Boston by Brian Schofield
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It’s seven am on a Saturday morning in Boston, and the only signs of life are a paper boy, a pair of joggers and a pale-faced, confused-looking Brit, wandering round in search of a cup of coffee and a 24-hour tourist attraction. Aah, jet lag.
You can sniff lavender oil, glug melatonin and wear a lead-lined eye mask all you like, but when yesterday’s lunchtime is today’s dawn, you’re always going to be up with the bin men. Which, curiously, suits me fine, because jet lag is part of the question I’m in Boston to answer – is it really worth visiting an American city just for the weekend?
It’s simple enough – transatlantic flights are faster, seriously cheaper and (on some airlines) noticeably more comfortable than ever before. And if you live close to a large UK airport, the schedules permit a full 48 hours in the States while taking so little time off work that an imaginary dental check can cover your tracks.
But is the thrill of the visit, the short, sharp shock to the senses that all great American cities deliver, and the unbeatable Monday morning kudos of it all, worth the 12 hours cabin time, the body-clock chaos and the not unnoticeable amount of money involved? That’s why I’m taking an early morning stroll through the chilly splendour of Boston Common, facing the most important decision of the day – where to buy the coffee. It’s a choice that will determine which of the two very different populations that warily cohabit this city you’re going to spend your weekend with.
Option A is to walk into a Dunkin’ Donuts (the chain that Boston gave to the world) and order a ‘cawfee, cweem an’ sugah’, thus acquiring the polystyrene street accessory that will immediately side you with one version of Boston – the Boston of dock workers and union leaders, Irish and Italians. Or Option B, turn left at any time and walk straight into a chrome and stained wood coffee shop, choose from an infinite variety of lattes, slump into a chic brown leather-effect sofa and enter the spirit of the unquestioned capital of liberal, genteel America. I chose Dunkin’ Donuts and headed off to sightsee, practising my ‘Howyadoin?’.
The Freedom Trail is an ingenious brickwork path that leads visitors past a dozen pertinent landmarks connected to Boston’s role in the American Revolution. It tours the most European of US boroughs – ‘European’ because it’s possible to get around on foot and to travel through several centuries in a few paces.
The path takes in both the old and new State Houses, the graves of the heroes of the Revolution and the home of Paul Revere, whose fabled horse ride forewarned the rebels of an English counterattack. But the real treats are incidental. The Trail passes through the Saturday morning fruit and vegetable market, the hawkers here delivering a buzzing oral history of the city. Dozens of accents and ethnicities clash with the classic Boston brogue. The path also crosses Little Italy, where the native tongue seems to be a 70/30 Italian/English blend and every restaurant looks like it needs more walls built to remember all the heroes who have spooled a platter of home-made spaghetti here.
That afternoon, I cross the tracks into Beacon Hill. This is a neighbourhood of huge cars and tiny dogs, power-walks and lunching ladies. You could return to your hotel laden with earthenware and candles for the needy in your life, but the Friday flight catches up with you eventually, and I chose instead to enjoy that priceless weapon in the weekend city-breaker’s arsenal – a nap.
Boston is well-equipped for a night on the tiles and its countless pubs would host an excellent stag or hen night. But long nights and short drinks mix badly with 48-hour visits to foreign time zones, and the city is awash with safer Saturday evening options. On the one hand, there’s the cultural route – perhaps the excellent Boston Symphony Orchestra, or the thriving theatre scene. On the other, there’s that quintessential Boston pastime – watching sport.
An all-too-brief wrestle with my conscience, an even more brief haggle with a ticket tout and I take my place in the ‘nosebleed’ cheap seats in the Boston FleetCenter arena, perched high above a dozen Russian and Canadian blokes beating hell out of each other on an ice-rink. Meantime, I try to work out how to clap, drink beer and wrap my face around the Monster Italian Sausage Dog in one smooth movement.
Boston weekenders are likely to hit the pillow at around 3-5am UK time, shattered and mildly aware that they will need the calming influence of a visit to Cambridge, the home to Harvard University and known as Boston’s notoriously refined suburb – America at its most absurdly pleasant.
The quads of Harvard are populated by students blessed with an air of confident belonging that won’t be entirely unfamiliar to anybody who has ever visited one of Britain’s better-known seats of learning. The pavements outside are gridlocked with large prams, prosperous-looking window-shoppers and groups of friends conducting the most sacred communion in town – Sunday brunch. If you can find a seat, devour a full buffet (one joy of a weekend trip is telling yourself that a mere two days eating the American Way can’t kill you) and make your way to the much-loved Harvard Bookstore. In a city dotted with excellent book shops, this is the outstanding trove. You can spend the entire gift budget adding to the bedside in-tray, before wandering to the final whistle of the whistle-stop tour.
The top-floor gallery at the Prudential Tower offers the finest Sunday evening farewell to Boston. The city’s sweeps of red-brick terraces take on a burning magenta tone when the sun’s low, giving you the best possible last view before checking in and heading home.