Planes, Trains, and...

Maintaining a bicoastal relationship, aside from its obvious challenges, has put me in the midst of one of life’s larger predicaments: confronting my deep-rooted, utter contempt for the experience of flying anywhere – whether for 50 minutes (hello Logan to LaGuardia shuttles) or the five-hour outbound leg to Paris. Most often, I find myself on the nearly four-hour trip to Dallas (mysteriously 2.5 hours on return to Boston), a journey I undertake once a month and spend the remaining 28 days ruing. My recent boost in cross-country travel has given me ample opportunity to pinpoint what, exactly, it is that I hate about flying and then substantial amounts of time sardined into “seat-like” contraptions with which to best articulate my sentiments: it’s not a train.

Me, I’m a train baby, historically out of necessity, but most recently out of preference. Save the five years I spent in Chicago traveling by air back East on what amounted to a quarterly basis, flying was something I only ever did once a year at most while growing up, usually to go on a far-flung family vacation or to visit close family friends that relocated to Minnesota. Upon maturing to an age of independence and freedom (read: driver’s license in high school), I found that New York City and DC weren’t as far as I once thought from my family’s house near Philadelphia. In fact, I discovered Philadelphia itself wasn’t as out of the way when behind the wheel of a car, and then proceeded to use its 30th Street Station as a launching point for week-end escapes or hooky days with friends. My parents were never stupid, and for all I knew they were well aware of when I wasn’t in school or spending the night at Scott’s house (like I had told them). But for sure I knew that my father maintained our family’s fleet of vehicles with the care of a hobbyist and would have kept regular tallies on the odometer readings. Regular jaunts well over state lines would have tipped off the media, and in turn alerted the queen bee. And while I’d never taken the time to gauge my mother’s feelings on my random-but-regular escapades, my hesitation always told me that the ruling would never be favorable. And so Amtrak came to the rescue.

For a meager $40 at the time, I had myself a guaranteed round-trip ticket to the destination of my choice, free of the suffocation of schedules and early arrival times like those needed to travel on a plane. I could come and go to the stations as I pleased, able to jump on one of many trains that rolled through on an hourly basis, and be dropped off in another station that put me in direct connections with subways and buses to whisk me off to my fix of whatever the day had in store. And no one would be the wiser, what with no extra clicks on the odometer, no incriminating evidence mailed to the house (unpaid parking tickets in Baltimore, toll evasions on the Garden State Parkway, running a red light in lower Manhattan, constables approaching my mother on a random Saturday morning to collect on a bounced check for a speeding ticket in Nazareth…), and absolutely no potential for the omnipresent risk of having an incident out of bounds that would need to involve the parental units, as fate has always seemed to sign me up for since birth. The train was easy, cheap, and – most importantly – flexible. So I rode it.

Flash forward ten or so years to the beginning of my corporate legacy, and I found myself darting between Washington, Philadelphia, and Boston as a way of saving precious in-person office time on travel days. The train stations were either a ten-minute walk or a ten-minute subway transfer from any of our offices. On the flipside, getting to any of the airports in any of these towns was a 40-minute ordeal, at minimum. And that doesn’t even begin to include the mandatory early arrivals, check-in times, security passages, and invariable delays that just aren’t required with Amtrak. A two-hour flight anywhere in the Northeast Corridor translates into five hours of actual travel (door-to-door) time, without fail. So I would argue, why not spend five hours on a train while being comfortable and working on a laptop that you can plug in to a power source at your seat? As it turns out, more and more people are making this argument, as Amtrak (particularly in the Northeast Corridor) has logged record ridership and stolen enough business from the airlines that the “shuttles” between the major Northeast airports are no longer as profitable for the airlines to run. And with the introduction of Acela service after the millennium, even more riders are flocking to North America’s only true high-speed train service.


The reality is, traveling on Acela is much like what we imagined traveling on airplanes to be long ago: an experience. A good experience, anyway. The ever-so-slight feeling of being forced back into your seat as the world flashes by at the quiet rush of 150 mph offers a calm exhilaration in a perceived realm of safety (the real world is just outside the window and the ground just a few feet below). It’s comfortable, the gentle hum of the tracks underneath you and the inordinate amount of space with which you have to stretch out and maneuver. The interiors are relatively new. Seats are wide and legroom plentiful, fold-down tray tables are twice the size of an airliner’s, windows are tall and expansive, and the doors that separate car segments whisk open and closed automatically with a silent whoosh when they sense your presence as if you were transitioning compartments on the Starship Enterprise. The colors are relaxing, yet vivid, the whites bright, and the lines continuous and clean. The air is not recycled or pressurized. Moving about the cabin is encouraged, and in fact never prohibited at any time. In short, train travel, even on the much-lamented Amtrak, is everything that plane travel is not: no creaky fuselages, no ducking and squeezing down aisles, no praying that the seatback in front of you won’t recline. And plane travel, for as sophisticated an idea as hurtling through the air at soaring heights has been for humans, is nothing at all like we would expect. It’s a cattle call for elbow room, executed with all the order and cohesion of a kindergarten recess line, and exacerbated by all the indignities of bureaucratic “protocol” that manage to compromise the most basic of civil rights in the name of safety and (I use the term loosely) efficiency. To add insult to injury, passengers are then subjected to some of the grossest and most uncomfortable accommodations that the only word I can find to accurately describe them is “skanky.” Yes, this is the future as envisioned 60 years ago, and not updated since. Truth be told, the actual mechanics of airplanes are as primitive as the physics behind flying them. And it shows. It’s as if someone studied a bird, then tried to recreate it out of moving metal parts, and then let a group of corporatists finally figure out how to squeeze as many people as possible in them. Perhaps finally, an interior designer was hired to “spruce the place up” with a budget roughly equal to that of his or her professional fee. THAT’s how primitive air travel really is, even 100 years after the advent of flight. And taking all of this into account while 30,000 feet in the air doesn’t make a very compelling case for even an illusion of safety.

And let’s not forget the infamous service experience encountered in the skies. Rushed seating, gruff instructions, endless directions (seat up!, tray table up!, seatbelt buckled!, the captain hasn’t turned off the seatbelt sign yet!, turn off your electronic devices!)… and that’s just the flight attendants. Luckily, there’s recently been a slew of consultants hired by the operators of these big silver birds to figure out how to make air travel a better experience for their customers. And praise Allah (but not out loud, as it might be viewed as a security threat) that one of the solutions was to again offer beverage service in the main cabin, thinking that the 3 minutes it takes to gulp down a carbonated beverage will somehow ingratiate me toward their cause, as if the whopping $1 it would cost me to buy a Coke myself would have proven such a financial hardship after spending $250 on the ticket that I would be both miserable AND dehydrated for the duration of their flight. Better, then, to charge me to check baggage (after prohibiting me from carrying liquids in my carry-on unless I support the plastics industry by purchasing their clear, 3-ounce bottles and Ziploc bags) or upgrade my seat to one where a 6-foot-tall man might be able to fit fully without displacing his knee cartilage for several hours. In the end, it seems that the only true economy on the airplane comes in the form of purchasing their alcohol, which I will undoubtedly need to make it through the entire harrowing experience. At $5 per alcoholic beverage, the in-flight “bar” is cheaper than any watering hole in Eastern Massachusetts, and doesn’t require tipping to boot.

But now back to the trains. Amtrak has no pillows, blankets, or beverage service, and that’s just fine by me. The fare structure is straight-forward and simple: X seat on X train costs X dollars. Purchase within 3 days of traveling, and the fare is nominally higher. Period. No chaos-theory formulas for pricing based on day, bookings, the cost of crude, Stevie Nicks’ waking time, or whatever else goes into deciding an airline’s seat fare at any given second of any given day. And because I’m purchasing a seat to, in fact, travel, Amtrak assumes I’ll have bags. No fees. No restrictions on what’s in them. Skis? Guitar? Bicycle? There’s storage space at the end of each car for oversized/oddly-shaped items. Again, no charge, other than the cost of my seat. And all I get is a seat, which keeps costs down for the company. Beer? Caesar salad? Cheese plate? All extra. But for the same prices you’d pay at Au Bon Pain, you can trot to the café car and eat/drink away the miles while sitting at a bar, in a booth, or back at your own roomy seat. Even a ski trip to Denver on JetBlue, who loves to tout that they still check a bag, serve beverages and snacks, and encourage refills for free, would charge $25 for additional/oversized ski bag and another $25 for my gear bag. Um, hello, why else would I be flying to Denver except to ski? Shouldn’t all of this be included in my ticket? Suddenly, my $350 airfare isn’t such a bargain.

My customer service issues with Amtrak have also trumped that of the airlines – by an entire deck of cards. I’m allowed to cancel or change my reservation without incident. What I paid for the ticket is the value I can apply to a future ticket, no penalties. Further, Amtrak’s admitted when it’s been wrong and hasn’t invoked antiquated concepts like “acts of God” or “weather” to get out of its responsibility to provide the service I paid for. I was once traveling on Acela through New Jersey during a formidable storm when lightning struck the train I was on and shorted the entire section of track between Manhattan and Philadelphia for an hour. After power was restored, trains were zooming by mine on each side, but I was stuck for another hour where I sat, unable to move, as lighting had struck my particular train and fried its circuits. An act of weather if I ever heard of one. Amtrak sent another train (which was really the scheduled – and sold out – departure after us), upon which there was only standing room for the remainder of the trip to DC. Without me even speaking to anyone or logging a complaint on amtrak.com, I was sent a voucher for another trip on Acela to be used within 2 years. Ever try getting that kind of compensation from an airline?

I have. I was once stuck at Philadelphia International Airport during a minor storm (I suppose it had the potential to be violent, much like any five-year-old has the potential to be the president of the United States some day), where successive flight delays of 30 minutes at a time ultimately forced me to spend 4 hours at the gate (and countless dollars from my wallet at the various terminal establishments passing those hours) after leaving work early and battling evening rush hour on the airport train to get there. When the skies finally cleared and it looked as if we’d be on our way, some convoluted complication of the crew logging too many flight hours that day before we’d land in Dallas, no other flights scheduled for that night, and an inexplicable lack of any other crew with hours to spare in the entire Philadelphia metropolitan area caused the flight to be cancelled and all passengers placed on the first flight out the next morning. I lived in Philadelphia at the time, but wanted to stay overnight at the airport because the next morning’s departure (and required check-in and security times) was early enough that public transit wouldn’t be running yet. A cab would have been $30, but that’s $30 I wasn’t planning on spending, and why should I pay more for a ticket that I bought with this kind of scheduling in mind? American Airlines refused to pay for any hotel rooms, expecting out-of-towners to crash at the airport or put themselves up, and people like me to figure out how to get to the airport at an ungodly hour the next morning. Since weather started the problem, the airline wasn’t responsible. I wish I had that kind of business…

I realize I’m a little unforgiving of the airlines, as a lot of what happens isn’t really their fault. Over the last century, various forces have done half-assed jobs at molding the industry into what it is today, leaving the actual airlines with little wiggle-room in which to conduct their business. Airlines are privately-held while airports are often publicly-operated. For all of the deregulation of the 1980s, airlines have perhaps the most heavily-regulated operations, considering the tedious safety regulations and requirements imposed by the FAA on nearly every aspect of the plane. And customers like me still expect to pay the low fares of the early 90s while wanting the airline to make the necessary investments to make my travel experience more enjoyable. None of this can be easy. But Amtrak managed to make it work and continues to improve every day, despite its meager budget from Congress and the disinterest shown towards it by the general public outside of the Northeast. And furthermore, you, airlines, are a business, and I’m a customer, and I want a certain product at a certain price and have certain expectations of what that all will entail. If you can’t profitably provide that to me, well, you have no business being in business. And if it turns out that no business can realistically provide that to me, then the government should (duh, how do you think Amtrak exists?).

President Obama’s making unprecedented moves toward expanding high-speed rail in America. It’s still highly inadequate, though, and I doubt I’ll be able to travel cross-country on bullet trains during my lifetime, but I sure hope the idea takes root and becomes a viable option for all of us. After riding the TGV network in France, I’ve come to believe in its potential even more. No, it’s not realistic to expect that I can whisk in between Boston and LA on a train, as the country’s far too large. But distances between major metropolitan areas are close enough that I should reasonably expect to get to Chicago in a half day and bypass the purgatory that is O’Hare. Or to Montréal for a long week-end… not that the drive through Vermont isn’t scenic.

My sentiments can be summed up by two parallel experiences. On a recent flight to Dallas, the aircraft that I was supposed to board was late arriving to Logan, thereby delaying my flight. Apparently American Airlines doesn’t have extra planes lying around airports that can stand in when things like this happen. But, two hours later, it arrived, unloaded its passengers, took us on, and had us on our way. It was announced after takeoff that we’d “speed” and make up some time and get to Dallas not too far behind our scheduled arrival (this entire concept has escaped me for years, but I don’t have the energy to delve into it here). Yet one thing must have led to another, as we land two hours late, presumably because we left Boston two hours late. It’s midnight. I just worked a full day. And I hadn’t eaten because I was planning on eating with Jeffrey (that was when I was expected to land at a more normal hour of 10 pm). As I’m walking off the plane and onto the jetway, the captain looks at me and says “smile!” My reply: “Why? You were late. Twice.” (Similarly, there’s a great line in Six Days Seven Nights where Anne Heche is accusing Harrison Ford of being a horrible pilot after he crashes the plane on a deserted island. He thinks he’s a good pilot, as they’re alive after the incident, and she retorts “Please! I’ve flown with you twice; you’ve crashed half the time!”) And therein sums up our airline problem: we’re supposed to be grateful for the fact that we got from A to B and excuse the fact that we were hours late doing it, or had to stop at C along the way, or arranged our entire day around a trip that didn’t go as planned. And let’s be honest – they never go as planned.

On the opposite side of the coin, I recently trained to Philadelphia for a long week-end to spend some time with friends. My train was scheduled to leave South Station at 6 pm. I worked a full day that Friday, walked over to the station at 5:40, showed my ticket and walked on the train. I sat down. The train pulled out of the station at 6 on the spot, with no more fanfare or announcement than the sounds of the exterior doors closing. My seat was reclined. My iPod already three songs into a playlist. There wasn’t even a seatbelt to buckle. I napped. I had a beer on a stool at a bar. I read a book. Five hours later, I stepped off the train at 30th Street Station. No attendant was at the door as I alit. No conductor smiled and wished me a good evening. And they didn’t have to. They did what I paid them to do. It was 11 pm, and I was there in the center of Philadelphia, as promised, ready to walk over to a restaurant to meet some friends for a late supper.

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Music of the Post: "Second Category" by The Tellers. I love this song for two reasons: one, it reminds me why I fly monthly to Dallas in the first place (yes, some of us actually DO "receive the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us" (another lyric from another artist that I've carried around with me), and two, because - since I can remember - I loved making up new pronunciations for words, so much so that I've even incorporated some of them into my vocabularly without even noticing. This entire song is at first unintelligble, save a few words here and there, because the guy blurs the lines between sentences and experiments with different ways to emphasize the syllables. It's brilliant. Oh those Belgians...

This ain't Hollywood, life is never that good.
She won't come back with love in her sack.
Not a single picture of you in her wallet.
The letters you wrote aren't pinned up her bed.

Some's got a pain in the eyes,
Some are happy.
Don't try to lie
'Cause I know I'm right, you're in the first category.

Locked up in your room, well they say you are lazy.
Well, if you were lazy, you wouldn't be
Digging your grave, oh, just in case,
You would've died, died, died of being lonely.

Some's got a pain in the eyes,
Some are happy.
Don't try to lie
'Cause I know I'm right, you're in the first category.

Well, I admit it looks a bit like Hollywood
and life would be better if I would.
This ain't useless and this ain't fake,
So try to be the one, for god's sake.

Some's got a pain in the eyes,
Some are happy.
Don't try to lie
'Cause I know I'm right, you're in the first category.

Some's got a pain in the eyes,
Some are happy.
Don't try to lie
'Cause I wasn't right, you're in the second category.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

One of the best parts about being unemployed is the ability to take last-minute trips. Just last week, the opportunity arose to bust out of Boston and spend some free time in our nation's capital, DC itself. Of course, I jumped. I've been to the District countless times for work over the years, and while I made sure to enjoy some of the time spent there, I never really went as a tourist. Crashing with a friend that had to work during the day, this was a perfect opportunity.

If you've never been to the District, allow me to set the stage for you: it's an exciting, vibrant place that conveys a sense of grandeur and gravity befitting the capital of the free world. It is moving enough to make even someone like me, who considers themselves more a citizen of the world than of a particular country, feel emotional about being an American. From the people to the city fabric to the ever-famous monuments, this town more than warrants a visit, and probably even warrants three.

First of all, let's talk about the foundation of any city: its people. Washington proper (where any visitor would venture) is striking. It immediately lacks any sense of the poverty and decay that DC is accused of (and should be ashamed for), and instead is full of young, pretty people that share their territory with an equal number of tourists sporting black tennis shoes and fanny packs. Every man looks like he stepped off of an Ivy League rowing team and every woman looks as if she stepped out of a J. Crew catalogue. Every color, race, ethnicity, and identity are represented here with abandon, so long as they own a polo shirt and khaki pants. The navy suits and black briefcases that we typically associate with the District are mainly reserved for Capitol Hill, and are only seen scurrying around during lunch. Long, atypical hours and a major scarcity of actual congresspeople leaves you a little disappointed that DC isn't what it's made out to be on TV. On the contrary, I would venture so far as to say that DC is one large suburb, full of pretty, suburban kids, and that brings us on to the next notable flavor of DC: the fabric.

Washington is a gorgeous city, and yet I use the word "city" loosely. "Town" would also be inappropriate, as it's far too large. In fact, it's one massive, sprawling suburb with a very pedestrian feel and a large sculpture garden (where one can find the monuments, parks, and other federal buildings) in the middle of it all. The city is laid out on a grid of surprisingly narrow streets (when looked at respective of their surroundings and traffic levels) that is intersected by numerous diagonal boulevards, lending the town an almost Parisian feel, weren't it for the architecture, which consists mainly of modern buildings never rising any higher than seven or so stories. Imagine a modern, American office park in a rural area, and then remove all of the green lawns and parking lots, and that's District architecture. Where each diagonal boulevard intersects with the grid intersections, a major "traffic circle" of sorts is found (some of the most notables being Capitol Circle, where the US Capitol Building lies; Columbus Circle, where Union Station lies; Washington Circle, the home of George Washington University; and Dupont Circle, the city's nightlife mainstay). This whole grid-boulevard-circle thing looks great on a map and even better from a helicopter (I'm sure), but is a headache for motorists and an absolute nightmare for pedestrians, with crossing signals timed so haphazardly that it could take almost ten minutes to make one's way through one of the District's major intersections. Nevertheless, the throngs of students that GWU and Georgetown lend to the area and the surprising coverage and accessibility of the Metro system keep people moving à pied.

And while we're on the topic of the Metro - WOW. This is a subway system that not only allows people to move around the city (as opposed to in and out of the downtown core like most American cities), but also runs to a schedule and at a surprisingly swift speed. While most of the downtown can be reached on foot (and should), at least one trip on the Metro is warranted. The stations are retro-futuristic, offering the traveler the impression that they're living in a Star Wars-like universe. The best description I can give to the architecture of the Metro is Federal Futuristic. Most of the system is underground, and each station is a large tube drilled out of the earth and sealed entirely in decorative concrete, lending a gothic-brutalist feel to the entire system. The Metro trains themselves were likely very modern at the time of its opening, but now appear dated with their rust-orange carpeted interiors clad in a creamy metal exterior. You feel as if you're in an antiquated vision of what the future may have been, as if you're taking a step back in time to take a leap forward in time. Lights built into the floor along the edge of the platform flash on and off when a train is entering the station, giving yet another dramatic touch to this starship subway system. If Washington could claim any architecture as its definitive, home-bred style, the Metro system would be it.


Yet perhaps I'm too hasty to cheat DC of its architectural heritage. I feel I should mention Georgetown and the West End as quintessential collections of the Federalist and Victorian styles of architecture so famous in many of our country's colonial settlements. Translated into the District's rowhomes, these elegant styles have been meticulously restored to their original grandeur and grace the charming, tree-lined streets of the District's Northwest Quadrant. Similarly, many of the buildings iconic to Washington - the US Capitol Building, the White House, etc. - borrow from some of the grandest classical architecture styles to make a uniquely DC motif.

Which takes us to the DC's calling card: its monuments. They're awe-inspiring, humbling even. Often visited by the masses during the day, these edifices of liberty make a dramatic statement when lit in all of their white glory at night. Lining the impeccably-kept lawns of the Potomac, Washington's monuments make an ideal day-trip on foot. I had the privilege of visiting during the Cherry Blossom festival, which of course added to their drama. But I would venture to say that they're equally impressive any time of year. Ironically, I visited the Jefferson Memorial on the day that Iowa, of all states, ruled a state ban on gay marriage unconstitutional, and reading some Jefferson's quotes engraved on the inside of the walls got me thinking about how we, as a society, reason the way we do in regard to our dedicated rights, why we hold on to them with such blinding conviction that our undisputed knowledge of our rights leaves us the most ignorant of all. I started thinking about guaranteed things like guns, free speech, and unreasonable search and seizure. And after more than a moment's pause, I found it amusing that the very forefathers we credit so greatly with granting us these undeniable assets were wise enough to foresee a time when these Amendments would no longer apply, or need to be amended themselves. If only our clarity were as humble. The following passage in particular struck me. What does this mean for gun control? Gay marriage? The Patriot Act? We have a long way to go as a society to uphold the high standards our founders set for this country, as we're dropping the ball in most cases.


"I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions. But laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy, as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors."

And now, I'll offer the humble insights of a YFBer (young, fabulous, and broke - thanks Suze Orman!) like myself on how to get in, get around, and get out to see and be seen.

Getting In
Coming down from Boston, I opted to take the train into DC's Union Station (with a direct connection to the Metro's Red Line), an historic masterpiece of a passenger terminal worth visiting no matter how you get into the capital. While neither price- nor time-competitive with the airlines, training into the District is a time-honored tradition by US presidents and congresspeople current and past. It also offers the comforts not inherent in air travel and the opportunity to see the beautiful scenery, especially the stretch in between Boston and New Haven that winds along the rocky New England coastline, and the multiple Chesapeake crossings in the Mid-Atlantic. If you can, splurge for the Acela Express over the Northeast Regional. The extra $100 or so only shaves a whopping 1.5 hours off the trip, but your body will know the difference and thank you mercifully. Plus, you get the opportunity of knowing what it's like to feel your cheeks pull back against your seat on the short stretches (only in Massachusetts and Rhode Island) that the train reaches its full potential of 150 mph on the tracks. Trains barrel into and out of DC from more than just the Northeast, however, so it's worth looking into if you have the time. Otherwise, a flight into Reagan National will likely set you down on a flight path that takes you over the Potomac and offers breathtaking views of the monuments, White House, and US Capitol - be sure to have a seat on the left side of the plane. Direct connections to the Metro's Yellow and Blue Lines will have you in the city center in no time, to boot. BWI and Dulles airports might get you some cheaper flights, but their distance from downtown and the multiple connections (shuttle to bus to Metro train) or steep cab fares typically leave the savings worthless.

Getting Around
Metro over long distances. Walk the shorter ones. It's as simple as that. Except, of course, for inclement weather or during DC's notoriously humid summers and transition months. Depending on where you're going and what you're doing, even a short Metro trip or splurging on a cab might be warranted in such situations. I still retain, however, that there's no better way to take in the sights and sounds of this town (and any town, for that matter) than using your own two feet. A word of caution, however: system maps in the Metro are surprisingly rare and oddly located, so download one to your iPod or iPhone from WMATA's website to aid in getting around. It's also frustratingly easy to get turned around when exiting on to DC's streets, with the grid and the bisecting avenues creating a hall of mirrors that look the same in every direction - carry a good map and orient yourself to nearby landmarks before proceeding and wasting time or getting lost. And don't worry, this is a tourist town - everybody has one, so you won't stand out. As for outlying sites like National Parks and Mount Vernon, rent a Zipcar for a day. These sites are all relatively closeby, but horribly served by any form of mass transit. And while you're out, stay away from the Beltway during peak periods. It's not that the traffic is difficult to drive in, but more that you'll be so frustrated with the masses of Southern drivers on this parking lot of an expressway that you'll lose hair, fingernails, and/or sanity before all's said and done.

Getting Out
Try to find a hotel in the Northwest Quadrant of DC (West End, Adams-Morgan, Dupont), as it will put you in the heart or within easy walking distance of the best parts of town and offer easy access to the visitor's sites and historic Georgetown just across the river. And while you're there, take in the beautiful people and make yourself seen by eating at some of the trendy establishments. Try Lauriol Plaza for some modern Mexican in a chic, three-storied environment with outdoor seating and a distinctive-but-pleasing smoke flavor in everything from the salsa to the carne asada. Looking for something a little more continental? Head over to Bistrot du Coin, replete with a great selection of beers (especially Belgians) and a cafeteria-sized dining hall with the din to match. The clientele is often chi-chi, but the food falls straight off of a Parisian hole-in-the-wall, with a variety of tartines and some amazing moules frites providing refined comfort food in the least pretentious of ways. And while you're down visiting the monuments and museums, swing into Central Michel Richard for a spot of lunch, the famed chef's newest restaurant. The prices are approachable and the atmosphere a buzzing low-key, with burgers and fish'n'chips lending a gastropub feel to what was otherwise the District's most happening restaurant upon its initial opening. Treat yourself to a refreshment from the cocktail menu, as well, as creative concoctions like a Rhubarb Sour and Gin Blush combine fresh tastes with some surprising ingredients. Dinner gets a bit trendier and fancier (as well as more expensive), so consider yourself warned. If you find yourself looking for an outdoor experience on nice days (or nights), head to the Potomac waterfront in between Georgetown and Watergate/Kennedy Center, as it's all been redone and offers waterside dining and drinking from several restaurants and bars, as well as river breezes and beautiful views of hilly Virginia across the water. Georgetown offers some quaint street shopping on its historic M Street, but it's nothing you can't find in a mall near you, so don't make a special trip.

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Music of the Post: "Losing Touch" by The Killers. As if by fate, this song came up on my iPod, which was on shuffle mode as we pulled into Union Station. I had to laugh, because it offers an interesting take on perception and communication, a take that can easily be applied to the actions of our governments on so many of the issues that start in our newspapers and later provide endless fodder for Saturday Night Live: weapons of mass destruction, illegal aliens, the Defense of Marriage Act, gun control, swine flu... I'll leave you to go down the list yourself.

Console me in my darkest hour
Convince me that the truth is always grey
Caress me in your velvet chair
Conceal me from the ghost you cast away

I'm in no hurry, you go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch
Fill their heads with rumors of impending doom
It must be true

Console me in my darkest hour
And tell me that you'll always hear my cries
I wonder what you got conspired
I'm sure it was the consolation prize

I'm in no hurry, you go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch
Fill the night with stories, the legend grows
Of how you got lost

But you made your way back home
You sold your soul, like a Roman vagabond

I heard you found a wishing well
In the city
Console me in my darkest hour
And you throw me down

I'm in no hurry, you go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch
Fill your crown with rumors
Impending doom, it must be true

But you made your way back home
You sold your soul, like a Roman vagabond

And about how you got lost, but you made your way back home
You went and sold your soul, an allegiance dead and gone
I'm losing touch

Spring Forward?

This past week-end marked the official arrival of spring in the Northern Hemisphere, ushering in flowering trees, warmer temperatures, and the smell of moist soil into a long frozen land. Or at least that's what we would have hoped. Year after year, however, I notice that 20 (or sometimes 21) March is a rather abstract date that aims to demarcate a season that, as far as I can tell, never really existed.

This year, it arrived almost entirely unannounced. Snow had raged throughout the city not several days earlier, and a prevailing cold was solidly rooted in Beantown. Bostonians awoke on 20 March to 20-degree temps, a bitter wind, and cloudless, sunny skies, probably the most spring-like feature that the day offered. And yet it was as if, by some form of internal clock, that we all felt compelled to flock to the streets and parks to spend what was quite possibly our first full day outside in no less than three months. It was, after all, the first day of spring. Downtown Crossing was a teeming mass of shoppers and strollers for the better part of the day, the pedestrian-only streets of this six-block downtown shopping district bursting at the seams amid pushcart vendors and recession-weary storefronts with SALE signs in every window. Nearby, Haymarket vendors hawked every variety of imported fruit and vegetable, specialty nut, and free-range meat (laid out in the open air, as it was cold enough) to the throngs of people that pass through Boston's largest outdoor food market every summer on a nearly religious basis, marking the opening of the season. And yet, to look around, Boston's fabulous and nomadic cart-pushers alike were tightly bundled in wool coats, scarves, and gloves. Some spring day it had turned out to be, indeed.

And so it seems, after a little research, that spring is an anomaly of the brilliance that is the distribution of northerly seasons, a perpetual blight on an otherwise valid system of evolution and regeneration that appeals to both reason and whimsy. In fact, I've always been impressed by how well our modern sciences like meteorology and astronomy intermingle with superstitious traditions like astrology and religion when it comes to both explaining and responding to the different seasons. I rather like it, this way of honoring the past while resigning to an ever-advancing society of understanding. (If only more elements of humanity would follow the same lead.) But spring manages to buck the trend every time. Wikipedia, in describing our reaction to the first day of spring, admits "unlike the other three seasons, people in relatively cool climates are likely to use the astronomical definition for the beginning of spring in popular jargon but retain the meteorological definition for the other three seasonal turning points," implying that while we don't reference autumn until the air cools and the leaves change, or winter until snow's on the ground, spring is officially welcomed on its astronomically-designated date, regardless of whether it's accompanied by the weather conditions we'd expect of it. Huh. An interesting hiccup of human nature if I've ever heard of one. Some would suggest blaming that bizarre groundhog in rural Pennsylvania for granting winter variable longevity from year to year based on the observation of his shadow, but I feel bad shooting the messenger. After all, he's not extending winter so much as predicting an extension of the season, and on that front I'd be willing to bet he's been more accurate than the assholes with computers and college degrees that get paid serious money to predict the weather daily on the television. No, no, better to leave the blame for this one on the humans.

The easy fix, it would appear, is to temper my perceptions of the season as I do the others: instead of subscribing to a definite, celebrated date, I should wait until it feels like spring to actually declare it spring. But after months and months of winter, I guess I'm just as anxious as everyone else, looking for a reason - any reason - to get out of this house and out into the world. Just knowing it's spring makes the cold a little more bearable. And if that's all I get from spring, I'll take it.

Back in Business, but Still Unemployed

After a rather long hiatus, I have finally decided to come back to my online life. Let me catch you up to speed on the past three months: I WAS LAID OFF. One would think this would allow plenty of time for blogging activities, but sadly most of my free time has been spent begging the DUA for unemployment checks interspersed with random panic attacks (you know the kind: how will I pay my rent, what will happen to my credit cards, can I still afford that ski trip I planned months ago, I have $20 left in my checking account - can I bear to use it up on groceries or should I leave it there for a real emergency, yadiyadiyadi...). For those not residents of the Communist-wealth, DUA stands for the Department of Unemployment Assistance. But don't let the word "Assistance" in the department's title trick you in to thinking that this state agency provides anything along the lines of help. Think of it more as a word in a mission statement; I don't doubt it's something they strive to do, they just have a hard time coming through. I have finally, however, managed to secure the weekly funds that were promised to me when I was laid off, and all is now well.

So here I am, able to eke out my existence and still have a small bit of fun every now and again, and in a state of mind that allows me to blog like I used to. Being laid off couldn't have come at a worse time: winter. This past winter was pretty rough, even by New England standards. Most of it was spent buried under 70" of snow that rarely melted away between storms due to a pretty deep freeze that held December, January, and most of February hostage. You'd think this would bode well for a skier like me, but it turns out that our winter was so harsh because the majority of storms tracked further south in New England, leaving the North Country mostly dry. Complicating matters further, temps in the single digits in Boston meant temps in the White and Green Mountains dipped well into double-digit negatives: not ideal for a day on the slopes. And then we come to the matter of money... when you're laid off, you don't have any and, sadly, skiing's not a cheap sport. Not being able to ski in the winter means days are spent at home cleaning and making hearty foods and window shopping for exercise (no money = no gym membership). But even window shopping was a chore, courtesy of a massive recession that has left the shops on Newbury starving for any customer that walks through the door and refusing to leave them alone until they either walk out or buy something. Long story short: I didn't leave the house very much.

But we're midway through March, and although we're still sitting comfortably in the 30s in sweaters and wool coats, I know summer's not far around the corner. And while I'm frantically looking for jobs, a part of me secretly wants to stay on unemployment so that when the sunshine hits, I'll be able to spend most days lying on the beach (free and much easier to get to on public transit than the mountains).

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A new part of my posts is going to be getting people up to speed on new music that I have a knack for coming across. This post's pick: "Walk Like a Zombie" by the HorrorPops. First of all, this isn't a specialty song. This band is actually called HorrorPops, and their music tends to fall in a genre to match. Mostly, I like how a group in today's modern times can bring back the original sound of pop music that we came to love in the 80s and 90s in a playful way. Think The New Pornographers with a Munsters theme. Check it out - you'll have the song stuck in your head and a bounce in your step in no time.

You Know You're from Massachusetts If...

The person driving in front of you is going 70 mph and you are cursing him for going too slow.

The fact that Route 128 and I-95 are pretty much the same thing doesn't confuse you.

When ordering a tonic, you mean a Coke...not quinine water.

You think it's your God-given right to cut someone off in traffic.

You consider six inches of snow a "dusting."

You actually enjoy driving around rotaries.

You almost feel disappointed when someone doesn't flip you the bird when you cut them off or steal their parking space.

When out of town, you think the natives of the area are all whacked.

You wear gloves and a scarf on a 60 degree day in December because it's winter. You wear sandals and shorts in two feet of snow in April because it's spring.

You know how to pronounce the names of towns like Worcester, Billerica, Haverhill, Barre and Cotuit.

You have driven to New Hampshire on a Sunday in order to get beer.

You have no idea what the word compromise means.

You know that there are two Bulger brothers, and that they're both crooks.

You know what they sell at a packie.

You think it's not actually tailgating unless your bumper is touching the car in front of you.

You knew that there was no chance in hell that the Patriots would move to Hartford.

You laugh at all the other states in New England.

You know at least one bar where you can get something to drink after last call.

You can actually find your way around Boston.

You think $25 to park is a bargain.

You have gone to at least one party at UMass.

The curse of the Bambino is taught in public schools.

You refer to the New York Yankees as the Devil's spawn, or something worse.

Just hearing the words "New York" puts you in an angry mood.

You could own a small town in Iowa for the cost of your house.

Colleges are used as landmarks for directions, e.g., Go past MIT until you hit Harvard. Take a right and go past Lesley. Keep going until you get to Tufts (actual directions).

Doug Flutie is the greatest athlete ever.

Evacuation Day is a recognized holiday.

You know at least one guy named Sean, Pat, Whitey, Red, Bud or Seamus.

You think the rest of the country owes you for Thanksgiving and Independence Day.

You laughed at the kids down south who never got snow days.

You think of Philadelphia as the Midwest.

You feel that the rest of the world needs to drive more like you.

You know The Beanpot is a hockey tournament, not a serving container.

You have never been to Cheers.

You know what happens on Patriots Day.

You can recognize a girl from Revere simply by her hair.

You remember exactly where you were when the ball rolled through Buckner's legs.

You know that there is a bigger difference between Roxbury and West Roxbury than just a compass direction.

Somebody calls UMass "ZooMass" and you take it as a compliment.

The words "WICKED" and "GOOD" go together.

You pray for the Red Sox to win the World Series not this season, but in your lifetime.

You know how to make a frappe.

You know that "Big Dig" is also a kind of ice cream you can get at Brigham's.

You actually know how to merge from 6 lanes of traffic down to one.

You know what "Southie" is. And how it is different from the South End.

You are proud to drink Sam Adams and think that the rest of the country owes Bostonians a big thank you.

You've beeped at someone that didn't move the second the light turned green.

St. Patrick's Day is your favorite holiday.

You never go to "Cape Cod," you go "down the Cape."

You cried when Boston Garden was torn down.

You think that Roger Clemens, Wade Boggs and Derek Jeter are more evil than Whitey Bulger.

You went to Old Sturbridge Village, Plymouth Plantation, or both, on field trip in grammar school.

You know that a yellow light means at least 5 more cars can get through ... and that a red light means 2 more can.

You get paranoid if there's not a CVS, a Dunkin Donuts and a Fleet within eyeshot at all times.

You're aware that there is a town, somewhere in Massachusetts, named Brimfield where they have the biggest outdoor antique market in the world.

You can drive to the mountains and the ocean all in one day. (But who'd want to?)

You have a special place in your heart for the Worcester firefighters.

You know that the MassPike is some sort of strange weather dividing line.

You think that three days of 90+ heat is definitely a "heat wave" ... and 63 degree weather is "balmy."

You know that PTown isn't the name of a new rap group.

You know that Ludlow is 90% Portuguese and that Fall River is 90% Lebanese.

And, the final and most important way to know that you are from Massachusetts...

You think there are only 25 letters in the alphabet!



Things You Should Know

There are two State Houses, two City Halls, two courthouses and two Hancock buildings (one old, one new).

Route 128 is also I-95. It is also I-93; that is, I-93 South is I-95 North.

It's the Sox, the Pats (or Patsies if they're losing), the Seltz, the Broons.

The underground train system is not the "subway." It's the T, and it doesn't run all night (fah chrysakes, this ain't Noo Yawk).



Getting Around

Back Bay streets are in alphabetical odda: Arlington, Berkeley, Clarendon, Dartmouth.

So are South Boston streets: A, B, C, D.

If the streets are named after trees (Walnut, Chestnut, Cedar), you're on Beacon Hill.

If they're named after poets, you're in Wellesley.

All avenues are properly referenced by their nicknames: Comm Ave., Mass Ave., Dot Ave.

Dot is Dorchester, Rozzie Roslindale, JP is Jamaica Plain.

Readville doesn't exist.



The North-East-South-West Thing

Southie is South Boston.

The South End is the South End.

Eastie is East Boston.

The North End is east of the West End.

The West End and Scollay Square are no more — a guy named Rappaport got rid of them one night.

The geographical center of Boston is in Roxbury.

Due north of the center we find the South End. This is not to be confused with South Boston, which lies directly east from the South End.

North of the South End is East Boston and southwest of East Boston is the North End.

Back Bay was filled in years ago.

Yes, We Can: The Unlikely Story That Is America

Let me begin with a disclaimer: I was a staunch supporter of - and will always have admiration and adoration for - Hillary Rodham Clinton, and one of the sadder days of my life came when she conceded defeat in the Democratic nomination earlier this year. But now let me continue with an admission: I have almost entirely fallen for Barack Obama. And this evening, without an ounce of drama or radical sensation, a single tear fell down my cheek as I watched the next president of the United States deliver his speech accepting the Democratic nomination. Yes, perhaps I'm being a bit presumptuous here, but Obama will be the next president of the United States. I can't fathom any other reality; that's how hard I've fallen. Barack Obama delivered a speech perhaps as close to the one Michael Douglas gave at the end of The American President as I'll ever hope to hear in my lifetime, and it moved me almost as much as the movie.

Let's start with the obvious. Did you watch Obama's acceptance speech at the DNC tonight? Did anyone else think they were watching the OIympics? The fireworks, the stadium, the lights, the grandeur... one thing's for sure: I only wish I could be a part of Obama's marketing machine. The man gets it. But marketing isn't the only thing he gets; he also gets the American people. And I think that, perhaps more than pyrotechnics and a parade of political celebrities, is what brought more than 76,000 people to completely buy out a stadium in less than 24 hours to see this man speak. I, like these 76,000, are desperate - DESPERATE - for hope of change. And there isn't a cynic out there that has the nerve to argue true change will come under John McCain.

I noticed one thing more than anything else tonight, and it's that Obama can use words like "destiny" and "legacy" and "America" and he can make me believe in them. I can only imagine this is what my grandparents felt listening to Kennedy. He, too, captured our country's spirit when we were all too desperate for something to believe in.

It's only been a year that I've been back here in the Bluest State, and already I find myself forgetting that a world exists outside Massachusetts' borders where this species of human called Republican has very genuine concerns on the same issues that I take to heart. But despite our viewpoints being somewhat different on the topics, I think it's important to remember that, in the end, we're still arguing about the same things, we're still on the same page. And as long as we're not being prejudiced over one side versus the other, I see no reason why a compromise can't be reached. I don't see compromise with McCain. In fact, with the exception of more war, more international fumbles, and more of the low status quo, I don't see much of anything.

I came across an interesting opinion piece about John McCain the other day; you'd do well to take a few moments and read it here: http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/08/18/cafferty.mccain/index.html. The point is that McCain is too much like Bush in that he shows no intellectual curiosity in the world around him. America seemed to resonate with his down home, good 'ole Southern this-is-what-you-do, straight-shooting attitude. And folks, look where that's gotten us. As it turns out, there's a reason Rancher Bob from America Town, Iowa isn't fit to run this country. It's an office reserved for the educated, the intellectual, and the fair. George Bush didn't fit this bill, and frankly, neither does McCain.

But Obama... well, he's articulate, he's pensive, and most of all he listens. I won't be ashamed to call him my President and I'll know that no matter what decisions are made, he'll have made them level-headed and whole-heartedly. I just can't have the same faith that McCain won't let me down in the end.

I do want to heal this nation, I do want to cure this world. And after listening to Obama, I believe that we can heal this nation, that we can cure this world. And if we can't finish it in eight years, then we can at least start it. I don't foresee the American people having an issue with a man starting something he couldn't finish in his lifetime... after all, look at the space program, the Panama Canal, the Interstate system, and, more tragically, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I know this world is bigger than myself, but I also know that everything has to start with me. And that's where I'm empowered.

Yes, we can.

It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation.

Yes, we can.

It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail toward freedom.

Yes, we can.

It was sung by immigrants as they struck out from distant shores and pioneers who pushed westward against an unforgiving wilderness.

Yes, we can.

It was the call of workers who organized; women who reached for the ballots; a President who chose the moon as our new frontier; and a King who took us to the mountaintop and pointed the way to the Promised Land.

Yes, we can, to justice and equality.

Yes, we can, to opportunity and prosperity.

Yes, we can heal this nation.

Yes, we can repair this world.

Yes, we can.

We know the battle ahead will be long, but always remember that no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change. We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics; they will only grow louder and more dissonant. We've been asked to pause for a reality check. We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope.

But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope. Now, the hopes of the little girl who goes to a crumbling school in Dillon are the same as the dreams of the boy who learns on the streets of LA. We will remember that there is something happening in America; that we are not as divided as our politics suggest; that we are one people; we are one nation; and together, we will begin the next great chapter in the American story with three words that will ring from coast to coast, from sea to shining sea: Yes, we can.

Bring It On

Well, July’s nearly over and my online hiatus has come to an end. Work’s kicked into a full-swing frenzy as principals and designers alike return from their Cape and Island homes and desperately try to catch up on an entirely absent July. Restaurants are reopening and patio café tables are again filled to capacity with Boston’s beautiful clad in designer sunglasses and Italian handbags. Slips in the harbors are occupied by gleaming, bobbing white and oak vessels, masts towering staunchly into the air like the remains of pier footings at low tide. Nights of drinking and dancing on the beach are transitioning to nights of wine and conversation on the roof decks of brownstones. And the realization suddenly sets that the sole month of August is all that stands between New England’s short summer and its ultimate end. In less than four weeks, sweaters and jackets will be necessary as the sun begins to set into an extended night, dogs and bonfires will again enliven city beaches, and the throngs of college and university students missing since May will be returning to the Hub for fall semester, bringing with them an energy and momentum otherwise lacking from this typically laid-back coastal town.

Ladies and gentlemen, Boston has reopened for business.

Most Europeans have enjoyed the month of August being an automatic summer sojourn for years. For them, it’s an inalienable right on par with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I’m not so sure there’s any state mandate that guarantees July as a vacation for New Englanders, but they seem to take it all the same. With everyone gone, the pace of life has been significantly relaxed for the part of the month that I’ve stayed in town. I’ve been able to grab a seat on the T (and – get this – the T has actually run smoothly from A to B [and then on to C and D and E and...] without incident), I’ve taken dinner without a reservation and even sat at an outside table without lining up four hours prior to being hungry, I’ve shopped without squirming bags of purchases through inept masses born of a herd mentality on narrow streets, and markets have not only had food on the shelves, but they’ve had the food that I was specifically looking for (say, fat-free milk instead of the usual selection of three bottles of 1% milk that expire in two days or an entire shelf of whole milk that obviously nobody drinks) all without having to make sure you timed your shopping on the Tuesday that Boston permits stores to receive deliveries. If for only a week, I was able to just be without having to triple estimated travel times (and still be late), without having to engage in battles of both wits and brute force, and without having to do basic day-to-day tasks without them feeling as if they were chores. In fact, I write all of this as I’m on an Acela train barreling down the northeast coastline to Washington, DC. I have two seats entirely to myself. I can order one beer at a time from the café car and then return when I'm ready for another because there's no 20-minute line forcing me to order three in one go. The train itself is even moving at the 150 mph it was originally intended because – I can only assume – there’s significantly less passenger traffic demand causing significantly fewer train sets jetting along the centuries-old track. Yes, for all of July, “congestion” appears to be a word that has no point of reference in my vocabulary. I like it.

But as with all good things, this too must end. And in less than one week, it will. Yet I’m okay with this. The portion of the month actually in town was relaxing, the portion of the month down the Cape was downright refreshing, and, in all, I feel genuinely rested and refreshed. Because of the regional exodus, a lot of people everywhere are now starting to ramp up what was missed while away, but we’re all the better for it. I’ve stayed in the office until well past midnight the past two nights this week and it hasn’t been a problem. I’m calm and energized and – perhaps above all – optimistic. While we were away, the Commonwealth decided to set a different pricing structure for Massachusetts utilities that, in the short-term (read: next few years) will raise monthly energy bills for all Bay Staters, already paying the highest energy prices in the nation, in order to command new standards for energy-efficiency and energy production. I promise you I will blog about this topic later, but for the time being, I’m even okay with this. I could be thinking of how I’m ever going to make ends meet, of how even a disposable income liberal like myself can’t justify higher electric bills for the benefit of the environment, but I’m not. What’s done is done and what will be will be. There’s no use crying over spilt milk (spilt fat-free milk this week, thank you very much). It will all work out in the end.

All thanks to three weeks of down time.

Yes, because of down time, I feel laid back for my Washington visit, which is unusual. I’m sure many of you agree: business trips are anything but relaxing. They’re rushed, travel inevitably occurs during peak periods, and, if nothing else, any semblance of a system or daily schedule is thrown into the water. Albeit, this is easier for spastic ADD individuals like myself that operate without any regularity or consistency on a day-to-day basis anyway, but traveling still proves excruciatingly trying. Even in the great US of A, there are different foods, different cultural dynamics, a different bed to sleep in, a different dialect to understand and often-times translate. Everything you “know” to be true and steadfast is suddenly challenged, and you find yourself working three times as hard to do the most rote of tasks, like internalize and comprehend conversations spoken by someone with a Southern twang – sure, you can understand them, but the rhythm is off, the delivery slower, and the pronunciation different. Yes, you hear it, but it takes three times as long to make sense of it – you actually have to try to listen.

But not today.

Today, I head to Washington rested. My mother would be proud because my seat back is actually all the way reclined… and my shoes are off (and anybody who knows me knows that I sit in what my family terms the “launch” position and I would never – EVER – remove my shoes in a confined, shared, public space like an airplane or train). I have more meetings than I could possibly fit into a day set up for the remainder of this week and, on top of it all, I’m missing more routine work back at my office than I could typically stand to miss. Furthermore, I’ve extended my Washington stay through the week-end to undertake a kayaking trip down the Potomac with some Washington office colleagues – anything but restful. And still, I’m okay.

Moral of the story: we work too hard. Every last one of us. If liberals have done anything right (and I will be the first to admit the list is short), it’s been fair pay and, in hand, paid vacation. It’s a luxury that not many enjoy, so count yourself lucky if you do. I’d like to thank the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and KlingStubbins for July. And to August, I’d like to say, “bring it on.”