He was always my favorite Beatle.

Paul, the writer, the lyricist. The words, his melody. He inspired me from the first moment I heard him sing. While I wasn’t born in time to see The Beatles tour, I vowed I would see Paul McCartney in concert one day. Wednesday was that day: Paul McCartney, Fenway Park, Boston. It was like traveling back in time…

Sir Paul graced the stage at exactly 8 p.m. His song set included some new tracks from his album “Electric Arguments” and some fan favorites including “Eleanor Rigby,” “My Love,” “Something” and “Band on the Run.”  I shed a tear during “Blackbird” and sang along during “Hey Jude”, but the most emotional moment of the night came when Paul payed homage to John with the song he wrote the day after John’s death, “Here Today.” The audience ranged in age at Fenway Park that night, but for a few minutes everyone was taken back to Monday, Dec. 8, 1980, when they received the news that the music, and the legend, died.

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Boston in the summer is a force to be reconed with. The students have moved out, but the tourists have moved in. It’s hot in the city, and the narrow streets of Boston’s North End get smaller as the feasts get larger.

The North End feasts are a tradition. Starting in July, the every-weekend feasts honor one of the patron Saints. The streets are decorated with red, white and green lights and booths offering everything from pizza slices to cannoli and gelato are set up for all to ‘feast.’  As the summer gets longer, so do the feasts.

A procession through Boston's North End for the Feast

No longer a peaceful spectactor sport, the feasts have grown in the 12 years I’ve lived in the neighborhood from simple age-old traditions to sponsorships and carnival games. Next to the Lady Madonna sits a booth with faux Louis Vitton bags and fake rolex watches. The banners that welcome tourists to the North End are sponsored by local banks or restaurants. I wonder if these ‘additions’ to what once was a religious ritual is really helping the local economy or just providing a commercial distraction.

Every summer I sit on my front step and watch the hundreds of people go by. I wonder if they know the signifcance of the North End feasts, or if they just find the scene exciting and entertaining – like something out of a movie. No matter, really. I know the look in the eyes of the 80+ year-old men who remember the days of feasts long ago… when the courted their wives, played bocce in the streets and drank lemon ice from a paper cup. It’s those memories that will last a lifetime.

There are some people in this world who are nice because they are taught to be nice to others, and others who are nice because it’s simply their nature. In America, we’re nice – on occasion – because we’re told to be. The Irish are nice because it’s their nature.

Let me start by saying that I love my country. There is no where else I’d rather live than in the U.S.A. (ok, actually, that’s debatable, but it’s not because I don’t love my country). I’m proud and honored to be an American. Never was that clearer than at the Shannon, Ireland, airport on Tuesday, June 24, when hundreds of U.S. soldiers marched passed travelers to board their flight to somewhere. As they walked through the airport, people waved, children saluted and I was overcome with emotion. Maybe they were off to serve their next tour of duty, or maybe they were heading home – either way, they were proud, and I was proud of them.

But while in Ireland, I discovered something about my country: we’re downright rude. Sure, there are sweet people in middle America who bake cookies and serve as Little League coaches or Den Mothers for the Girl Scout troops, but that doesn’t make them ‘nice.’ (more…)

The boat approached Key West and I was suddenly seduced by the tropics. The swaying palm trees, the island music, the smell of conch grilling on the harbor BBQ – we were finally here, ready to bask in the sun for 48 hours and de-ice from the frigid Boston winter weather.

Wicker Guest House

The room at the Wicker Guest House was perfectly eco-friendly, clad with a baby gecko in my bed the next morning. I hope he was happy there, because it took about three seconds for me to jump up and scream, which I’m quite sure startled the little guy right out of his relaxation.

Outside our room a hammock swayed in the breeze and palm trees shaded the pool area. There was an unmistakable Hemingway-esq ambiance of the place that tucked guests in for a good night’s sleep.

Key West Sunset

The next day, wild dolphins welcomed us in the Gulf of Mexico – five to be exact. The night was capped off with a sunset sail, complete with a storm approaching from the east. As we sailed back to land, water spouts formed behind us – mini-tornadoes were stating their claim on the sea and I was eager to get my feet back on land.

We walked through the rain past a dark man in all white. He had long white hair and a white beard and appeared randomly throughout the day on street corners or in storefronts. He was hard to miss, and was now perfectly perched on a wooden chair ready to read my palm. The storm was getting closer, but I was focused on the man in white. (more…)

I’m working on a report due the moment I walk in the office Monday morning. I’ve spent the past few months working on this in hopes it delivers exactly what we need: notoriety. In working on this report, I’ve spent countless hours on phone interviews, email chats with analysts overseas and online researching stats and forecasts. Today I devoted all day to completing this report. My reward: window shopping at the Natick Collection tomorrow. I’m a firm believer in window shopping – no need to purchase; a little imagination goes a long way.

In order to stay true to my deadline, I needed a change of scenery. I’ve worked on this report in the office and in the apartment and everything is just stale. This morning, I bundled up, grabbed my laptop and walked to Starbucks. I grabbed the first table near an outlet, spread out my paper work and powered up the HP. I ordered my grande Pike Place, got my 10 percent off thanks to my Starbucks Gold Card, and started writing.

Louie Armstrong is blowing his horn over the sound system. It’s the holidays, and everything from the paper cups to the tracks spinning on the Starbucks stereo system says so.

The lines come and go, and Jenna behind the counter comes out to check on me every so often.

“You doing OK? Can I get you anything?”

“Nah, I’m OK… just plugging away.”

“That man would like to buy you a coffee,” she says, and points to a white-haired and wrinkled older gentleman who I’ve seen around the neighborhood. He’s a friend of my landlord’s; I believe his name is Gus.

“Thanks,” I say, and wink in Gus’ direction.

The place is filling up again. Starbucks seems like everyone’s retreat. Here, there doesn’t seem to be a recession – at least not one that a good cappuccino or a salted hot chocolate can’t fix.

Yesterday was the perfect day in the neighborhood. The sidewalks were empty, the streets were quiet. Not a rumble around. It seemed like the entire neighborhood was mine. Today, it’s all back to normal.
People are walking aimlessly and paying no attention to the other people on the street. Not walking, slowly strolling. Not paying attention, particularly to the little old lady using a walker to get down the icy streets she’s known since she arrived off the boat 80 years ago.

I long for somewhere else.

I miss the sound of the sun setting in Selema, Portugal over the cliff rocks and the slow pour of a Chianti from a sidewalk cafe in Rome. If I close my eyes I can see the bright lights of Paris and the whitewashed buildings of Morocco. I miss the sunsrise over the Bay Bridge in San Francisco. It’s time to travel again…