In the lobby of the Back Bay Hotel, Boston.
Probably one of the nicest hotels I’ve ever stayed in, but I’m no qualified judge. We were upgraded when my husband mentioned during check-in that we were celebrating our anniversary.
I can’t complain about anything, really, except maybe the complimentary full-length bathrobes were almost too heavy to actually wear. Also, when I got out of a long soaking bath, I sort of burned myself on the heated towel bar.
Haymarket Square, between the North End and Faneuil Hall, Saturday.
When I was looking through my photos, I liked the way the colors in the outdoor market shots matched the hotel interior. I could just wander around looking at things all day.
We had dinner at the bar at the Todd English restaurant Bonfire. My husband was pleased to see they were cooking with the same charcoal he uses at home. So we got to talking about what kind of restaurant we would open, in a hypothetical world.
He would have a great little breakfast, lunch and maybe dinner place at an airfield – kid-friendly, good food changing with the seasons, and a fun place to hang around.
I couldn’t decide between health food and an Irish pub.
It was really nice to not be at home. And imagine my home looked a little like this.
My husband was indulging me; hotels are really not that fun for him since he has to endure them many nights a month for his job. (Same for restaurants.) But I’m like a little kid: I have to open the mini-shampoos and smell them, and slather on the mini-moisturizer; and stand at the windows looking out at everything. I believe I may even have bounced on the bed a little bit.
“These are the best pillows I have ever had!”
“They’re okay,” said my husband, the blasé world traveler.
A cool Boston Globe photo essay from a few years back: Scenes from Haymarket.
When I married a freshly minted American Airlines pilot back in 1987, I imagined there would be, well, a little travel involved. For me too, I mean. And I did go with him a few times on some trips in the first year and a half of our marriage, before our first kid came along and I became the one keeping the home fires burning. But he was very “junior” in the first few years and so he was flying junior equipment to junior places.
So we were there, walking through the streets, in early 1988 when Baton Rouge, Louisiana saw it’s first snow in 4 years. People came outside and stood in it, and everybody talked to everybody else.
In Harlingen, Texas we visited a huge flea market of military memorabilia from wars in the last couple of centuries, because it was free, and next to the hotel. I wanted to cry at all the old medals and ribbons and no one left to care about the soldiers who earned them.
Over the years, his job and our kids have resulted in a serious marital travel imbalance: with me restlessly longing for adventures in other places, and him wearily longing for peace and quiet at home. And both of us sometimes taking it out on each other.
But, sometimes, if we are careful, and lucky, and noticing, we find what we are looking for – wherever we are – in each other.
Through him, I travel. In me, he finds home.