Here is what happened to me on Tuesday, November 2, 2010.
The short story is I went to Boston for the first time and saw The Dresden Dolls, who were reunited after a very long 3 year hiatus, at the very lovely Wilbur Theatre before heading home.
There’s so much more to this story though. It includes things like massive revelations courtesy of one Amanda Fucking Palmer, and being figuratively mugged by a parking garage.
I’ve been planning the trip for a couple of months now. I wasn’t terribly worried about the prospects of going to an unfamiliar city alone, because frankly I’ve had plenty of practice in this area during my stint as a truck driver. If anything, this was far easier because I wasn’t trying to navigate in an 18 wheeler. As long as people knew where I was, and when I expected to be back, I figured everything would be fine. At least if I wasn’t, loved ones would know where to start looking.
People warned me not to drive in Boston, and I was a bit nervous. While it didn’t go as well as it could, it went better than I hoped thanks to my ability to read a map (thanks truck driving school). I was prepared with a good map and directions to the parking garage, and from the garage out of Boston (good thinking on my part since retracing your steps in a vehicle is not an option).
The problem is that Boston clearly wasn’t built to accommodate automobile traffic. The streets are narrow and most of them aren’t wide enough for two lane traffic. Boston has solved this problem by organizing itself into a series of alternating one-ways. This is something I’m familiar with, because I live in a city that found the same solution to the same problem. The similarities end right there however, starting with layout. Troy is planned in a grid pattern, for the most part, meaning that the streets run perpendicular to each other. Boston is laid out in a very fashionable (for the time) wheel pattern, so the streets do no such thing. A wrong turn in Boston is often fixed only by going way out of your way and trying to find your way back. This would all be super okay if it weren’t for the sea of impatient city drivers who will beep at you for simply hesitating for a second to read a street sign, and pedestrians who will cross a street whenever and wherever they feel like it (that part is just like home). Needless to say I allowed myself to be harassed into missing a turn, but managed to find my way back to an acceptable garage a block from my planned destination.
Boston did not give a very good first impression. All I could think about as I emerged from the garage was how much I really fucking hate cities. The place seemed overrun at first and cold. I walked past business men and desperate panhandlers. I passed city hall, a big ugly square building which didn’t fit in with the older architecture or the new shiny tall buildings.
I went to Quincy Market, which I would have been more impressed with if I didn’t work in a mall, and it wasn’t pretty much…a mall. I will say they seemed to have a pretty eclectic food selection. I think I was there all of ten minutes.
At this point I would like to say that hiking in the woods and exploring a city on foot are remarkably similar: It can be disorienting, scary, exciting, and while the main path is safest, taking a couple side trails (provided they’re marked) often leads to remarkable sites.
After Quincy Market, I decided to ditch the tourist route and just walk the less populated areas to see if I can get Boston from a native’s perspective. I was rewarded generously for my efforts.
I found myself wandering the old narrow streets of the antique district. Amanda Palmer says one of the things she loves about Boston is its oldness. I agree, because I fell in love looking at narrow sidewalks and well preserved buildings.
It also depressed me just a bit. Boston managed to preserve its roots while still growing as a major city. I became acutely aware that my city looked like this once, before urban renewal took away most of our city’s heritage in the name of progress that nearly bankrupted us.
My wanderings found me on Longfellow Bridge just as the sun was setting. It was one of the best sunsets I had seen in a long time. I stood there and watched the sun dip below the horizon while the subway cars passed by, shaking the bridge in a disconcerting way. I made my way back over the bridge with my disposition completely changed. Joggers passed by me at an alarming rate (really I’ve never seen so many joggers, no wonder this place hosts a marathon), but I didn’t care, mine was the quick but measured pace of an invigorated explorer.
My route took me though Boston Common after sunset and even though the hot dog vendors were packing it in, the park was filled with people and dogs enjoying a bit of greenery in an otherwise tamed area. I thought to myself that I would very much like to live here. Not forever, but maybe for a year or two.
Dinner was too boring to mention, but on my way there I passed one Brian Viglione in the street. I didn’t say anything to him because what the hell could I say, but it was then that it really hit me: I was going to see one of my favorite bands perform in their hometown; I had made a sort of pilgrimage.
Outside the theatre was bustling with the line of freaks that made it clear you were in the right place (this is said with complete love, by the way). Street performers entertained the waiting crowd including the wonderful Emperor Norton Stationary Marching Band who came into the theater to play on the floor between sets.
I found my way in and ordered a rum and coke. I made that my first and only drink when I was charged a jaw dropping 8 bucks. With my ridiculously expensive drink in hand, I made my way over to the little corralled area that was my assigned section of the floor (side note: this put me directly below Amanda’s mother, who was seated in the box near stage left). I watched the audience watching the performers. Alone in a crowd, I was part of things but strangely separate, and for the first time I realized I was okay with this state of being there, but not quite a part of things. However, that’s a blog for another time.
The show itself was brilliant. There were a couple of fuck ups, but the crowd was in good humor about it because everything else was so perfect. If you have never seen these guys live, you really should make the effort. It wasn’t just as good as before, it was better. The break and the time apart really did both Brian and Amanda a lot of good. They missed each other, and they worked so well together, and you could really tell nobody was phoning it in.
After they played "The Jeep Song", Amanda said something that sparked something in me. The inspiration of that song is breaking up with someone who drives the same Jeep everyone else in Boston drives, causing a constant reminder of pain. She said that now when she sees a black Jeep Cherokee, she’s reminded of this thing that happened that made her write this great song that people like. It turned a bad feeling into a good one. She called it the remarkable trans-formative power of art. She went on to say that if there is something you’re dealing with, you should get it out, make art out of it, and show it to someone. Even if it sucks, you can replace those bad emotions with something else. Instead of thinking, “That reminds me of that horrible thing that happened to me,” you can now think,
“That reminds me of that horrible piece of art I made.”
I was so struck by this because I’ve had a lot of things that have been on my mind and weighing down my soul a bit. I didn’t make anything out of them because I didn’t think anyone would like what I made or understand it. I realized that Amanda is right and art (or at least its creation) isn’t really about everyone else. It’s about taking your life and experiences, creating something from it, showing it to people, and letting them take it from there. If I use these things to create something, it might just get it out of me, or at least change how I look at them…which would be good.
After a two and a half hour set it was time to go home. I got to my car and made my way to the entrance of the garage. The night fee was supposed to be 15 dollars. I apparently did something screwy when I entered the garage, because when I put in my card it said 30. I sat there and stared at the display feeling like I dropped the soap. Then I looked at the bar blocking my way. They had me right where they wanted me. With a resignated sigh, I dug for my debit card and submitted. Bastards. I found my way to the interstate easily enough and paid to be allowed to leave the city, and to use the toll road that got me home.
It was still completely worth it.
