|The Victura © BJ O'Brien|
Time in New England, took me away. To long rocky beaches and you by the bay. We started a story … (Barry Manilow, Weekend in New England)
A Manilow melody lingering since 1976, steaming bowls of succulent clam chowder, fog enshrouded lighthouses, generations of Kennedys – over the years all of these things have woven together in my psyche, creating a yearning to visit New England. I finally decided to act on that dream, and so one evening in late October 2011, my husband Chris and I flew into Boston.
Ah, Boston – Beantown, the Hub of the Universe, founded in 1630 and state capital of the former Commonwealth of Massachusetts. This historic metropolis along the Atlantic coastline was twinkling that evening like a well-polished set of a dowager's diamonds.
Arrival by air is rather dramatic as Logan airport is situated on an island (named in honor of Lieutenant General Edward Logon, a soldier, a judge and a politician of the early 1900s and, of course, a Harvard grad). Driving a rental car after dark in Boston provided our own navigational challenge. Spiraling away from the airport are the tunnels of Boston – white-tiled rat mazes threatening to send us miles from our destination if we weren't quick enough to end up in the right lane. Once out of the tunnels, the roads knotted like spaghetti, a sudden turning and melding of lanes that befuddled even our American-made GPS.
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