Oh my God, get me back to the other side of the Charles, now!The Boston metropolitan area tends to be a bit provincial. Boston is a small city, perfect for walking around, but there is this big river that splits Boston from its geeky neighboring city, Cambridge. Although over the past few hundred years, various Bostonians and Cambridgians have seen fit to put bridges across the rivers to encourage co-mingling of the city's denizens, most times we can't be bothered to walk across a bridge and visit the other side.
At my work party last week, a slightly drunk coworker encouraged a friend and I to go to Cambridge, and at the time it sounded like a good idea. I've been to almost every bar in the Back Bay and off the C line. They don't card me anymore at the bar around the corner from my apartment because I'm in there every weekend, ogling the Hot Irish Bartender. I've been to the bars near North Station, I've frequented Fanuiel Hall. I'm sure I've missed some gems, but I felt it was time to cross the river Charles and try something new.
My friend Stephanie and I decided to head across the Charles to see
Brokeback Mountain on Saturday. It was playing in Coolidge Corner, but we decided to make a night of it and head to Cambridge. Stephanie wanted to stop at a store in Harvard Square, and we both wanted to go to a Harvard bar to fuck with some smart kids. After a day of brutal Christmas shopping, I met Stephanie and we walked to Cleveland Circle to catch the 86 bus to Harvard Square.
We sat in the bus shelter, waiting for the bus to come by. The temperature had dropped dramatically since the sun set, and I foolishly wore thin cotton socks in my boots. Three BC shuttle busses drove hoards of students back to campus, but no 86 bus was to be seen. We waited for twenty minutes for the bus before I called the MBTA hotline. The number is on the bottom of the sign that marks which bus comes by, and allegedly someone will answer and tell you when your bus will come. Since the T sorely lacks the digital signage that other cities have, it's the best way to get transit information. Sadly, I would have done better to ask a ouiji board than call the number. "Thank you for calling the MBTA. Our offices are currently closed. Please call back during normal business hours. Goodbye." The phone cut off, leaving Stephanie and I to swear, our breath lingering in the cold air.
After nearly forty-five minutes of waiting and frostbite setting in, we hailed a cab to Harvard Square. The cabbie listened to a football game, and I looked out over the half-frozen Charles.
"I almost never come over here," I said to Stephanie.
"Me neither. I used to hang out at MIT sometimes, but I almost always stayed on the Boston side of the river."
"I feel like people are different in Cambridge than they are in Boston."
"Yeah, they are. They think they're smarter than us on the 'Boston side.' The guys have scraggly facial hair, and the women don't wear makeup. They're too busy being 'smart.'"
We got out of the cab on Church Street, and got in line to buy our tickets. We were lucky to get there early since the 9:30 show had sold out. We bought our tickets for the 10:30 and wandered over to L.A. Burdick's to get hot chocolate and chocolate mice for Stephanie's friend.
The line was nearly out the front door. We joined the line, the smell of hot chocolate thick in the air. The tables were full of people, many of them appeared to be on dates. Some small families crowded around a small table, wiping kids noses and sipping hot drinks. The harried clerks took our order, and we went to wait for our drinks. At the table nearest us, a white girl in dreadlocks sat with a black man, dressed in traditional African garb, charms and rings woven in with his dreadlocks. They talked passionately, and the girl got up to place another order. The man offered his seat to a little boy, who was asking his dad if he really was about to have the best hot chocolate in the world.
The clerk called our names, and I sipped at my tiny cup of hot chocolate that cost me two dollars. The chocolate wasn't overly sweet, and had a faint burned taste in the background that was delicious. I'm not normally a big hot chocolate fan (unless I've been sledding) but it was great, especially since I'd nearly lost a toe waiting for the bus.
Stephanie and I decided to have dinner at the Border Cafe. We sat down and immediately started eating the warm tortilla chips and ordered a Corona. I looked around, regretting the decision to grab the chair that faced the wall. Guys sat around in big wool sweaters, talking to girls with their hair pulled back in loose ponytails. The scraggly facial hair was popular, and Stephanie rued the fact that an otherwise attractive guy had a full beard on his face. I wondered what all these people were talking about. Some of them were probably in the midst of finals since we were so close to Harvard. I wondered if some of them were talking about Christmas shopping and cookie swaps like Stephanie and I were.
After dinner, we went back to the movie theater. I always hate going to the movies. I don't mind movies, and I love the previews, but I hate sitting with people. It seems that most people were raised by gregarious wolves, because they have no qualms with talking non-stop throughout a movie. Which may be slightly more acceptable when it's a Segal-esque orgy of destruction, but when it's a quiet, dialogue-heavy movie like
Brokeback Mountain, it should be punishable by death. You think I'm joking.
Stephanie and I grabbed an aisle seat at the back of the tiny theater, and watched as the crowd filled in. A trio sat in front of us who made us nervous. The girls chatted nonstop, and the tall guy leaned forward so Stephanie couldn't see, then sat back a little, then threw himself into the back of the seat, sending the back of the seat into my knees. I wanted to ask him if he thought he should maybe use the bathroom then, before the movie started, if he had to go so bad. A couple sat in the same row as the trio, and they seemed fine until the movie started. A couple sat next to Stephanie and made out during the previews.
The movie started, and I was really excited. I had read Annie Proloux's story, so the plot wasn't a mystery to me, but I also knew the movie was not a comedy. I knew it would have it's ironically funny moments, but it was no
Cheaper by the Dozen 2. It's labeled "drama." The Golden Globes has it nominated in the "Best Drama" category. It's not going to be a laugh riot.
You wouldn't have known that from the crowd reaction at the Lowes in Harvard Square. Now I'm not looking down my nose at people. I called it "The Gay Cowboy Sex Movie" about three hundred times last week, probably scandalizing my boss as she watched me type about how excited I was for TGCSM to Kristen. But I was impressed with the story and had heard good things about the film, and went in prepared to take it seriously. Our fellow audience members, however, apparently felt no compunction to do so. During the first sex scene, I heard a hoot (one of the third-grade, "you like a boy!" hoots) and laughter. It's not a funny scene. During other serious moments, the couple in front of us laughed. The girls chatted. The guy sent his seatback into my patella. At one point, I actually had to sush someone. By the time the movie was over, Stephanie and I could not get a cab back to Brookline fast enough.
We sat in the bar near my apartment, sipping our drinks, both of us happy to be back on the side of the river that understands us. The Hot Irish Bartender cleaned the bar as the crowd thinned out, and Stephanie and I tried to avoid making eye contact with a sketchy guy who kept looking at us and laughing when we were talking. The guys were clean shaven, the girls wore makeup, and none of us were too smart for anybody else.
