How Many Pond Streets are in Boston?
Maybe I'm better-suited for the west coast.
My friend Tom used to live in Boston. He’s still there quite a bit, but not last week when I was in town. Still, he was a great local expert to have a text away, especially for situations like this:
This happened on my way out of Boston on Tuesday. While driving on Pond Street, my map told me to turn left on Pond Street. Then turn right on Pond Street. Then turn left again on … Pond Street.
And that pretty much sums up how I felt during the whole dizzy, wet, discombobulated Woodstock and Boston trip. Like I was going in circles to nowhere. It’s probably more of a me problem than a Boston problem. This was my second visit.
The first was almost two years ago, when the migraines were really ramping up. That trip, I took the train from New York City to Boston to see a third Afghan Whigs show, promptly throwing up as soon as I got into my studio, and missing the show. The next day I spent hours writing in a coffeehouse in the Back Bay neighborhood before flying home. Which you know I love, but it wasn’t how I planned to spend my first trip to Boston.
My second trip went similarly, even though I allowed myself more time to recover from traveling. I stayed in another unlikely studio, this time in Jamaica Plain, Tom’s old neighborhood. A holly bush he planted for his oldest’s first Christmas loomed in a yard down the block from the tucked back from the street electrician’s cottage whose basement was my home for two nights.
Boston, New York, and Philadelphia—these old cities with far more people than space—weren’t meant for a claustrophobic like me, despite what I believed when I was a kid, dreaming of a life in Manhattan. I’m okay with Midwest sprawl, to an extent. California hits my sweet spot when it comes to density.
While unloading my car—I had a parking space which might have been the only one in Boston—a little girl next door rode her bike over and we had a good, long talk about biking. Specifically, the new bike she was expecting for her upcoming fourth birthday.
The fact that children don’t shun me gives me hope that the foul mood that permitted my Woodstock and Boston trips might not be a full-blown personality disorder. It just felt like one.
I don’t know where to begin in Boston. The stuff that brings most tourists to Boston—American history—kind of disgusts me these days. I don’t know. Maybe if I’d gone to the site of the Boston Tea Party I would have felt more energized to fight what’s happening in the U.S.A.
The main tourist things I wanted, I was able to get delivered: a lobster roll and whoopee pie.
On the flight home I finally pinpointed why I’ve felt so lost and unable to start in Boston: it doesn’t have the robust coffee communities I gravitate towards. Inevitably, my first stop in any new city is a coffee place I’ve been greatly anticipating. In Boston, best as I can tell, Dunkin’ Donuts runs this mother. Doing some research didn’t turn up much in the way of local shops doing anything out of the ordinary. Maybe if I’d gone closer to Cambridge and the universities I might have found what I was looking for.
The head injury and migraine from Woodstock were still front and center, though, so I didn’t risk missing another concert by venturing out too far. And it worked! I made it to the Afghan Whigs show with my friends on Monday night and it was fantastic!
While Natalia and Stephanie headed to the front by the stage, Beth and I took ADA seats—a cushy chair and a couch—off to the side. Since I started using ADA seating I’ve encountered so many different types of seats, locations, and methods of getting to them. This one, like a lot of other old theaters that have limited ability to retrofit for elevators, involved a security guard with the most perfect Boston accent leading us through the bowels of the theater to a spot that was very comfortable, but not great for seeing the band since it was a side view with a lot of light interference.
I’m 5’3” tall. Out of all the thousands of concerts I’ve attended in my life, I’ve think I’ve been able to see something other than the view between some tall dude’s shoulder blades maybe 14 times. I was fine with cuddling up on the couch. A blanket would have been nice. Maybe my cat. Just like watching concert videos at home, but with a lot less weed.
The band was on fire. Tight and thundering, my future ex-husband Greg Dulli sounding even better on the edge of 61 than he did when he first swiveled my head in 1996 the night I first heard him growl, “Got you where I want you, motherfucker,” on The Conan O’Brien Show, causing 23-year-old me to hit full peak womanhood.
I think he’s keeping me from shifting into menopause now, this human estrogen-boosting patch.
Since I’m seeing them again on Wednesday in their hometown of Cincinnati, then in a few weeks when the tour ends in Los Angeles and Joshua Tree, I’ll save any show reviews for later. So far they’ve played the same set list for every show, which is also fine with me. A little variety would be nice, but as it is they’ve dusted off some of my favorite older songs that I’m thrilled to finally experience live.
While waiting for the doors to open with Natalia, Beth, and Stephanie, an absolutely stunning woman joined us. I didn’t catch who she knew in our group, but I wasn’t me, which was probably clear by the slack-jawed stare I could’t tear away from her. She smiled at me and said, “I was on the cover of [the band’s 1992 album] ‘Congregation.’”
So I screamed like I was being murdered right as the doors opened and we were swept up before I could act like a normal person.
Sorry I’m an idiot, Timika!
This is part of what brings fans together to celebrate a band’s 40th anniversary, these moments of recognition and beauty. Of seeing parts of the art and ourselves that have survived all this time.
My generation isn’t going to have a lot 40th anniversary tours, because so many of our great musicians didn’t even make it to 40 years old. I feel like I’ve been grieving musicians who died too young since I hit adulthood, and it hasn’t stopped.
I shouldn’t have to consider myself lucky for being 53 years old and still being able to see my four favorites—Afghan Whigs, Wilco, Patti Smith, and Bruce Springsteen—mostly intact. I can’t add a fifth band to the list, because Joe Strummer was only 50 when a genetically flawed heart took him away.
There’s a lot of “what ifs” that sneak into the celebrations. What if we’d all survived?
I’ve dwelled on this for decades. Now? I’m grateful to mark milestones in cities where I run in circles, injure my brain, fuck up, hug people I’ve only met online, and eat lobster rolls in bed.
I’m headed to Cincinnati next. Wanna buy me a coffee or a scoop of Cincinnati chili ice cream?