Boston, MA 2015 - Day 2

Us at Harvard Yard

Chad and I checked out of the Park Plaza at 8:00 and drove fifteen minutes to Cambridge for breakfast. We ate at The Friendly Toast, a funky diner that was packed with college kids. The walls were painted an obnoxious green and covered with retro signs and advertisements for things like Dr. Scholl’s zino-pads for bunion relief, Converse All Stars, and various brands of car oil. The coffee was bad and my French toast was okay. Chad loved his “King Cakes” which were pancakes with peanut butter, bananas, whipped cream, and chocolate chips. 

Our first stop for the day was Harvard. We parked the car and as we walked towards Harvard Square, Chad took great pride in announcing, “I literally just pahked my cah at Hahvahd Yahd.” As we approached Harvard Square, the first building I noticed was Cambridge Savings Bank, which is the bank Ben Affleck and Jeremy Renner robbed while wearing creepy mummy skeleton masks in The Town. We wandered around Harvard Square, which is a plaza packed with restaurants, hip shops, and young people wearing various styles of Harvard shirts. Then we strolled over to Grendel’s Den (also a filming location for The Town) and people-watched, one of our favorite things to do. 

We walked through the Old Burying Ground across from Harvard. It was built in 1635 and, according to a sign on the fence, holds the bodies of “early settlers, tory landowners and slaves, soldiers, presidents of Harvard and prominent men of Cambridge.” It was eerie and gorgeous and peaceful and I honestly could’ve sat there all day.

Chad made me do it. I didn't argue.

The Johnston Gate

Next, we walked across the street to the huge Johnston Gate at the entrance to Harvard. As we entered the campus, the red brick buildings, the fall foliage, and the leaf-covered lawns made me feel like we were on a movie set. But not Legally Blonde because that movie was dumb. Near the John Harvard statue, we fell in with a tour group. There were 30 or 40 tourists and apparently one photographer for all of them. They took turns posing, each person touching the statue’s left shoe (for good luck). I read in a tour guide that rumor has it undergrads pee on the John Harvard statue. The streaks running down the sides of the pedestal made me think maybe it’s not just a rumor.

She shoved past me
to get her picture taken

The tour guide was telling his group interesting facts about Harvard but the group had one translator and she couldn’t really speak English, so it was awkward for the tour guide but an absolute delight for me. Here’s a sample of what I witnessed:

“Matt Damon lived in that dorm over there.” Blank Stare. “Matt Damon? The actor?” Nervous giggle. “Well, the president of Harvard is a woman, and her office is right over there.” Blank Stare. Nervous giggle. Tour guide sighs.

We roamed Harvard Yard and its perfectly manicured lawns. We attempted to enter the library but a Harvard ID is necessary to even enter the building. Peering through the door with my face pressed to the glass like a fat kid who can’t go in the candy shop, I noticed two security guards wearing starched-white shirts. Whatever, Harvard. Who wants to see your stupid pretentious books anyway?

I do. I want to see them.

Back outside, Chad discovered another tour group sitting on the steps of The Memorial Church. He recorded the tour guide, a Harvard student whose voice was identical to the know-it-all kid on The Polar Express. The one who says, “Hey! Hey You! Yeah, you. Do you know what kind of train this is?” The resemblance was uncanny. Sure, there were probably more interesting things to observe and learn at a 379-year-old Ivy League college which we’ll probably never visit again, but our standards are low.

The Memorial Church

Mount Auburn Cemetery was our last stop in Cambridge. Built in 1831, the cemetery is 175 acres of history, beauty, and dead people. And we spent way too much time there. We hadn’t stopped at a restroom since breakfast and as we walked among the white marble tombstones and bright orange sugar maples, Chad said, “Is it rude to piss on someone’s grave? I really have to go.” I think I read somewhere once that urinating on one’s burial place is frowned upon, so we headed to the visitor’s center to prevent Chad from desecrating a grave. We picked up a map and went out to find Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s grave. Once we found it, we’d had our fill of cemeteries so we got in the car and drove south.

My "Old Ironsides" poet and me

Longfellow's grave and Chad

We ended up in Fall River, MA for one reason that I’m afraid to tell you because my mom is probably already concerned about my fascination with cemeteries and she’ll really hate this. I wanted to see the house where Lizzie Borden murdered her dad and step-mother with an axe. If you need to brush up on your true-crime trivia, please allow me to help: In 1892, Lizzie Borden’s parents were found murdered in their home. Lizzie was 32 years old and charged with the crime. After a 13-day trial she was acquitted (I think she had the same lawyers O.J. Simpson had) and she never left Fall River. She inherited a ton of money and the house where the murders occurred is now a quaint Bed and Breakfast. The gift shop sells memorabilia and offers tours of the house for $18 per person. We passed because we had more important matters to attend, like lunch.

Do you remember this cute little rhyme from your childhood?

Lizzie Borden took an axe

And gave her mother forty whacks.

When she saw what she had done,

She gave her father forty-one.

Well, now you know where it came from. But I feel it's important to tell you that Lizzie really only gave her step-mother 19 whacks and her father 11. She’s not an animal.

We used Tripadvisor to find a good place in town for lunch. We chose Patti’s Pierogis which is rated the #2 restaurant in Fall River. When we pulled up, we both had second thoughts. If it had been dark, we probably would’ve ran for our lives. A mentally unstable man stood on the sidewalk hollering at cars as they drove by, and the restaurant's building looked like a front for some kind of trafficking circle, drugs or money laundering, not the other kind. Not that I would know. We walked into a dark bar with low ceilings and polka music blaring. A sweet lady behind the bar told us to sit “wherever you’re comfortable” and I thought, “So, my car then?”

We found a high pub table in a corner and took our seats. My chair was positioned directly under the speaker that was mounted the low ceiling. Here are the lyrics to the song that was playing as we sat down. I wrote them down so I wouldn’t forget: “Polka dancing. Polka dancing. In Fall River we love to Polka Dance.” (Repeat 47 times). Our waitress was kind and helpful because I had no idea what “golabki” and “kapusta” was. And she calmed my nerves when she told me their restaurant was featured on “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.” 

We ordered our meals and then listened to more Polka music because we didn’t have a choice. Our soup was brought out first. There was cabbage, sauerkraut, potatoes, and bits of kielbasa in the soup. I tasted it and blurted out, “It’s like orphan food” just as Chad took his first bite and nearly fell off his bar stool because he’d finally found the perfect food. He said, “I’m in heaven. I swear, I should’ve been born in Eastern Europe.” 

Chad's dream meal

A plate of various rye breads was brought next. I wrinkled my nose at the smell, but Chad was close to tears. When our main course was brought out, I understood why this place is so popular; the pierogis and kielbasa were delicious. When Chad dove into his, he started remembering things from when he was in pre-school in Spokane (all food related). Now, Chad hasn’t dredged up a forgotten memory in at least decade, and suddenly he’s like Rain Man recalling all these weird specific details. The food was like a magic memory stimulant.

After lunch, we left town and drove to Rhode Island. We stopped in Newport because I wanted to tour The Breakers. The Breakers is a mansion that was purchased in the late-1800s by the Vanderbilt family as their “summer cottage.” At just over 62,000 square-feet you can see why it’s considered a cottage. There are only 70 rooms to clean making it a cozy bungalow. This mansion encapsulates “The Gilded Age” and sheer indulgence. Because we spent so long at the cemetery, our schedule shifted and The Breakers was closing just as we arrived. I was disappointed, but I knew that what was coming would make up for all of it. 

The front gate of The Breakers

The backyard, which overlooks The Atlantic Ocean

We drove to our hotel in Narragansett. It’s across the street from the beach, but it was pitch black when we arrived, so we haven’t actually seen the beach yet. We checked in and were handed a key to our room. An actual key on a blue plastic key chain—like the olden days. Remember the motel in No Country for Old Men where Llewelyn gets shot (Oops, Spoiler Alert)? Our motel looks just like that and I’m expecting Anton Chigur to show up any minute carrying his captive bolt pistol.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, the moment you’ve been waiting for—no, I’m not ending my blog—sheesh. Now I am going to tell you how my childhood dream came true tonight. 

I saw Steve Martin perform live.

Steve Martin and Martin Short performed a comedy show called “A Very Stupid Conversation,” and the Steep Canyon Rangers joined them. We drove to the University of Rhode Island an hour before the sold-out show began. We went to the Rhody Pub, which is just an area behind some black curtains where grown-ups can drink. We ordered two cans of Narragansett beer because…well, Quint. I don’t even know what we talked about, I was too excited, too nervous for the show to start. 

We were in our seats by 8:00 and when the lights dimmed, I was shocked to find that my nervousness was gone. Instead, I felt a painful lump begin to form in my throat. On the big screen, the words, “Steve Martin with Martin Short” appeared. And then the words, “And by contract... Martin Short with Steve Martin” followed by a video montage of some of their funniest skits from the past thirty years. The painful lump disappeared and I cracked up with Chad over the hilarious videos. 

But then a booming voice announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Steve Martin!” and as he sauntered out in his burgundy suit, I burst into tears. Not the ugly, annoying girl-cry type of tears, it was more like those grown children on Oprah who are reunited with their biological parents after thirty years.

Steve thanked the audience and said, “We are thrilled to be performing for your cell phones tonight,” and then he introduced Martin Short. The minute Martin Short joined him on stage, we started laughing and didn’t stop for almost two hours. They spent the first ten minutes insulting each other before calling three lucky audience members on stage to reenact the Three Amigos Salute. Then they sat in a couple of chairs and chatted. They shared stories, jokes, and memories. They performed musical numbers, Martin Short danced (of course), and Steve Martin showed everyone why the banjo is an incredible instrument. Those two offered a brilliant display of what comedic perfection looks like. I watched Chad laugh so hard he finally rubbed his cheeks because they hurt, and then it was all over. They said goodnight, and walked off the stage. And I was actually sad, because I’ve loved Steve Martin all my life and he will never ever ever even know my name. How dumb is that? It’s dumb; it’s totally dumb, right?

It’s not that dumb.

So now we’re back at the motel and in three hours, we are waking up to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean. Chad’s sound asleep next to me as always, probably dreaming about pierogis and Eastern Europe.

Comedy is the art of making people laugh without making them puke.

                                                                                -Steve Martin

- Rachel