The ships that come to one of the greatest harbors in the world. Advertisements
From footprints to fossils, this gem of Amherst College is a must for museum enthusiasts.
I almost left my family for this sandwich.
Dodging madmen and hell-raisers in my commute has led me to revile other drivers, yet in an attempt to be drive more safely, I need to trade this notion for another: these folks are just like me.
I’m one of the skeptics. I’m one of the downers. And if the Olympics show up in this great city, I plan to be way out of town.
After nearly five years rolling around the streets of Boston, testing different commutes, and learning the habits of my fellow motorists, I am no longer a frightened, angry driver. I am now a refined angry Boston driver. And my instincts are hardened with the knowledge that anything can happen.
Every adult should rekindle the joy of being a kid. For me, it came in the form of a kick scooter. I recently purchased a Fuzion CityGlide that feels wonderful to ride in the city, and I’ve soaked up the jealous glare of many a pedestrian. Well, the latter statement might be an exaggeration. ….
The road belongs to you. This is where you long for the destination, an embracing picture of comfort and family. Out here, we all share the same things. We will spend that stretch in contemplation. Something in the repetition of white paint and reflectors and passing lights. The mind wanders further on that road than…
The lady in the red Saab. When she heard a siren at the intersection, she stopped at a green light, popped the hazards, and waited for the ambulance to get through. This is atypical behavior for Boston drivers. Uncommon. Unusual. This never ever happens in the city. And that disturbs me. Urban motorists are bereft…
There are some who say that Boston drivers are the angriest motorists in the history of mankind. My opinion? I’ll let you know after tonight’s commute.
I honestly didn’t think much of my outfit this morning: black jacket, black ball cap, black sunglasses, and a backpack. But then I caught my reflection in a store window as I emerged from the subway . . . and I looked disturbingly familiar.
The plastic thingy to the left of my steering wheel was installed to save my life. In a simple flick of my wrist, I can inform other drivers of my intended direction. But the others don’t use their blinkers. The others don’t let me know. I am compelled to become an amateur sleuth and delve…