A great city to visit on Saturday
Boston, like every city, has a certain charm that comes from its eccentricity. Tonight is a night like none other, yet in many ways it is like so many other urban nights; different people, same old weirdness. There is a heated subway argument between an old, racist, drunken codger and a trash talking midget. The interaction ends with the little man showing his bravado by wielding his middle finger menacingly; it is a weapon he uses with ease.
Up above, a street performer is perched upon the top of a tall balancing pole, and simultaneously leaning down attempting to reassure a small child below, whom he had frightened moments before. A block away, a shroom selling teenager offers his goods to a local college student, only to be confounded by the students claim that he is addicted to water.
All these great things have a great soundtrack: a piper playing old Scottish hits, an ancient Asian man playing an instrument whose screechy sounds I could not appreciate, a flamenco guitarist strumming and tapping furiously on his guitar.
There is one act that sums up both the originality of the city and its auditory glories: directly behind the grimy T exit, an old rock band passionately attracts a large crowd. There is an eclectic group of dancers, directly in front of the band, made up of: four inebriated bums, 5-6 businessmen and women in their 50s, 2 pot smoking metal heads, 3 cigarette smoking beatniks, a couple emissaries from a hippy commune and myself. We dance deliriously; forgetting that we are in the middle of a city and that people are walking by. Suddenly, the highlight of the night comes out of the subway station and makes his way towards the band. It is Jose, a grizzled old Jamaican Transit Authority worker. He has just gotten off his shift on the T, and is ready to make himself known to the world. The band smiles at him as he grabs a mike and delivers the best James Brown imitation I have ever seen. His voice is pushed skyward by our ecstatic cries, and soars through the buildings and over the city, where it dissolves into the brisk Boston air.
Up above, a street performer is perched upon the top of a tall balancing pole, and simultaneously leaning down attempting to reassure a small child below, whom he had frightened moments before. A block away, a shroom selling teenager offers his goods to a local college student, only to be confounded by the students claim that he is addicted to water.
All these great things have a great soundtrack: a piper playing old Scottish hits, an ancient Asian man playing an instrument whose screechy sounds I could not appreciate, a flamenco guitarist strumming and tapping furiously on his guitar.
There is one act that sums up both the originality of the city and its auditory glories: directly behind the grimy T exit, an old rock band passionately attracts a large crowd. There is an eclectic group of dancers, directly in front of the band, made up of: four inebriated bums, 5-6 businessmen and women in their 50s, 2 pot smoking metal heads, 3 cigarette smoking beatniks, a couple emissaries from a hippy commune and myself. We dance deliriously; forgetting that we are in the middle of a city and that people are walking by. Suddenly, the highlight of the night comes out of the subway station and makes his way towards the band. It is Jose, a grizzled old Jamaican Transit Authority worker. He has just gotten off his shift on the T, and is ready to make himself known to the world. The band smiles at him as he grabs a mike and delivers the best James Brown imitation I have ever seen. His voice is pushed skyward by our ecstatic cries, and soars through the buildings and over the city, where it dissolves into the brisk Boston air.
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