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Planespotting
Aug. 2nd, 2007 03:53 amI made it my goal today to see the ocean.
The 501 bus apparently will take me to South Station if I wait for it on the proper side of the street. If I wait on the wrong side of the street, which is to say the side of the street where the 57 comes to take me in the same direction, it will not. (Corollary: if you find yourself at South Station and would like to visit me, just find the 501 and take it to Montfern Ave.) From there it was pretty trivial to find the ocean, as well as Museum Wharf (where the Children's Museum lives, and my fond memories thereof, and which I'd also hoped to find). But by the time I'd wandered all over the docks and investigated the tethered hot-air balloon and walked through the arch at the Boston Harbor Hotel (so that's what that is!) I'd managed to lose track of where I was, and had a frustrating time finding a T station. (Eventually I bumped into State, which is accessed through the basement of the old Massachusetts State House, built 1713.) All in all, I walked four or five miles, which feels like a lot on a hot day on an empty stomach.
Here is a map of my perambulations, as best I can reconstruct them. It doesn't include the long stretch of road that passed between fields of postal carrier vehicles, which eventually forced me to backtrack, since it had no turnoffs as far as the eye could see—just white vans like asters parked behind an endless chain-link fence.
But if you zoom into the sharp point of the shark's-fin near milepost 2, you'll see a little spur of land. It's built of massive granite blocks, stacked so a little keyhole of water is visible through the center as you approach. I sat there and dangled my feet over the water, watching the planes touch down at Logan, seawater on three sides of me. Moon jellies drifted below me, and down there it was like thick green glass, and over my shoulder it was like hammered silver, and off below the planes it was like slate.
Six hours after I left, another plane touched down there, and my sweetie was on it.
The 501 bus apparently will take me to South Station if I wait for it on the proper side of the street. If I wait on the wrong side of the street, which is to say the side of the street where the 57 comes to take me in the same direction, it will not. (Corollary: if you find yourself at South Station and would like to visit me, just find the 501 and take it to Montfern Ave.) From there it was pretty trivial to find the ocean, as well as Museum Wharf (where the Children's Museum lives, and my fond memories thereof, and which I'd also hoped to find). But by the time I'd wandered all over the docks and investigated the tethered hot-air balloon and walked through the arch at the Boston Harbor Hotel (so that's what that is!) I'd managed to lose track of where I was, and had a frustrating time finding a T station. (Eventually I bumped into State, which is accessed through the basement of the old Massachusetts State House, built 1713.) All in all, I walked four or five miles, which feels like a lot on a hot day on an empty stomach.
Here is a map of my perambulations, as best I can reconstruct them. It doesn't include the long stretch of road that passed between fields of postal carrier vehicles, which eventually forced me to backtrack, since it had no turnoffs as far as the eye could see—just white vans like asters parked behind an endless chain-link fence.
But if you zoom into the sharp point of the shark's-fin near milepost 2, you'll see a little spur of land. It's built of massive granite blocks, stacked so a little keyhole of water is visible through the center as you approach. I sat there and dangled my feet over the water, watching the planes touch down at Logan, seawater on three sides of me. Moon jellies drifted below me, and down there it was like thick green glass, and over my shoulder it was like hammered silver, and off below the planes it was like slate.
Six hours after I left, another plane touched down there, and my sweetie was on it.
