My Adventures in Boston: 1984

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My Adventures in Boston: 1984

January

Patty's high school boyfriend, Michael Toomey, called, and albeit indirectly I've gotten a good look at him. Patty took him to Aku-Aku, a Polynesian restaurant near Kenmore Square, a favorite of computer nerds. (The Scorpion Bowl, in fact, was probably partially responsible for several grand programming projects.) With Patty's knowledge I called the restaurant and reserved the table next to them. My description of Patty, and a mindful waiter, made our plans go without a hitch. Robert Poirer, my current roommate, sat with me.

Michael Toomey had neither horns nor halo. I tried making strange faces and absurd gestures to get Patty to laugh without being noticed by Michael. Robert, bored by the proceedings, and having no stake in the matter, asked me to leave when our meal was done. I was hoping to linger. For the rest of the evening I thought nothing but jealous thoughts, despite Patty's reassurances.

15 January

Jeff and I moved Patty to her new apartment at 38 Charles Street. She shares a small one-bedroom apartment with Joanna Watkins. They're above Eric's of Beacon Hill, a famous card shop, and around the corner from Patty's new employer, the Knight Agency. Patty does credit investigations across the street from the Boston Commons, in a small brown-stone at 53 Beacon Street.

She now works and lives on the fringes of our most exclusive neighborhood, Beacon Hill. It's a real change from Kenmore Square. Beacon Hill has a very alert police presence, it's tidy, and the antique and jewelry shops that line Charles Street are very expensive. J. Bildner & Sons, a "yuppie supermarket" is filled with all sorts of delectable, including a "food bar" of ready-to-eat items.

Spring

Harvey Grey, proprietor of Grey's Fine Jewelry, and I've had some wonderful conversations. He'd been involved with the fledgling computer industry decades earlier, then he become a jeweler. He's a great listener, very friendly, and knows the right things to say. I've heard some tales of olde and learned something of jewelry.

Patty's on the Weight Watcher diet; meals have become a checklist of allowable foods and "exchanges," which I don't yet understand. Summer becomes her, she's looking very good. The sunlight brings out the best in her hair. Her work and classes are taking up much of her time, she spends little time pampering herself. So, as an excuse to for to have time to relax, I've bought Patty a pair of custom-made roller skates from the Charles River Skate Shop. (I think we used them twice.)

Dad's visiting; we went back to the Top of the Hub. There's a special reason for going back to our favorite restaurant tonight: the reopening of the Sonesta Hotel after a grand remodeling. Fireworks are planned to mark the event. We sat at "our" table by the window, enjoying the fine food and conversation until dusk. The sun set, filling the sky with deep reds and oranges; we waited and ate. Finally it was dark enough; fireworks lit up the sky outside the windows. The 52nd floor, and especially our corner, was the best vantage point for the spectacle. Cheering, champagne-drinking people from all over the restaurant, excited by this unexpected (to them) event, crowded around us. I told my father that I had planned all this for him.

Patty always takes my glasses off when we're alone, she says that I look better without them. I guess I didn't get the hint: one sunny morning recently she dragged me to an optician in Kenmore Square. Several days later I have extended-wear contact lenses.

15 March

I no longer work at Bedford. Keith Erf (my boss) was unhappy that the project that I was working on wasn't completed. In protest I brought our two senior scientists, Bob Sjoberg and Matthew Halfant, to argue my case (that the project was ill-defined and larger than Keith estimated). After looking at the project specifications Bob said "you know there's someone at MIT who is doing this as his doctoral work?" Enough said.

Jeff and Robert toyed with the idea of living together following my talking about getting my own place. I've moved most of my things in with Kris Peterson, and I've accepted his invitation to use sleep over occasionally.

Summer

Patty and Joanna are my new roommates, sort of. I've left the lion's share of my things with Kris and moved in with them. It's close quarters, passable in this season. I've really gotten to know Beacon Hill well.

I haven't been to the CC for several months. Yesterday, on a whim, I went to visit. Most people were home on vacation, but enough remained to make my visit fun. Robyn Mosher was working on her résumé wearing her usual tank top and torn shorts. I logged on, checked my mail, and then began to send messages throughout the country on BITNET. Laura, who last year transferred to the University of Maryland, was logged onto UMDB. We "talked" for a bit. Robyn walked over with a man sporting a tweed jacket and tie. Bob Davis, a reporter for the Wall Street Journal, is writing an article on the new Big Men on Campus: computer nerds.

Could he interview me? Sure! Fame's always nice when you don't have it. We spent the rest of yesterday talking in the CC. He seems to have his story already written and just wants names to go with his ready-to-go quotes. He's a nice guy to speak with, though. I showed him how I use BITNET to carry on long-distance conversations. Later I took him home; he met Robert and saw the huge collection of computer text and manuals that line the walls of my room. He took me out to dinner at J. C. Hillary's on Boylston Street, where I told him more about the electronic culture. Bob Davis uses taxis to travel everywhere; it's jarring, use as I am to the subway. Today he interviewed Patty about herself and the way we met. We met once again for dinner, Bob explained that he was going to submit the article but he couldn't tell me when or even if they would use it.

15 May

I've been looking in the Boston/Cambridge area. I don't want to repeat the long commute. I've had several job offers, but they've been financially disappointing. Robert's ex-roommate asked me to interview at Saddlebrook, an electronic-banking provider, across the river; if I got hired he'd get the finder's fee. With nothing to lose I threw on my black "Technion - Israeli Institute of Technology" sweatshirt and faded jeans and jumped on the T.

I interviewed with two people on a Wednesday, came in Thursday to meet with their boss, who was in meetings the day before. The job entails system programming in an arcane assembly language using technology far inferior to what we have at school. The other job offers weren't much, but I was running out of money. I told their personnel director that I'd be making my decision over the weekend, and if they were interested they'd need to present an offer on Friday. Short notice. My boss-to-be, John Fine, called the next day. The salary was twice that of my other offers; other things being roughly equal, I accepted. From fire to hire it's been exactly two months.

I have a floor-to-ceiling window on the seventeenth floor! I can see from the Museum of Science on the east to B. U. to the west, and all points in-between. Beacon Hill, the State House, the Commons, the entire Esplanade, and the Prudential and Hancock buildings look great in the afternoon sun. The white sails of the Community Boating sailboats are like butterfly's wings from my vantage point.

18 May

Dad called me at work: friends and employees have been deluging him with congratulations. National Public Radio did a piece about computer nerds, referencing the day's Wall Street Journal article, which everyone then read. I bounded from my cubicle and ran downstairs to a newsstand. Within minutes the article hung next to my doorway. I was dismayed to see that Patty was edited out. Not everything he attributes to me I actually said, and I found out that the phrase "he allowed" means that the interviewer really wanted to use this quote, asks the interviewee if it sounded reasonable, and that any response in the affirmative puts those words in the interviewee's mouth. Not terribly ethical. Other than that the article is fine.

Jeff couldn't find anyone to take over his apartment and couldn't move in with Robert until he had. Robert had been paying the entire rent on his place in the meantime. All of us suffering from burnout and cramped quarters, I moved out of Patty and Joana's apartment and back in with Robert. We cleaned up, painted the walls, and ran new telephone wire throughout. A phone is always within reach, including the bathtub. I purchased a futon and bedroll from William Brower's woodworking shop on Newbury street, and met a very interesting Tansu (Japanese cabinet) woodworker named Ty Heineken. After eight months my coffee table arrives from Jordan Marsh.

Summer

I went to my first rock concert today at the Boston Commons: the Beach Boys. It was a sun-filled California kind of day as Patty and I sang with the boisterous crowd. A wonderful experience. I've been pondering marriage following hearing about the wedding of someone in my (very) extended family. Can I imagine living with this Patty for the rest of my life, do we share anything, does she have any habits that could make it impossible to live together, can I trust her, is this forever? She really wants to get married, especially after the messy, ugly divorce her parents are going through. I've been telling her that we should wait until after she does a year of law school; I feel that we're too young for this. But there is a lot I love about Patty.

I visited Harvey Grey's jewelry shop to buy a diamond. Over the period of several days we looked at different kinds and types of diamonds; as shipments arrived at the store. I want something special (like everyone buying an engagement ring). We'd narrowed it down to five different stones, each about a carat in weight. Harvey's assistant Lon and I then took them a block down the street so I could see them in direct sunlight. We joked about skipping town with these diamonds. I finally picked a G-VVS quality stone of 1.02 carat weight. It's very beautiful stone. A diamond setter mounted it.

The V. family and I went to a Data General employee's summer outing at the Rocky Point amusement park. Hundreds of DG employees, families, and friends descended on the park to get soaked on the log flume, eat crab-cakes, and enjoy the sun. There's this game where the player rolls a ball down an alley and into a target of concentric walls. The innermost circle is 100 points, and so on. Patty's frightenly good at this. Michael Toomey, at a previous DG outing, had won tickets and given them to her; between those tickets and the mass she'd just won she was able to pick out some nice gifts for her family.

We spent her birthday at a nice restaurant, followed by a walk by the river.

4 July

The Boston Pop's Fourth-of-July concert on the Esplanade drew us again to the Hatch Shell. Just like last year we brought our supplies the night before and staked out a great spot. Not too many die-hards spend the night. The Seekers were there; the 'round-the-clock hymns and gospel music makes them easy to find. About a month ago an eight-foot high bust of Arthur Fiedler was unveiled. It's bizarre: made of stacked aluminum slabs, it's designed to be seen from afar. Up close one can't see the resemblance.

I'd secured the engagement ring in my pocket. My plan was to ask Patty to marry me in the midst of a hundred-thousand singing people at the height of the 1812 Overture. Breakup number two changed my plans. We talked all night; she thinks we should see other people. I don't, my plans are embodied by the engagement ring in my pocket. We walked along the Charles River near the Esplanade in the wee hours of the fourth as the sun rose. As we walked I realized that I was going to be a very unhappy person surrounded by a crowd of happy boisterous people. Somehow, I have no idea how, we're still together.

August

Patty wants a cat. I guess I haven't learned from my last excursion, I went with her to the MSPCA. Patty picked out a beautiful orange kitten. My rock-solid self-control crumbled in the face of sad mewing: a white kitten splattered him with black spots is coming home with me. Both kittens were born around Flag Day 1984, an easy way for me to remember their birthdays.

Patty's named her kitten "Pumpkin." None of the names that came to mind for my kitten satisfied me. As I was looking at this white bundle of fur sleeping on my pillow a name occurred to me: Copernicus. The cat's so white he blinds me like the sun. Who better to name the cat after than the inventor of the heliocentric theory of the Solar System?

Just after Copernicus came home with me I had my third seizure. I was in the Barnes and Nobles bookstore (of course, of course) when I felt the familiar tingle of a seizure. I came to in the ambulance. The strongest surge of emotion I've had occurred when Patty came to the hospital, crying and happy to see that I was alive. So happy to see her, I was overcome by being with someone who cared so much. Patty went on an end-the-summer vacation with her father and brother Michael. According to a postcard dated 15 Aug, Patty's nickname was "lobster skin," not surprising for someone with no melanin to tan. A few days another postcard arrived, showing a small island seen from above. Patty said she'd placed a down payment for us. My future plans exactly: blue water, white sand, a yacht, and a beautiful house, just as in the postcard. And Patty.

Fall

Passover this year we spent at the Huperts, in Upper Saddle River, New Jersey. Although the Hagaddah (Passover prayer book) was scrupulously followed, it was about as dignified and quiet as the Israeli Knesset. Twenty people, sixty opinions. The Hupert family functions are known for their "discussions."

Patty and I have broken up again, although I don't remember why. Our reuniting was interesting: I was put on hold while Patty thought about us as a pair. A week after breakup number three we were in the Canton Railroad Station, returning from her Mother's house to Boston. Patty tapped me on the shoulder, looked me in the eyes, and said that I was "it." What happiness! What a promotion, from boyfriend to Mr. Right!

The Canton High School majorettes continue to be part of Patty's life. In her day she'd been their "feature twirler," she still loves to twirl the baton. I've gone to many majorette practices and some of the football games they performed at. It's an experience I never had in high school. CHS is a short jaunt from the Canton train station, occasionally we take a bus that drops us at the school. Patty organized a car wash to help defray the majorette's costs of uniforms and entering competitions. My Saint Vitus sidewalk dance, combined with a large sign and my use of cheerleading pom-poms, was just horrifying enough to drive people off the road and into the car wash. I got the Most Valuable Player award for the day.

October

Bernadette Gustalli and Don got engaged. Patty's been talking about us following suit. I'd wanted to get engaged on Patty's birthday, on the eve of the last Esplanade sleepover, but complications had set in. I'd been convinced that Patty had the qualities I'd want in a wife; now she considered me husband material. But how to get engaged now? I was looking for a place that (1) wouldn't change, (2) was frequented by us, and (3) the exact spot of our engagement could easily be pin-pointed.

On a clear and sunny day Patty came over to my apartment. On some pretext we walked to Kenmore Square. I thought to myself "well, here it comes; this is the end of one era of my life and here begins another era, I hope we're going to be happy." At half-past-noon we stood in the central island of Kenmore Square. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the ring, and slipped it on her finger.

She took one look at it, squealed, beamed, and doubled over, a reaction to happiness I'd never seen. She straightened up and jumped into my arms a few seconds later. We walked out of Kenmore Square a couple engaged to be married. (I made a fool of myself at a small engagement dinner given by Mary and Henry. I was very nervous and wound up talking out of control for the entire evening. It wasn't the first time my mouth had taken over, I felt terrible about the whole thing.) We were given mugs with each others name on them; I still have my "Patty with a capital P" mug.

Unintentionally I've taught Patty's cat, Pumpkin, a new trick. I saw a cockroach in the bathtub and I put Pumpkin in with it. He loves anything that moves; he played with the cockroach for hours. Now Pumpkin spends time in the bathtub looking at the walls and ceiling. (I now own Pumpkin. He's taught this to my Raster and Copernicus, who years later cleared another apartment of all roaches. They spend the evenings prowling for cockroaches in the kitchen and bathroom. Even today, years later, Pumpkin sometimes jumps into the bathtub to check for intruders.) [Pumpkin died on his tenth birthday, 14 June 1994.]

September

Patty's decided to move yet again; Jeff and I take her things to 11 Wilson Park #2. A quiet cul-de-sac with a small park off the block of 1700 Commonwealth Avenue, it's a nice street. She's moving in with Walther Thomas "Wally" Meier, an old friend of mine from the CC, and Erin Beach, who I don't know. Wally's been living at home with his mother; he wants to move to the city, and I suggested that they consider pooling funds. I thought this would solve both their apartment needs.

Jay Leno, my favorite Late Night with David Letterman guest, gave a show for B. U. students in the George Sherman Union ballroom. Patty and I went to the show, expecting a polished club-like performance. It was better than that. After sharing some of his old material Leno went on with hours of new material. He wandered into the crowd, sat on the slightly raised stage, asked us how we like this and what we thought of that. I was very impressed by how carefully he was doing his homework and gauging audience reactions to all sorts and types of humor. (I've since seen him do some of that new material on TV.)

24 November

Ed Greenberg, my CC hacking buddy, wanted a wife. He'd made no bones about it, asking women here and there to marry him, running up huge phone bills (and failing Physics) talking for hours to a woman in Florida, chasing another woman in Boston. He asked me to be his best man, once someone accepted. Ed met her while she was living with a boyfriend. In almost no time at all she moved in with Ed and they decided to tie the knot where they were living, Hatfield Pennsylvania.

Yesterday Patty and I rented a car and we drove down to Hatfield. On the way a tire blew out and we spent part of the day trying to get a new tire, since the car only had a "sausage tire" instead of a real tire. The rental company better pay for this new tire!

His bride-to-be, a buxom redhead named Theresa, turned out to be a very pleasant conversationalist. Her wedding-planning skills however, didn't extend to taking care of her own wedding. Patty and I jumped into the fray: Patty took over making the yogurt-topped wedding cake, I took care of properly hemming Ed's pants (which he'd taped up), and together we coordinated the guests, the arrival and preparation of the Hare Krishna food, and going to the WaWa Supermarket for some last-minute supplies. The wedding went very well, if I may say so.

After the exertion of the weekend we were tired beyond belief. The trip back to Boston almost killed us—by the time we made the turn into the sub-terreanean maze under the Prudential building we were both nodding off. I remember Patty doing the steering while I was working the pedals. It's a miracle that we survived; we should've just pulled over and slept a while.

December

Patty threw me a surprise party for my twenty-first birthday. She invited a lot of people, some of whom couldn't come because of the winter break at school, to her house. Embarrassingly, I was late because the T was blocked at Kenmore Square. When I called her from the gas station across from the B. U. Science Center on "Comm Ave" I'd heard people in the background. I dismissed thoughts of a surprise party because Patty had promised a quiet evening after a nice dinner. I was shocked to find people waiting for me, presents and all. It was great: Patty making the plans, people showing up, and getting the birthday-boy treatment.

Our upcoming trip to the Canary Islands was the main topic of conversation. Packed for the trip, Patty, with her shiny new passport, and I went to Canton for Christmas lunch; we were going to miss the very traditional Christmas dinner. Lunch was rushed because we had to leave in the middle of the afternoon; Mr. V. drove us to the airport.

Via TWA we traveled to New York City's John F. Kennedy airport. The TWA terminal, known as the "mushroom" because of it's unique open architecture, had long since been a favorite building of mine. Patty and I ate dinner in the overpriced fast-food cafeteria-restaurant on the second floor of the mushroom; the flood of humanity below was the grist of our conversation.

I was very used to travel and airports; seeing Patty experiencing the mix of cultures at JFK made me appreciate it again. We arrived at Madrid-Barajas International Airport in Spain at 6 am local time. This was too early, as we found out. The terminal was cold and deserted, food and drink to refresh ourselves wouldn't be available until after we left. To get from international arrivals to domestic departures we took a horizontal escalator—a "slidewalk"—for a long distance. Patty was very cold; I had nothing with which to keep her warm. We couldn't even get into the gate area for our continuing flight, everything was closed. Patty coped by letting jet-lag take over; we passed the time huddling together to conserve body head and sleeping - Patty in my lap and I upright.

I'd experienced mañana attitude before in the Spanish-speaking world, but never with so little sleep. The other passengers, mostly Spanish, twice took the news of delays without a murmur. My previous trips with Iberia, the Spanish national airline, weren't as bad as this one would turn out to be. In addition to the delays, it turned out that instead of the promised non-stop flight we'd be stopping twice, once in Spain and once on an island other than Gran Canaria. After each landing we were herded from the plan to a waiting area, ignored for an hour, and then herded back. The waiting area on the island was a sweltering carport covered with corrugated tin. We were so tired at this point that we couldn't muster any anger.

Twenty-eight hours after leaving Boston we arrived at Las Palmas airport. The passport control officer sent us in the wrong direction: we somehow walked "out" of the country, winding up with two entry stamps in one afternoon. The taxi, a comfortable Mercedes-Benz, drove us south to the town of Playa del Inglés (Beach of the English), to my grandmother's condominium, our home for the next three weeks.

We weren't able to sleep just yet, however. Oma, German for "grandma", dragged us to breakfast. Patty and I must have looked like zombies, we certainly felt the lack of sleep. Carlos, an old family friend who looked after Oma after Opa died [eventually they married], took pity on us and sent us off to sleep. Only ater, after we'd been shown to our own condo unit on the third floor and rested, did I pass on the gifts we'd brought. What do you get for someone who literally can buy anything they want? Something the don't think of. I'd gone shopping at Neiman-Marcus in Boston and found Red River Chili, something not readily available in the Canary Islands. I also brought jams, jellies, and an assortment of vinegars, complete with flora preserved in the liquid.

Each day began the same way; Oma doesn't permit a day without an extensive breakfast of mixed avocados, onion and tomatoes, freshly-baked rolls with Dutch Edam cheese, several marmalade, coffee, and just-squeezed orange juice. Starting early, we didn't sleep 'till noon once, breakfast usually killed most of the morning. We spent our days walking to the beach and navigating the sand-dunes. To prevent the redhead's fate in the sun, freckling and frying, we slather Patty with Sun Protection Factor 15 cream, which seems to work.

Sometimes we venture into the Kasbah ("marketplace" in Arabic), for lunch. Several cuisines are available to us, and we never get tired of sampling their wares. Between the amusement games, food stores, and the occasional boutique are literally dozens of small electronics shops that cater to the tourists, at prices much cheaper than can be found in American ships. Owned and staffed by one Indian family, they call out to everyone who is carrying a camera or is wearing shined shoes. Those with less investment capital ply African sculpture and mountains of forged Louis Vitton luggage.

One day we drove around the island, from the summit of the Teite, the volcano that created this island, to small isolated villages in the middle of the desert plains. We went to a tropical garden park and were photographed in the midst of trained parrots.

Our three weeks passed too quickly. After a long, tearful farewell we taxied to the airport and flew back to Madrid. Instead of only seeing the city skyline from the airport, the usual state of affairs for travelers, we planned on seeing the city. And not as ugly Americans; I'd reserved a room in a four-star hotel across from the Prado Museum. Our room was filled with antiques older than the United States, the bed was a double double, the frame, hand-carved.

It was a cold and grey winter, puddles of ice were scattered across the sidewalks. As soon as we could we went to the Prado. Filled with religious works of art, we saw Jesuses across the centuries. After a few hours we retired to the cafeteria for a wonderful chicken cachitiore. After lunch we continued perusing the walls until we found ourselves in a dimly lit room. Looking around, I was overjoyed to see the work of Leonardo DiVinci. Armand Hammer, owner of the "Codex Hammer," had lent it to the Prado. The drawings were intricate, and it was fun reading DiVinci's backwards writing. It was a nice end to a long day on our feet.

We didn't have a good guide to the city, so we roamed about in search of dinner. On a back street we found a Chinese restaurant. It'd been weeks since we'd eaten familiar food, so we walked in. The menu was the same, as it turns out, as Chinese restaurants around the world. The food was amazing, and just what we needed. We walked back to the hotel stuffed.

One day we decided to see the major spots in Madrid. Walking by the Place del Sol, marked by a statue of a bear climbing a mushroom, we continued by several plazas, each with a fountain and statue in the middle. The residence of King Juan Carlos of Spain is a gray palace in the middle of the city. What struck me was the dismal feeling. The palace guards, who in stark contrast to the spit-and-polish Marines around the White House, were lounging around, leaning against the guard booths. We saw more alert police officers near our hotel one evening. Terrorism, or the threat of it, is everywhere.

In contrast to the Chinese restaurant of a few days earlier, we were hell-bent on eating with the natives (as is our modus operandus) this night. Walking through the old town we came to a nut shop. In my high-school Spanish I asked the proprietor where he would eat; he pointed us to a hole-in-the-wall named Pepé's. The same dismal gray as the rest of the city, Pepé's front room had a stand-up bar populated with locals, none under 50 years of age. Faded signed black-and-white pictures of toreadors (bull fighters) covered the walls; local boys we were told. We were lead to a small room with plain tables and chairs, utterly unremarkable in it's furnishings.

Instead of the high-school Spanish I was used to, the menu was in colloquial Spanish. How many tourists to America would know what the "blue plate special," "eggs over easy," or "chicken-fried steak" are? Our dictionary was of no use. We wound up with two dishes: lamb chops and some sort of meat. The ambiance was worth the hunt, the food wasn't. On our last day in Madrid we ran around the city, checking out the local gambling machines and eating at the McDonald's (beer on tap), Wendy's, and Burger King in a single day, just to be able to say we did it. My last memory of Madrid was the lounge we took from the terminal to the airplane: it was a room, complete with carpeting, decorated in the style of the terminal. When it was time to leave, the doors are closed, the lounge is lowered onto the truck and driven to the airplane, where it's raised to the door for us to embark.

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