ABOUT LAST WEEKEND III: THE SEARCH FOR SPORT, PART III: THE SEARCH FOR ABOUT LAST WEEKEND III: THE SEARCH FOR SPORT, PART II
As I sit here in Boston early Saturday morning, waiting for K. to arrive, I think back to her visit three weeks ago, and that episode at Twin Donut.
I had just come back from the bathroom, and we were perusing the breakfast menu. K. said something, which somehow, I didn’t catch. Perhaps I had been distracted by the tinkling of silverware at the next table. Or it might have been the sudden appearance of the South Asian-looking waitress, with her pencil and pad at the ready, that seemed to put me on the spot. All I know is, before I knew what happened, K. and I had ordered food. As the waitress slipped away to the kitchen, I looked past the storefront window over my girlfriend’s shoulder. I could see the Allston-Brighton Day Parade start its march from the tip of Brighton Avenue, in the distance.
Then I said something along the lines of, “Oh, maybe we shouldn’t have ordered our food so soon. Because now we can’t go watch the parade go by.” K. became visibly upset.
She replied along the lines of, “That’s what I asked you before. 'Do you want to go watch the parade first, then come back and order?'”
“You did?” I said.
“Yes. Apparently, you weren’t paying attention.” Now, I may not be quoting her remark verbatim, but it was probably close. Bottom line: I got the feeling she thought I had either ignored her on purpose, or was too preoccupied with taking care of my own needs, i.e., ordering food for my stomach, to address her needs. And the latter was probably true. I temporarily forgot that the reason we impulsively jumped out of bed that morning was to go watch the parade. How terrible of me. But, in my defense, I did feel easily jangled, which I attribute, in hindsight, to low blood sugar. That is why I needed to order food.
Of course, no amount of rationalization would have made K. happy. I lamely pointed out that we could still get up, go watch the parade (which was gradually becoming a larger blip outside the window), then come back and eat. K., however, would have none of it. She explained that, since we had already ordered, the staff might think we weren't planning to pay. Or worse, our food might be cold by the time we got back. Both legitimate reasons to stay where we were. But seeing K. upset, wearing a look that showed her morning had taken a sudden, precipitous decline (thanks to me), made me realize that the one thing we couldn’t afford to do was stay indoors while the parade passed us by. So I threw down my napkin-wrapped silverware, and sprang into action.
I went up to the person behind the cash register (also South Asian, and bearing a strong physical resemblance to the waitress—was this business family-run…?). “Excuse me,” I said. She looked up and smiled. My macho façade immediately crumbled beneath the anxiety of having an upset girlfriend. I can’t say for certain, but I think I actually fell to my knees and begged her to “please, please, please let us go outside for a second. We just want to watch the parade. I promise I’ll order dessert…”
A minute later, K. and I were standing outside, watching kids in matching uniforms strut their stuff. It was a nice parade, though it paled in comparison to Main Street on television every Thanksgiving. The Allston-Brighton Day Parade didn’t feature confetti being tossed out of skyscraper windows (Most of the buildings on the street were only two stories tall). There was no giant float of Woody Woodpecker. No crowds of onlookers, either. On the bright side, K. and I got a front row seat. Local politicos walked right up and handed us bumper stickers, bags of candy, urging us to vote them into City Council. I recognized Sam Yoon, who could very well become the first Asian Pacific American Councilman At-large. Currently, he is running third for one of four seats. He might have recognized that K. and I were brethren—or he might have just seen potential voters. Either way, he enthusiastically shook our hands.
Meanwhile, one of the other candidates, Patricia H. White, must have recognized that I have a penis, because she only shook K.’s hand. Even though I was standing right next to her.
By the time the parade was halfway finished, K. and I were clearly feeling better. Maybe it was the Dixieland-playing, old-style fire engine that was part of the parade. Or possibly the running joke we shared about the phrase “Councilman At-large.” It started with the politician at the head of the parade, who was currently “Councilman At-large.” As he pinballed back and forth, shaking hands with everyone alongside the street, he struck K. and I as an extremely apt example of the title. For one thing, he was a large man. Secondly, when we think of someone as being “at large,” we inevitably conjure up the image of a criminal who has somehow broken out of custody. This man exuded similar qualities in his excitable manner. He was like a bird released from its cage.
So for the rest of the parade, and pretty much the second half of the day, K. and I would inevitably turn to each other and say, “City Councilman. At Laaaarrrrge,” in effect making a larger word out of the word “large.” God, it cracked us up. You had to be there.
The parade was immediately followed by a pair of street-sweeping cabs. Now, when I say “immediately followed,” I mean they were practically part of the parade. Soon all the evidence was gone, and traffic resumed. Had you arrived five seconds after that street-sweeper, you’d have had no idea anything out of the ordinary happened on Brighton Avenue that morning. The swiftness with which normalcy returned is either a tribute to the well-oiled coordination of Allston-Brighton’s municipal resources, or an indicator of how dinky the parade was. Rather than dwell on either possibility, K. and I walked up Cambridge Road.
Afternoon
A Brazilian supermarket with lots of interesting cake mixes. Unfortunately, neither of us could read Portuguese, and I don’t own a cake pan. Pre-packaged “instant mashed batatas.” K.’s phrase, not mine. Don’t know why, but I fell on the floor laughing when she said it. Good thing nobody saw me.
Down Cambridge Road a little bit is a gourmet market, cleverly disguised. Kind of a plain, square box exterior. But inside, a wide selection of cheeses, plus Russian and Polish pickled goods and sweets. The market also features a veritable wall of kielbasas, and they get gourmet cakes delivered from, of all places, Kings Highway in Brooklyn, New York.
Evening
We made a roasted squash, and pears cooked in port wine sauce. I still have sauce in an airtight container, and it goes well with many kinds of ice cream.
Epilogue
K. went back to New York City on Monday morning. Her departure made me sad, but full of happy memories. I can honestly say it was the best weekend ever. It will likely endure as the best weekend of all time, at least until K. arrives and I get material for ABOUT LAST WEEKEND IV: THE ONE THAT TAKES PLACE IN SPACE.
Why, I believe I hear the doorbell ringing…
As I sit here in Boston early Saturday morning, waiting for K. to arrive, I think back to her visit three weeks ago, and that episode at Twin Donut.
I had just come back from the bathroom, and we were perusing the breakfast menu. K. said something, which somehow, I didn’t catch. Perhaps I had been distracted by the tinkling of silverware at the next table. Or it might have been the sudden appearance of the South Asian-looking waitress, with her pencil and pad at the ready, that seemed to put me on the spot. All I know is, before I knew what happened, K. and I had ordered food. As the waitress slipped away to the kitchen, I looked past the storefront window over my girlfriend’s shoulder. I could see the Allston-Brighton Day Parade start its march from the tip of Brighton Avenue, in the distance.
Then I said something along the lines of, “Oh, maybe we shouldn’t have ordered our food so soon. Because now we can’t go watch the parade go by.” K. became visibly upset.
She replied along the lines of, “That’s what I asked you before. 'Do you want to go watch the parade first, then come back and order?'”
“You did?” I said.
“Yes. Apparently, you weren’t paying attention.” Now, I may not be quoting her remark verbatim, but it was probably close. Bottom line: I got the feeling she thought I had either ignored her on purpose, or was too preoccupied with taking care of my own needs, i.e., ordering food for my stomach, to address her needs. And the latter was probably true. I temporarily forgot that the reason we impulsively jumped out of bed that morning was to go watch the parade. How terrible of me. But, in my defense, I did feel easily jangled, which I attribute, in hindsight, to low blood sugar. That is why I needed to order food.
Of course, no amount of rationalization would have made K. happy. I lamely pointed out that we could still get up, go watch the parade (which was gradually becoming a larger blip outside the window), then come back and eat. K., however, would have none of it. She explained that, since we had already ordered, the staff might think we weren't planning to pay. Or worse, our food might be cold by the time we got back. Both legitimate reasons to stay where we were. But seeing K. upset, wearing a look that showed her morning had taken a sudden, precipitous decline (thanks to me), made me realize that the one thing we couldn’t afford to do was stay indoors while the parade passed us by. So I threw down my napkin-wrapped silverware, and sprang into action.
I went up to the person behind the cash register (also South Asian, and bearing a strong physical resemblance to the waitress—was this business family-run…?). “Excuse me,” I said. She looked up and smiled. My macho façade immediately crumbled beneath the anxiety of having an upset girlfriend. I can’t say for certain, but I think I actually fell to my knees and begged her to “please, please, please let us go outside for a second. We just want to watch the parade. I promise I’ll order dessert…”
A minute later, K. and I were standing outside, watching kids in matching uniforms strut their stuff. It was a nice parade, though it paled in comparison to Main Street on television every Thanksgiving. The Allston-Brighton Day Parade didn’t feature confetti being tossed out of skyscraper windows (Most of the buildings on the street were only two stories tall). There was no giant float of Woody Woodpecker. No crowds of onlookers, either. On the bright side, K. and I got a front row seat. Local politicos walked right up and handed us bumper stickers, bags of candy, urging us to vote them into City Council. I recognized Sam Yoon, who could very well become the first Asian Pacific American Councilman At-large. Currently, he is running third for one of four seats. He might have recognized that K. and I were brethren—or he might have just seen potential voters. Either way, he enthusiastically shook our hands.
Meanwhile, one of the other candidates, Patricia H. White, must have recognized that I have a penis, because she only shook K.’s hand. Even though I was standing right next to her.
By the time the parade was halfway finished, K. and I were clearly feeling better. Maybe it was the Dixieland-playing, old-style fire engine that was part of the parade. Or possibly the running joke we shared about the phrase “Councilman At-large.” It started with the politician at the head of the parade, who was currently “Councilman At-large.” As he pinballed back and forth, shaking hands with everyone alongside the street, he struck K. and I as an extremely apt example of the title. For one thing, he was a large man. Secondly, when we think of someone as being “at large,” we inevitably conjure up the image of a criminal who has somehow broken out of custody. This man exuded similar qualities in his excitable manner. He was like a bird released from its cage.
So for the rest of the parade, and pretty much the second half of the day, K. and I would inevitably turn to each other and say, “City Councilman. At Laaaarrrrge,” in effect making a larger word out of the word “large.” God, it cracked us up. You had to be there.
The parade was immediately followed by a pair of street-sweeping cabs. Now, when I say “immediately followed,” I mean they were practically part of the parade. Soon all the evidence was gone, and traffic resumed. Had you arrived five seconds after that street-sweeper, you’d have had no idea anything out of the ordinary happened on Brighton Avenue that morning. The swiftness with which normalcy returned is either a tribute to the well-oiled coordination of Allston-Brighton’s municipal resources, or an indicator of how dinky the parade was. Rather than dwell on either possibility, K. and I walked up Cambridge Road.
Afternoon
A Brazilian supermarket with lots of interesting cake mixes. Unfortunately, neither of us could read Portuguese, and I don’t own a cake pan. Pre-packaged “instant mashed batatas.” K.’s phrase, not mine. Don’t know why, but I fell on the floor laughing when she said it. Good thing nobody saw me.
Down Cambridge Road a little bit is a gourmet market, cleverly disguised. Kind of a plain, square box exterior. But inside, a wide selection of cheeses, plus Russian and Polish pickled goods and sweets. The market also features a veritable wall of kielbasas, and they get gourmet cakes delivered from, of all places, Kings Highway in Brooklyn, New York.
Evening
We made a roasted squash, and pears cooked in port wine sauce. I still have sauce in an airtight container, and it goes well with many kinds of ice cream.
Epilogue
K. went back to New York City on Monday morning. Her departure made me sad, but full of happy memories. I can honestly say it was the best weekend ever. It will likely endure as the best weekend of all time, at least until K. arrives and I get material for ABOUT LAST WEEKEND IV: THE ONE THAT TAKES PLACE IN SPACE.
Why, I believe I hear the doorbell ringing…
posted by Phil at 10:58 AM
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