(from a late dinner at the Empire, a week before my wedding)
8 Days.
A week from now I'll be running around taking care of last minute things, or listening to speeches at the rehearsal dinner. Right now, I"m having a rye Manhattan and some oysters at the Empire Tap Room. The bartender, Dean, has a New York, or maybe Boston accent- he's been in California too long for me to be sure. His Manhattan is good. A little light on the vermouth, but he told me what rye he used and stuck around to make sure I was OK with it.
The girl tells me sometimes I'm not reflective enough. I'm not, much, around people. People generally don't want to know what's in my head when we're out-of-doors and carousing, telling stories or wandering through the world. I use up my reflective time when I'm on my own, that sort of self indulgence is best kept solo I think.
There's a guy in the middle of the bar telling his buddy that his brewer friend told him every Guinness beer is brewed in Ireland, they don't have distributors. That takes me back to London, to The Plough in Northolt, where one of my regulars worked at the Guinness brewery down the street. He couldn't wait to get off shift to come to my bar and order a bottle of Budweiser. "I know they drink that Irish shite everywhere, but give me an American import any day". I never did take him up on his offer of a brewery tour. I wonder if that means, in some sense, it never existed.
There's sand in my oysters. I've been so many places on the water- Waikiki, Sayulita, Melborne, the Keys... even Boston. My first week in Boston I took the Blue Line as far as it would go in the unfashionable direction. I got off at a place called "Wonderland" (why wouldn't you?) where years later Steve would take Elise Mandel to a swing dancing celebration at an old fashioned dance hall. I walked out to the cold empty beach and watched airplanes land at Logan across the bay. I thought, I could live here. Kayak in the morning, take the train to work. Come home and take my shoes off, walk along the beach on my way home, sand in my toes, and watch airplanes landing and taking off all night. I ended up on Powderhouse across from Tufts on the second floor of a house. It overlooked a big sunny, grassy field where the students would play volleyball and soccer and frisbee in the summertime. But every once in a while, I'd take the train to Wonderland after work and walk along the beach curling my toes in the sand.
At the bachelor party (or technically the night before the party, but with the same people), my groomsmen asked if they were here to celebrate, or talk me out of it. To their credit (and to mine for keeping these guys around), they were totally up for either. When I proposed I asked her if she'd keep going on adventures with me, forever. I don't think she really heard the question at the time, but the answer was yes when I asked it again. I think she means it.
She didn't have vagabond days like I did, I don't know if she's the sort that would have wanted them, but I feel if there was some half-convincing reason to run off to New Orleans, or Oxford, or Fashing, she'd wholeheartedly pack up and set off. I wonder if she'd push for the same if she needed a change of scenery. I suppose I'll find out.
(My bartender is from Framingham, MA, and is quite aware the Bruins lost today)
So...yeah. I haven't mentioned much about the last several months here. Work has been inconsistent and frustrating and busy, but it has always been that way. I've traveled a bit, but not enough to ease the wanderlust. On that front, J and I are taking a 2 week trip to Spain 8 days from now, one week of which will be a cruise from Barcelona to Lisbon on a sailing yacht. My family and friends have been generous in many, many ways the last few months, and it looks like this whole crazy wedding thing is going to be brilliant. I wish I could have fit 15 more people on the invitation list, but as much as I tried, we just couldn't do it. There's more to say, but the bar is clearing out and I should take my musing brain on the road and see what's happening outside on an early summer night.
A week from now I'll be running around taking care of last minute things, or listening to speeches at the rehearsal dinner. Right now, I"m having a rye Manhattan and some oysters at the Empire Tap Room. The bartender, Dean, has a New York, or maybe Boston accent- he's been in California too long for me to be sure. His Manhattan is good. A little light on the vermouth, but he told me what rye he used and stuck around to make sure I was OK with it.
The girl tells me sometimes I'm not reflective enough. I'm not, much, around people. People generally don't want to know what's in my head when we're out-of-doors and carousing, telling stories or wandering through the world. I use up my reflective time when I'm on my own, that sort of self indulgence is best kept solo I think.
There's a guy in the middle of the bar telling his buddy that his brewer friend told him every Guinness beer is brewed in Ireland, they don't have distributors. That takes me back to London, to The Plough in Northolt, where one of my regulars worked at the Guinness brewery down the street. He couldn't wait to get off shift to come to my bar and order a bottle of Budweiser. "I know they drink that Irish shite everywhere, but give me an American import any day". I never did take him up on his offer of a brewery tour. I wonder if that means, in some sense, it never existed.
There's sand in my oysters. I've been so many places on the water- Waikiki, Sayulita, Melborne, the Keys... even Boston. My first week in Boston I took the Blue Line as far as it would go in the unfashionable direction. I got off at a place called "Wonderland" (why wouldn't you?) where years later Steve would take Elise Mandel to a swing dancing celebration at an old fashioned dance hall. I walked out to the cold empty beach and watched airplanes land at Logan across the bay. I thought, I could live here. Kayak in the morning, take the train to work. Come home and take my shoes off, walk along the beach on my way home, sand in my toes, and watch airplanes landing and taking off all night. I ended up on Powderhouse across from Tufts on the second floor of a house. It overlooked a big sunny, grassy field where the students would play volleyball and soccer and frisbee in the summertime. But every once in a while, I'd take the train to Wonderland after work and walk along the beach curling my toes in the sand.
At the bachelor party (or technically the night before the party, but with the same people), my groomsmen asked if they were here to celebrate, or talk me out of it. To their credit (and to mine for keeping these guys around), they were totally up for either. When I proposed I asked her if she'd keep going on adventures with me, forever. I don't think she really heard the question at the time, but the answer was yes when I asked it again. I think she means it.
She didn't have vagabond days like I did, I don't know if she's the sort that would have wanted them, but I feel if there was some half-convincing reason to run off to New Orleans, or Oxford, or Fashing, she'd wholeheartedly pack up and set off. I wonder if she'd push for the same if she needed a change of scenery. I suppose I'll find out.
(My bartender is from Framingham, MA, and is quite aware the Bruins lost today)
So...yeah. I haven't mentioned much about the last several months here. Work has been inconsistent and frustrating and busy, but it has always been that way. I've traveled a bit, but not enough to ease the wanderlust. On that front, J and I are taking a 2 week trip to Spain 8 days from now, one week of which will be a cruise from Barcelona to Lisbon on a sailing yacht. My family and friends have been generous in many, many ways the last few months, and it looks like this whole crazy wedding thing is going to be brilliant. I wish I could have fit 15 more people on the invitation list, but as much as I tried, we just couldn't do it. There's more to say, but the bar is clearing out and I should take my musing brain on the road and see what's happening outside on an early summer night.