscenter and read enough Facebook statuses during playoff time to understand that those who love baseball are serious about it. I had to see what all the fuss was about.

Fenway Park offers tours seven days a week, every hour on the hour. We assumed that on a Sunday afternoon in November we might be some of the few that would take this tour, but there were dozens of people there.

The tour guide led us in and around the park for an hour and she was a wealth of information like Lindsay was the day before. Mountain Man has been going to Red Sox games since he was a little kid, but all he could show me were all the different parts of the park he's sat in and where he was when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004. I confess, I don't remember much of what he or the tour guide had to say.

But there were a few highlights. Fenway, for example, is the oldest Major League Baseball stadium still in use. The wooden seats in the grandstand have been there since the stadium was built in 1912. In right field there is a lone red seat in the bleachers that signifies the longest home run ever hit in Fenway by Ted Williams. The home run measured 502 feet (I didn't remember that, I had to look it up).

The Green Monster is a 37-foot high green wall in left field. The wall is famous for preventing homeruns that might clear the wall in other ballparks. That's all nice and cool and interesting, and the seats over there are where I would want to sit if I went to a game (for the bargain price of $160 a seat, face value). But I couldn't wait to get over there just so I could say "monstah."

The tour took us through the entire park, and behind the scenes to some areas that on a game day we would never have access to. But I still think the best way to see Fenway is to go to a baseball game there, eat hotdogs, drink beers and sing "Sweet Caroline" in the eighth inning. So I'm adding it to the list of things still left to do.

When the tour was over, we said goodbye to Lindsay and Tarek and took them back to Cambridge. Then Mountain Man and I went to the Boston Sail Loft on the Boston Hahbah for our last suppah (sorry, I'll stop). Not quite ready to leave Massachusetts, I ordered a Cape Cod and a cup of the best clam chowder I've ever had. According to Mountain Man's dad, the not-so-secret ingredient in their chowder is dill. The restaurant had a great view and we watched sailors taking advantage of the unseasonably warm temperatures on their boats in the water. We also recapped the entire week, and congratulated each other on having made our crazy idea a reality. Not drama-free, but overall a huge success.

Mountain Man took me to the airport and we said farewell. Our goodbye was weird, and sad. We were both painfully aware that our vacation was over, and it was time to go back to work. Sad. Plus, this wasn't a "see you next time" or "see you at Christmas" kind of goodbye. This was an "I had so much fun. And I'm not sure if or when we'll see each other again" goodbye. Really sad. But perhaps I was most sad because I had the Soul II Soul song "Back to Life, Back to Reality" playing like a soundtrack in my head.



So what about Mountain Man? I know you're all dying to know. All three of you.

Mountain Man has returned to his reality in the mountains, and I have returned to mine in the city. It's been one month since the trip ended, but some days I feel like it happened in another lifetime, and that Mountain Man lives on another planet and not just in another state. After a lot thought and some tears (I know, enough with the crying already), here is all I can tell you:

So far, we haven't quite figured out how to translate our super fun and crazy impulsive trip into anything more than just that. We're still friends, and I know that we care about each other very much. But as my dad has always said, "When it comes to relationships, timing is everything." Timing is everything. But in our case, so is geography. And initiative. And faith.

The first time Mountain Man and I ever met was for a very brief time in Philadelphia. He jokingly said to me after that meeting, "Well, Steph, we'll always have Philadelphia."

Indeed, we will. And now, we'll always have Yosemite, San Francisco (minus the five hours in the Haight), and Boston too. An amazing trip that I won't soon forget.

And maybe that's all it will ever be. And maybe not. I suppose it'll be ok either way.

Day 42: Old Stuff, Without Ducks

When Mountain Man (who grew up near Boston) and Lindsay (who has now lived in Boston for almost five years) asked me what I wanted to see while I was visiting, I said, "I only care about seeing two things: The Green Monstah and really old stuff."

I had only been to Boston one other time while on a road trip with my friend Emily. It was the end of June and the thermometer on my car read 106 degrees. We walked around Harvard, stopped at a friend's apartment that didn't have air conditioning, ate Chicago style pizza (in Boston?) at a chain restaurant and left. Total time in Boston: 4 hours.

This weekend was going to be different. Team Whatever was still in effect in the sense that we had no set schedule and no agenda to follow. But I wanted to see Boston. Really see it. So that was the plan.

Lindsay and I ate brunch at the Friendly Toast in Cambridge, a diner full of vintage decor, hipsters with short bangs and tattoos and an abundance of great breakfast food. Mountain Man returned from his parents' house, met us at the 'T' and off we went to explore the city.
Day 42 would be filled with things that I had never seen or done before, including walking the Freedom Trail, checking out Boston harbor and eating in the North End.

Since they moved to Boston, Lindsay and Tarek have had a revolving door of visitors come and see them. Lindsay said she's done just about every tour there is to do in the city, and there are a lot to choose from. Walking tours, trolley tours, the Duck Tour.

I wanted to go on a Duck Tour since I decided to go to Boston and heard the words, "Duck Tour." The Duck Tour takes place on a World War II amphibious landing vehicle allowing participants to see Boston by land and by sea. Besides offering a thorough tour of the city, the boat also quacks at people on the street as it passes by, which in my opinion, makes it an obvious winner. Mountain Man and Tarek both cringed when I told them separately that I wanted to do it. Tarek also laughed and said "no way." Mountain Man agreed to go along if I wanted to, but I could tell he was hoping to find a way to show me the city that was a little less obvious. Something that didn't scream, "HEY EVERYBODY, LOOK AT ME! I'M NOT FROM HERE!"

After some discussion, I decided I don't need a fancy duck boat or a tour guide dressed up in colonial attire to see Boston. I had Lindsay, who has taken, and now given, every tour in the city, and Mountain Man, who grew up going there. Between the two of them, I knew I was going to see and learn plenty about Boston.

Like CK in Yosemite, Lindsay could have told me just about anything and I would have believed her.

Lindsay: Did you know that's where John F. Kennedy lived when he was a Senator?
Me: No. Awesome!

Lindsay: Did you know only seven colonists died in the Boston Massacre?
Me: Whaaa? No way. (actually it was five, we looked it up)

Lindsay: Did you know that this is where Mother Goose was buried?
Me: Um, no. I didn't even know Mother Goose was a real person. I thought she was made up.

The best way to see really old stuff in Boston is to simply look around. It's everywhere. But the best place to see it in abundance is on the Freedom Trail. It's where history went down.

The Freedom Trail starts at Boston Common and travels two and a half miles through the city's historic landmarks including the Massachusetts State House, Park Street Church and King's Chapel. The Old Granary Burial Ground, because I know you want to know, is where Mother Goose, Paul Revere, Sam Adams and John Hancock are all buried. The cemetery looked liked the set of Thriller. I thought it was awesome.

The entire trail is marked by a red line which I found to be genius, and most helpful. Thank you, Boston Department of Tourism, for making it so easy. Like Mountain Man said, I could already smell freedom in the air, and now, thanks to this red line, I could see it too.

I was counting on both of my tour guides to share the responsibility of telling me about Boston history, but it became evident rather quickly that Mountain Man's knowledge about Boston started and ended with sporting events he attended at Fenway Park and Boston College. He also shared with us that when he and his friends got their driver's licenses, they would drive into the city and hang out at Quincy Market. Lindsay was more than able to pick up his slack, and she shared her wealth of knowledge with us both. She even led us away from the Freedom Trail momentarily so she could show us the birthplace of Benjamin Franklin, where there is now a "Sir Speedy" copy center.

The Freedom Trail ends at Bunker Hill, but we didn't make it all the way there. It was cold and getting dark, so we opted for a coffee and bathroom break instead.

Right in front of Faneuil Hall we saw a group of hip hop dancers surrounded by tourists clapping off-beat to the music. Then we saw a contortionist hanging upside down in front of Quincy Market. No wonder Mountain Man hung out here when he was in high school. It was just like colonial times!

The day ended with our own spontaneous and mini-Boston pub crawl and a delicious Italian dinner in Boston's North End. We returned to Cambridge to meet up with some of Mountain Man's friends, who like San Francisco Elizabeth, knew little to nothing about me or this situation. Instead of waiting for me to go to the bathroom, however, Mountain Man and I just decided to tell them the story about how we ended up there, together.

It may have been nice to quack at people on the street, but my tour of Boston, especially the company, was pretty stellar.

Boston on Dwellable

Day 41: Ahhh, Kitty, Kitty

Mountain Man and I arrived in Boston early to a chilly and cloudy day in Boston. The weather was like a metaphor for the the night before. But the sun was trying hard to peek through the clouds and I took that as a sign.

I wasn't really sure if or when I would forget the fight, but I was determined to not let it ruin the trip. Not without questioning many things, though: Am I too sensitive? (yes) Was the intensity of the fight heightened because of alcohol? (Isn't it always?) Why has this person who says he likes me now hurt my feelings twice in such a short period of time? (I still don't know) Do I believe that he, again, is sorry? (I'm probably an idiot here, but yes)

Considering all this, and more, with 72 hours to go, I decided to forgive Mountain Man, for now, and move forward with our plan to hang out in Boston.

After a nap, of course.

I was staying with my friend Lindsay, who lives in Cambridge. She explained that she would leave a key in her building's mail room so I could get into her place while she and her husband were at work.

"You can let yourself in and rest if you need to," she said, "Just be careful not to let the cats out."

Ugh, I thought to myself. Cats. I had forgotten Lindsay loves cats. I do not. Despite having no pets of my own, and I am definitely a dog person. I don't hate cats, I just haven't met any that I like.

My high school friend Cindy's cat Figaro was crazy and mean. Sudden movements at her house were a big mistake and she often came to school with scratches on her hands and legs from where Figaro had flipped out on her. He never got me, but I never trusted that cat.

When we were roommates, San Francisco Elizabeth's cat used my bathroom mat as a litter box nearly every single day. It annoyed me at first and then it became comical. This cat and I had a mutual hatred for each other.

Perhaps it's also my fear, and the fear of all single girls that by liking cats, there is always the chance of becoming the "crazy cat lady." It's too risky.

I'd rather like dogs.

But Lindsay has cats, so I'd have to modify and adjust and at least tolerate them while in Boston. We arrived at her place, and just as she said they would be, the cats were waiting at the door. We cracked it slightly and tried to squeeze ourselves and our luggage through without leaving enough room for them to escape. Not an easy task.

I found myself talking to the cats like they were dogs.

"Stay. Staaaaaaaay." And they stayed. "Good girl!" Or was it a boy? I had no idea what the pets' names were, so I referred to them as "Boy" and "Girl."

We laid our luggage down and watched them circle both bags looking fascinated. I text messaged Lindsay that we had arrived and she said, "I forgot to tell you, the cats love suitcases." They really did.

I was expecting a weird stare down with these cats when we sat down on the couch, but there wasn't. They didn't walk around "meowing" for apparently no reason and they didn't circle around me with their backs arched looking ominous. The cats were laid back and kept their distance, which I appreciated.

I laughed with Mountain Man that these cats were cool. They were hilarious, actually. And just like that, Day 41's thing I had never done before was meet cats that I actually like.

Alright, there were "Bostony/Cambridgy" things that I did on Day 41, too. Mountain Man and I ate lunch, for example at the Black Sheep restaurant at the Kendall hotel in Kendall Square. Orignially built in 1895 as the Engine 7 firehouse, the structure could accommodate stables for the horses, dormitories for the firemen and coal bunkers. The building was renovated in 2000 and became the Kendall hotel.

After lunch, Mountain Man and I walked among the geniuses at M.I.T. (that's the Massachusetts Institute of Technology for those of you who don't know) and wondered out loud to each other how obvious it was that we did not fit in there. These considerations led to a conversation about our own SAT scores, which more than ten years later, we both still remember. No surprise, I am smarter than Mountain Man. At least I was in 1997.

We walked along the beautiful Charles River, and then Mountain Man got on a train to meet his family for dinner. While at the train stop, I was mistaken for a local by someone asking me for directions. I'm not going to lie, I loved it. I tried to help him as best I could, but the fact that I had no idea where I was quickly shined through and I politely introduced him to the T-stop attendant. Mountain Man saw the whole thing, so he can vouch for me that it really happened.

That night Lindsay, her husband Tarek, one of their friends and I all went to Ole, a Mexican restaurant in Cambridge. We stopped in a bar for a little bit, but all the night before's activity started to catch up to me and it was time to call it a night. Me, willingly calling it a night before closing time? Definitely something I've never done before. I think I'm really growing up.

When we got home Lindsay showed me how her cats, whose names are Zola and Mahsa, can do tricks too. They can sit, shake and jump up and down on their back legs. Impressive. Just like a dog.

Perhaps that's why these are cats that I like.