As I resignedly gazed down at the filthy toilet seat I had been reduced to straddling with clenched tooth and palm, it was with a travel-weary ennui that I pondered bitterly, how has it come to this?
A few days before this most unpleasant nadir, however, I had been having an excellent time in Boston. Indeed, while I was busy in the hostel kitchen preparing a toothsome vegetable curry - part of a concentrated effort to nutrient enrich our diets - Otto was engaged in one of those quintessential hostel exchanges with an amenable Australian, Steve. Unlike most of these conversations which peter out after the banalities of travel talk, however, Steve, or 'The Tour Guide' as he would later be known, proved himself to be an engaging man.
So it was that we moseyed out with him and a few others from the hostel that night to Wally's Jazz Bar for, oddly enough, some Blues. We found ourselves sitting along the bar, an experience I'd hitherto avoided out of a fear of violating the sacred protocols of bar-drinking and customer-to-barman conduct. Nonetheless, with a pocketful of ones ready for tipping, I had little time to dwell on my concerns as my attention was wrested by both my new old man friend next to me with whom I discussed the NBA and the particularly intense gaze of the harmonica player in the Blues band who seemed unmoved by the music or those around him, his soup bowl hair cut and 80s spectacles protection against all that whirled hither and thither, Otto's limbs included as his proudly announced he'd "finished all [3] of my beers!"
Thus it was that the next day as Kip and I prepared ourselves for another exciting brewing tour and Otto, unimpressed by the subtle alchemy of beer, filled his pockets with acorns for a day's lone-wolfing, came across Steve in the lobby and quickly agreed to join him and some others on trip up to Harvard. What started as a small but hardy band of travelers soon blossomed into a ten-strong throng, weaving its way towards a famous university with surprising efficiency. One can only attribute this to the able competencies of The Tour Guide.
It was here that we were blessed with a remarkable tour of a most venerable institution, with Olga our diminutive tour guide managing to walk backwards in thongs whilst bellowing at the top of her small but powerful lungs a series of unspeakably lame puns and wearing a most vulgar straw hat - but one small part of her well-emblazoned ensemble.
Mildly amusing as she was, a $10 fee for a half hour tour seemed a little steep, so with a small amount of stooging we wandered on. Suddenly it was decided by the collective that it was time to move on to the Northside suburb of Boston in search of a large food market in pursuit of nosebag. In the organic way in which these social beasts work, we headed for the train once more, official tour guide duties passed from Steve to a man best known only as Gench.
With our usual foolish gusto, Kip and I tucked into clam strip sandwiches, a deep fried troll of the culinary world, before the wandering band headed to the illustrious cup cakery, Mike's. With cupcakes that were at least as much icing as cake, I battled my imminent sugar crash to make it back to hostel in time to go for a mid-AFL-season-second-pre-season run. It was exhausting.
That night Ralph, a large and charismatic man from the hostel, took us out for some free bowling and pool. While we could not access a bowling lane for a while and were forced to endure some truly awful pool and Miller Lite, it was worth the wait. With Steve and I using our tall man powers to win each of the lanes in the first round, in order to give those around us a chance we spent the second game attempting a variety of trick shots. Sadly, however, the well is only so deep when it comes to dreaming of different ways to hurl a bowling ball without risking the lives of those around you or your own muscular skeletal health. Without a doubt, though, the crowning triumph of the night was my left-handed-through-the-legs strike, a bowl so elegant it was met with the appropriate deference and celebration by the impressed onlookers. Tequila shots for the losers and self-satisfaction for the winners - an elegant evening.
Keen to finally visit the brewery, our last day in Boston saw us planning an early exit to Samuel Adams town, thinking our posse of the last day and a bit had all moved on. Most, however, while checked out, also wished to come down and see this most fabled house of beer. So it was that once again we set out but only to discover a few unsettling facts. Firstly, the only ID they'd accept was passports, thus depriving half of us of not only beer, but also the free souvenir glass, and also that the first tour was booked up, so we'd need to wait another hour.
Enterprising young people all, we passed the time on children's play equipment before cleverly drinking beer right under the noses of our indifferent tour guides. Take that, rules.
It was this night at 2am as I blearily eyed my email that I noticed an email from our host in NYC detailing that our lodgings were no longer available. Mildly concerned given that hostels had been booked up 2 months ago for the period during which we were visiting, we had an urgent team meeting and began searching for a new roof under which to shelter. Indeed, this was a panic that fueled the next day as well, the looming spectre of NYC homelessness most terrifying.
Before we left Boston we stole a moment to catch up with Kim, a friend of Kip and mine from the second day of our trip through Europe, meeting her and canning on in the UK when we were little more than rosy cheeked rubes in the big smoke. A pleasant Thai brunch under our belts, we began the drive up to New Haven once again battling the demons of speedy but expensive toll roads and our refusal to cough up the requisite pennies. Unlike our trip to Philadelphia, however, this time we met some success, suffering only a small increase in travel time for our miserly choices.
Sadly, New Haven has little in the way of accommodation, and we were thus forced to house ourselves some distance out of the city proper in a cheap hotel where once again I had to share a bed with Kip, the demilitarized zone down the middle shrinking evermore as his lonely snuffles filled the night.
Heading into New Haven the next day it was happy coincidence that our destination coincided with the location of the cheapest parking lot we could find. Louis' Lunch, home of the original hamburger, was on the menu, and Otto scampered off within seconds of our arrival. Simply a patty, some spreadable cheese, a single bit of tomato and a ring of onion sandwiched between two pieces of white bread, this was a lesson in elegant simplicity as well as quite possibly being the best burger I've ever eaten. Most likely due to the quality of the meat, but perhaps a tastiness enhanced by the no-nonsense service and cosy interior, I cannot argue with such a delightful experience.
From here we went on to explore Yale, taking photos of old buildings which actually appeared to have been made in 2000, as well as wandering into the courtyard of what we think was the law faculty, only to get locked inside. Thankfully, a blessedly repressed student let us out without asking any questions and we moseyed on.
From New Haven it was time for the final leg of our journey, a road trip to New York City.
Briefly stopping at our Brooklyn pad - home for the next two weeks - we headed on down to New Jersey to drop off our beloved auto of the last month and a half. An hour plus drive gave way to an address that definitely wasn't where we wanted to be. A small amount of confusion and a 20 minute detour had us at the drop off, only to realize that the rental firm had closed four hours ago.
As if we'd have thought to check.
Leaving the gruel parked there we left a handwritten note of love and the keys slipped through a mail box and went in search of the bus stop, leg one of our trip back to the pad. With the bus not due for another 30 minutes and a Family Dollar store around the corner, Kip and I decided it was snack o clock. Returning 5 minutes later with Malteser imitations and peach candies we found a frustrated looking Otto who bemoaned the fact that the bus had come within minutes of our leaving and that the next wasn't for another hour.
Thus it was that with a Chipole burrito scouring my insides, I found myself in the Shell bathroom, eyeing my porcelain throne and trying to remember if nadir meant what I thought it did. Things from here, however, only mildly improved. The bus eventually came and dropped us off at the train station, but after paying $12.25 for a ticket, we found that the train wasn't moving and that the line was closed. Then another train arrived claiming to go to NYC. We jumped on this with naive optimism that for once led us in the right direction. Then we shambled around searching for the correct subway lines from Penn station before deciding it was a good idea to pick up groceries on route to the apartment. Thus ensued a period of being lost accentuated by heavy and poorly designed grocery bags. Fun fun.
Finally we were all set up in our pad, ready to enjoy NYC for the next two weeks, but a little bit misty eyed at the end of our road trip.
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