Massachusetts Avenue

Our journey back to Boston was memorably torturous. Mary was gripped by both vomiting and a stomach upset as we transited in Atlanta. Suddenly, the three hours between flights seemed too short as we staggered feebly from one checkpoint to another. Our experience on the connecting flight tore to shreds Delta's confident assertion in its pre-flight video that they are the best in what they do. We were bounced brusquely from Delta's general enquiries desk when we requested for our seats to be closer to the bathrooms. The officer on duty was plainly more interested in her phone. On the Atlanta-Boston leg, however, we were fortunate to meet an attentive stewardess who assisted patiently with our every need. All we remembered of her older colleague next to her was her unprofessional remonstrations when we asked to dispose of our sick bag.

Below: Posing reflectively before the Civil War monument in Cambridge Common.

At the reception desk of Buckminster, I finally returned the bathtub plug which I had carried through half of Central America. I had mistaken it for yet another inconsequential domestic contraption from Daiso, brandishing it triumphantly in El Salvador when Mary asked for a S-hook. No epiphany could have been shinier than when Mary blandly asked how is that an S-hook?

Having finally checked into our room at close to 2 am, we stayed in it until a creeping hunger compelled us to forage outside well after sunset sixteen hours later. It left us with only the next day for sightseeing before we headed home. We were more interested in shopping though. secondhand books in my case and craft materials for Mary's. Google led us north of the Charles River. Both the bookstores and craft shops we wanted to visit were situated along that stretch of road between Porter and Harvard Squares known as Massachusetts Avenue, also where we conveniently did all our sightseeing.

Below: The Manichean duality of steely, snow-laden skies - slate to gaud and God.

A sprinkling of snow added a touch of magic to another gray winter's day when we arrived at Porter Square. There was little to see until we approached Harvard Square, save the brightly painted timber houses on many of the smaller lanes nearby. We took our only steps on the much-vaunted Freedom Trail near Cambridge Common where a certain General Washington took command of the American militia in 1775.

Below: Redcoat responses to Freedom Trail monuments.

And who could omit the agglomeration of almost artificially brilliant intelligence in the vicinity? As an undergraduate, I often found while walking between lessons whole parades of tourists in various statuesque poses. Five years on, camera and shopping in tow, amidst Harvard's domes and spires and scurrying students who paid little heed to us, I crossed a decisive divide. If the campuses were temples of learning, the bookshops scattered around Harvard Square were shrines of popular devotion - nowhere else could I have obtained Fernand Braudel's The Mediterranean World at US$15. My bibliophilic rampage subsequently left us having to balance the books on our return flight, especially with Lufthansa stringently policing their 23 kg per piece of check-in.

Above (top to bottom): A memorial persists in winter; Nerds should pause before heeding the siren's call of Harvard Book Store. Check your wallet, then your luggage allowance.

Below (top to bottom): Celebrating Christmas early with our adopted family; our only views of the Boston skyline were from the airport, on the first and the last days of our trip.

That last evening, we had dinner with Samuel in his room to avoid a repeat embarassment of us being mistaken for his parents. We only wished he was younger. At least I knew I wasn't getting any when I collapsed in a heap on the bed upon returning to Buckminster.

Packing had to wait.