Boston Magic

 I remember my first introduction. I was young, maybe 8 or 9 years old and it was the fourth of July. My brothers were still outside playing with the neighbor kids after driveway fireworks, and my mom nudged me inside. She flipped on our old Sony tv as I laid down on the floor, propping myself up on my elbows. Before I knew it, the music of John Williams and the Boston Pops were performing their magic, and I was completely captivated. Their compositions were unlike any music I'd ever heard. I distinctly remember imagining what it would be like to be there in person, to be one of the thousands of spectators on the lawn, sitting on my own picnic blanket, with my arm around my kids singing God Bless the USA. As I sat there and transcended into musical nirvana, I was sure Boston, not Disney World, must me the most magical place on earth.

But it wasn't exactly what I had expected.

Thirty years had drifted by and so had my illusion. First of all it was March, not July, snow drifts replacing green grass and picnic blankets. This was a solo trip, not a family trip (a decision I was now regretting), and true to my southern form, I had forgotten my gloves.

"Mam', MAM', you've been standing here way too long." A traffic attendant was trying to get my attention. Apparently I was causing kinks in the system because my driver could not find me. The presence of the black-jacketed crowd around me seemed to intensify with each passing moment until  the long-awaited silver Sienna finally pulled around. I was on my way.

The route carried me down the infamous Boylston Street, a pleasant surprise. The colorful row houses stood strong and bold against the looming sky, yet simultaneously cozy nestled in next to each other. The tree-lined sidewalks, front door steps, and beautiful people walking at a contemplative pace brought comfort and ease, and an unexpected welcome.

As I arrived at my hotel, a wave of loneliness, rather than excitement, came over me. Traveling to a new city completely by myself was not yet a normal thing for me. I was confident I could figure it out, but also wished to share the novel experience with someone. The first night I scoped out my options for dinner in Copley Square, and convinced myself that I was a freakin' thirty-eight year old woman and could sit confidently at a table for one. In fact, I planned it that way. I walked to the restaurant with a bold step. I could do whatever the heck I wanted to do....and I planned on living it up. Yes, I would definitely be back in my hotel room by nine pm, with carefully selected books as my companions, living it up.

The next morning, I decided to walk to one of the many local coffee shops in the area. I chose a quaint little spot called Trident Booksellers and Cafe. The place was full of charm with a touch of Boston fanfare; an interesting merger between locals and tourists. Walking in, one might think that they have accidentally wandered onto the set of a box office rom-com, the ones where couples with complicated love stories linger between the aisles. Yes, this was definitely a place for writers, poets, and romantics: the essence of the shop calling them in until they were part of the essence themselves, a sort of chicken-or-the-egg effect. I knew I could have realistically spent hours in a place like this, but it was an atypical day for winter weather in Boston, and I felt like walking.

The Boston Public Library was somehow not on my original list of places to see, but it was just around the corner from my hotel and I decided it would be worth the stop. I was not, however anticipating seeing them just outside the front entrance.

Backpacks and eighteen to early twenty-somethings were everywhere I turned. With thirty-five institutions in the city alone and over fifty in the surrounding area, I guess you are bound to run into them. But living day-by-day in a sleepy suburban town there was an altogether different demographic, and I realized I had missed seeing this age group. They livened things up on the sidewalks and seemed generally enthusiastic about life.

I entered through the glass doors and knew I had made the right decision to come here. The scale and architecture of the buildings alone were worth the trek. Not knowing what was before me made each turn, each passageway, each staircase a new and novel experience. I soaked in the adventure of it all, and took my time wandering through the interior, a treasure hunt of sorts. For a few minutes I felt as if I was a transposed-Belle (from Beauty and the Beast), standing in awe of the grandeur of the rows and rows of books, but mostly in awe of what had been waiting for me here. A sense of childhood wonder permeated my being as I left the building.

Day two led me to The Public Garden, and to my naivety, gray mush. I did see McCloskey's ducks and GW, but then decided to head across town to Cambridge. On the way there,  I wondered what it would feel like to walk across one of the most distinguished university's in the world? Would it be any different than walking across my own backyard? Probably not. Yet this was a historical landmark in our country if nothing else, and maybe there was something to be learned. I decided the Harvard book store would be my starting point. I would pick up a few things for the kids, and then walk across the Yard.

It was raining when my driver pulled up to the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Plympton Street, adding to the illustration of the unfolding story I would be a part of, if only for a few hours. The town center of Cambridge is a visual feast of charming storefronts and architecture, much like it's British cousin. The Harvard Book Store is similar to the BPL with all it's nooks and crannies, wooden ladders, and bookshelves reaching to the ceiling. I took my time meandering through the children's section, the hobbies and crafts, and found my way to the colorful boxes of sharpened pencils and miniature composition books in the front. Those were both coming home with me.

I left the store inspired to see more. I crossed the street and saw one of the four gates. "Enter to grow in wisdom" was etched in stone above me. I walked through, ready. Almost on cue, a student with a trombone led a company of environmental protesters across my path. They did not look particularly angry or passionate about their cause, however. They were smiling, laughing; those with instruments playing upbeat tunes. I watched as the group gained steam with the joining of friends along the way. Protests, by nature, invite people in to stand up for the injustices of the world. I silently wondered how many of the students were there for the protest, and how many were just looking for a place to belong.

I finished up my tour of Harvard with that thought in mind, my lesson for the day. Solo travel gives you the opportunity to explore, to adventure, and to see the things that spark joy and wonder. But no matter where you are on the map or what accolades you can boast, I believe a sense of belonging is the space that truly helps us grow, helps us learn, helps us be who we are supposed to be.

After three days in this magical city, it was time to go home. I found my gate, ready to get back to Atlanta.  Coincidentally, Georgia on my Mind played softly over the speakers, in sync with my thoughts. I would be back, though. And next time it would be with my family. They needed to see Boston, to experience a little bit of wonder....and we might just bring our picnic blankets, too.