Up at 5:15 A.M. to drive to the airport, but first a walk with the dogs on which we heard the Songs of the Turf Wars as performed in gardens by robins, European starlings, and cardinals. Why the blue jays were laying low is anyone’s guess.
Last night the debacle at another garden: No songs, just Melo wreaking havoc. Great seats, finally as a season ticket holder, but the sights were lowdown. The lines, by the way, for the men’s rooms stretched long in contrast to no lines for the women’s rooms. This was puzzling since usually the women line up and wait while the men breeze in. Then it hit me: This was the first big public event–an NBA Playoff game–in Boston since the Marathon murders and the fellas, stalwart and strutting, were drinking like fish to calm the nerves. More beer must had been sold that night than a week in a good neighborhood bar.
Dinner, prior, had been chicken skewers and pasta Bolognese and a good burger all at Clink, where I’d not been, along with gin and whisky. Boston excels at this sort of dining experience: Big drinks and some food with it.
It’s later in the morning and the birds are nesting.