Jack and Jill
I’d never been on a plane on my own, so a flight to Boston was both exciting and a little scary. I was heading out to visit my sister who at the time was staying in Hanover in New Hampshire. I prayed for a window seat, or at the very least an aisle seat. I got neither. I was wedged between two beards. On my left was a tall fat bearded man - on my right an even taller and fatter bearded man. It was clear they were travelling together, as the conversation developed it turned out they were heading to a conference in Boston. I asked if they’d like to swap seats so that they could carry on their conversation without talking and occasionally spitting across me. They politely declined so here I was trapped between the David Bellamy twins. It wasn’t the greatest of starts.
Things got worse when the food arrived. The spit now contained food as I was doused in bits of rice, yoghurt and a rogue nut. They were completely oblivious to my presence. I felt invisible and not in a good way. It was a very long flight but the excitement of seeing my sister and being a solo traveller for the first time kept my spirits up. I had a short wait for the Dartmouth College bus that would transport me to New Hampshire. As I waited with the sun setting above the skyline of Boston I was as content as I can recall.
I’d left my work at The Sunday Times a week earlier and was about to embark on a new chapter of life - I was going to be a student again. At the age of 24 I would be classified as a mature student. I’d be able to pass on my life experience to my young naive class mates. I’d be Obi Wan - they’d be a young Anakin Skywalker. With a good education and my sound advice they’d all go on to achieve great things. Except for Neil - there was fuck all I could do for him. I was in a different country, a different continent on a three week holiday with no job to go back to. It was genuinely liberating.
My sister and brother in law Mark both worked at Dartmouth College, which was the institution that the town of Hanover was built on. Although the town itself only had at the time a population of a little over 10,000, it was a great place to spend some time. There were lots of nice places to eat and drink as well as a number of shops that were targeted at the student population. The second hand CD shop was a favourite haunt of mine as was ‘Murphy’s on the Green’ and the buffet breakfasts at ‘Everything but Anchovies’ were awesome. As a first time independent traveller it was great to be completely selfish and go where I wanted - when I wanted to go. I even went cycling on Mark’s bike - peddling along quiet country roads, following the twists and turns of the Conneticut river.
My time alone was fun, but my time with Gillian and Mark was better. My sister had only been away for a year, but I missed her so much. It was great to meet her new friends and colleagues to see how their new life was developing. All too soon though it was time to head to Boston for my last three nights before I headed home. With the help of my sister I booked into the Boston College halls of residence on Beacon Street which in the summer months was transformed into an International Youth Hostel. It was the cheapest way to stay in Boston which as US cities go can be expensive.
After I arrived and got settled in I thought a quick shower was in order before heading out and exploring the city. I was midway through drying myself and was just commencing the scrotum flossing part of the process when the door burst open. Not the door I’d entered the bathroom with - but another door which I had completely failed to notice. The girl stood in the ‘other’ door frame with a look of abject horror. Her hand went to her mouth much in the same way you do when you witness something utterly horrific like a multi vehicle crash. Now I could have reacted in a number of ways, but I went for the confident approach. I didn’t even stop the sawing towel action necessary to dry my nether regions. I looked up and said. “Hi - I’m Kevin, nice to meet you.” I probably would have offered a hand shake but given the circumstances I felt that wasn’t the right move. She was polite enough to say a feeble ‘Hi’ before quickly closing the door. It was only at that point that the sign became visible. “Would all guests please remember to lock the door upon entering the bathroom.” The sign wasn’t subtle, wasn’t in a small font and wasn’t obscured by anything, but for whatever reason I’d completely missed it. I’d later learn that this was called a ‘Jack and Jill’ arrangement.
I cringed then laughed, stopping quickly as I realised my ‘victim’ may be able to hear me. What if she called the ‘campus security’ or worse the police. Being labelled a sexual deviant, while not new, wasn’t something I wanted made official. I got dressed and headed down to the main reception area towards freedom where I could escape the scene of my embarrassment. And there she was. I think she was Icelandic. Our eyes met and she assumed a slightly defensive posture. I thought I’d break the ice by asking her if she recognised me ‘with my clothes on’. I’d intended to say that I was very sorry for embarrassing her and myself. I’d planned to say sorry that she had to ‘say hello to my little friend’. But for whatever reason I always seem to compound one mistake with another. It’s a form of tourettes I think. She smiled and we went our separate ways.
My days in Boston were amazing. I walked the Freedom Trail, I visited Faneuil Hall and took in as much of the city as I could before leaving. The highlight though were my two visits to see the Boston Red Sox play at Fenway Park. The first nights game was almost called off due to torrential rain, but after a two hour delay the game started. I instantly fell in love with the game and the fans. They shared their knowledge of America’s pastime and taught me the basics of the game of baseball.
My final day of any holiday is always consumed with re-running my schedule and making sure that I am organised. I hate being late and the prospect of missing a flight makes me ill. So I’m always early. I also like airports, so it’s a win-win situation. My last day in Boston was no different. I packed, checked and re-checked my schedule and reviewed my passport more times than was necessary. The bar across the road from the college looked typically Irish and the sign for Murphy’s persuaded me to have one final drink in Boston before heading to Logan Airport. I sat at the bar, which I rarely do. A guy sat down beside me and without uttering a word two slices of pizza and a pint of Murphy’s were deposited in front of him. It was very cool and I admit I was impressed. Couldn’t imagine that happening in Dundee somehow.
When he heard me ask the barmaid for another pint of Murphy’s he calmly said ‘stick it on my tab Shirley’. He turned to me and asked where in Scotland I was from. He apparently had ancestors from Scotland - Aberdeen to be precise. Before I knew it he’d ordered me some pizza, again on his tab. I didn’t want to be rude but I was scared about missing my flight. He seemed to sense my unease and asked me if I had somewhere to be. When I explained my concern he told me not to sweat it as he’d order me a taxi. I’m not sure what being groomed feels like, but I imagine it was a lot like this.
It was around this time I saw a picture behind the bar. It was of Gerry Adams and Martin McGuiness and by the looks of things the picture was taking where I was currently sitting. I’d heard about Boston Bars that supported ‘Boston’s favourite charity’ but I hadn’t experienced it or for that matter seen any sight of it. At the time my knowledge of the troubles on Ireland was extremely limited, truth be told - it still is. But at that stage my feelings amounted to nothing more than sadness when anyone was killed in a bombing or attack of some sort. He saw me looking at the picture. “I took that.” he said. I wasn’t sure how to respond - a quip about the excellent framing and composition didn’t seem right - neither did a comment about “murdering bastards”. Instead I opted to talk about the ridiculousness of the ‘voice ban’ that had been rescinded 5 years earlier by then Prime Minister John Major. He smiled and nodded, which was nice.
I’d left my work at The Sunday Times a week earlier and was about to embark on a new chapter of life - I was going to be a student again. At the age of 24 I would be classified as a mature student. I’d be able to pass on my life experience to my young naive class mates. I’d be Obi Wan - they’d be a young Anakin Skywalker. With a good education and my sound advice they’d all go on to achieve great things. Except for Neil - there was fuck all I could do for him. I was in a different country, a different continent on a three week holiday with no job to go back to. It was genuinely liberating.
My sister and brother in law Mark both worked at Dartmouth College, which was the institution that the town of Hanover was built on. Although the town itself only had at the time a population of a little over 10,000, it was a great place to spend some time. There were lots of nice places to eat and drink as well as a number of shops that were targeted at the student population. The second hand CD shop was a favourite haunt of mine as was ‘Murphy’s on the Green’ and the buffet breakfasts at ‘Everything but Anchovies’ were awesome. As a first time independent traveller it was great to be completely selfish and go where I wanted - when I wanted to go. I even went cycling on Mark’s bike - peddling along quiet country roads, following the twists and turns of the Conneticut river.
My time alone was fun, but my time with Gillian and Mark was better. My sister had only been away for a year, but I missed her so much. It was great to meet her new friends and colleagues to see how their new life was developing. All too soon though it was time to head to Boston for my last three nights before I headed home. With the help of my sister I booked into the Boston College halls of residence on Beacon Street which in the summer months was transformed into an International Youth Hostel. It was the cheapest way to stay in Boston which as US cities go can be expensive.
After I arrived and got settled in I thought a quick shower was in order before heading out and exploring the city. I was midway through drying myself and was just commencing the scrotum flossing part of the process when the door burst open. Not the door I’d entered the bathroom with - but another door which I had completely failed to notice. The girl stood in the ‘other’ door frame with a look of abject horror. Her hand went to her mouth much in the same way you do when you witness something utterly horrific like a multi vehicle crash. Now I could have reacted in a number of ways, but I went for the confident approach. I didn’t even stop the sawing towel action necessary to dry my nether regions. I looked up and said. “Hi - I’m Kevin, nice to meet you.” I probably would have offered a hand shake but given the circumstances I felt that wasn’t the right move. She was polite enough to say a feeble ‘Hi’ before quickly closing the door. It was only at that point that the sign became visible. “Would all guests please remember to lock the door upon entering the bathroom.” The sign wasn’t subtle, wasn’t in a small font and wasn’t obscured by anything, but for whatever reason I’d completely missed it. I’d later learn that this was called a ‘Jack and Jill’ arrangement.
I cringed then laughed, stopping quickly as I realised my ‘victim’ may be able to hear me. What if she called the ‘campus security’ or worse the police. Being labelled a sexual deviant, while not new, wasn’t something I wanted made official. I got dressed and headed down to the main reception area towards freedom where I could escape the scene of my embarrassment. And there she was. I think she was Icelandic. Our eyes met and she assumed a slightly defensive posture. I thought I’d break the ice by asking her if she recognised me ‘with my clothes on’. I’d intended to say that I was very sorry for embarrassing her and myself. I’d planned to say sorry that she had to ‘say hello to my little friend’. But for whatever reason I always seem to compound one mistake with another. It’s a form of tourettes I think. She smiled and we went our separate ways.
My days in Boston were amazing. I walked the Freedom Trail, I visited Faneuil Hall and took in as much of the city as I could before leaving. The highlight though were my two visits to see the Boston Red Sox play at Fenway Park. The first nights game was almost called off due to torrential rain, but after a two hour delay the game started. I instantly fell in love with the game and the fans. They shared their knowledge of America’s pastime and taught me the basics of the game of baseball.
My final day of any holiday is always consumed with re-running my schedule and making sure that I am organised. I hate being late and the prospect of missing a flight makes me ill. So I’m always early. I also like airports, so it’s a win-win situation. My last day in Boston was no different. I packed, checked and re-checked my schedule and reviewed my passport more times than was necessary. The bar across the road from the college looked typically Irish and the sign for Murphy’s persuaded me to have one final drink in Boston before heading to Logan Airport. I sat at the bar, which I rarely do. A guy sat down beside me and without uttering a word two slices of pizza and a pint of Murphy’s were deposited in front of him. It was very cool and I admit I was impressed. Couldn’t imagine that happening in Dundee somehow.
When he heard me ask the barmaid for another pint of Murphy’s he calmly said ‘stick it on my tab Shirley’. He turned to me and asked where in Scotland I was from. He apparently had ancestors from Scotland - Aberdeen to be precise. Before I knew it he’d ordered me some pizza, again on his tab. I didn’t want to be rude but I was scared about missing my flight. He seemed to sense my unease and asked me if I had somewhere to be. When I explained my concern he told me not to sweat it as he’d order me a taxi. I’m not sure what being groomed feels like, but I imagine it was a lot like this.
It was around this time I saw a picture behind the bar. It was of Gerry Adams and Martin McGuiness and by the looks of things the picture was taking where I was currently sitting. I’d heard about Boston Bars that supported ‘Boston’s favourite charity’ but I hadn’t experienced it or for that matter seen any sight of it. At the time my knowledge of the troubles on Ireland was extremely limited, truth be told - it still is. But at that stage my feelings amounted to nothing more than sadness when anyone was killed in a bombing or attack of some sort. He saw me looking at the picture. “I took that.” he said. I wasn’t sure how to respond - a quip about the excellent framing and composition didn’t seem right - neither did a comment about “murdering bastards”. Instead I opted to talk about the ridiculousness of the ‘voice ban’ that had been rescinded 5 years earlier by then Prime Minister John Major. He smiled and nodded, which was nice.
The next part of the story seemed like a warning. My pizza eating, Murphy guzzling friend told me that the bar occasionally attracted people who “weren’t as tolerant as you”. He went on to explain that those lacking tolerance were typically English. Sometimes they’d have to have words with some of them about their attitude. His head then nodded towards a room just visible behind the bar. “If needs be - we’ll take them out through that way.” Shirley behind the bar fixed her eyes on me and nodded very slowly and deliberately. It was a look that said - “he ain’t shitting hon”.
I got my taxi to the airport and arrived with plenty of time to spare. I’d experienced a lot in my 3 weeks and was glad that I’d made the trip. I viewed any bearded academics with suspicion and prayed for a window seat.
I got my taxi to the airport and arrived with plenty of time to spare. I’d experienced a lot in my 3 weeks and was glad that I’d made the trip. I viewed any bearded academics with suspicion and prayed for a window seat.
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