If it’s not clear to you by this point, I adore traveling. I adore traveling domestically, and I adore traveling internationally. When it comes to the United States, I’ve been to each of its corners: Seattle, Los Angeles, Orlando, New York City. I’ve been to places as far and wide as the Rocky Mountains, the Great Plains, the Deep South, the Great Basin. I’ve traveled this country by air, by car, by train, by motorbike. I’ve stood on both of this country’s shores, I’ve thrown rocks into Canada across the Pigeon River, I’ve marched in second line parades in New Orleans. So many amazing adventures, so many wonderful memories.

And so, there are few places left for me in the United States where I feel a magical draw to regions I’ve yet to explore. But one area of the country that still ignites within me a tantalizing allure is the New England region (having visited this area only once over ten years ago, a weeklong excursion to Bennington, Vermont for the Bennington Chamber Music Conference), and so I’m just so excited to finally visit a state and city I’ve long wanted to see: Boston, Massachusetts.

After our plane landed, we elected to take a Lyft from the airport to our AirBnB, on account of the weird fact that no trains connect the airport to the city, a cumbersome bus line instead shuttling folks to the closest train station in the very northeast part of town. But the car ride offered us alluring views to kindle our excitement for our week-long holiday in this gorgeous city. Our route traced the banks of the Charles River, offering us glimpses of the Charles River Esplanade, a narrow greenspace populous with trees and shrubs and bustling with foot traffic, the pleasingly art deco Hatch Memorial Shell rising invitingly from the park’s narrows, conjuring sights and sounds of Sousa marches and national anthems played by a patriotic concert band.

We also enjoyed chatting with our driver, whose Boston accent was immediately recognizable. As we chatted about how winters compare between those in Minneapolis and those in Boston (they seem remarkably similar in many ways), we also spoke of Superstorm Sandy, our driver referring to it as a tropical stawm while also remarking about powerful nor’eastahs that pummel the coast.

We eventually arrived at our AirBnb, a small studio apartment tucked away on Wait Street in the Mission Hill neighborhood, southeast of downtown. The neighborhood feels similar to Minneapolis’s own Dinky Town, bustling with college students on account of the numerous universities in the area, a green line train running right through Huntington Avenue, the neighborhood generously enlivened with numerous pubs, pizza joints, and Chinese noodle shops. The area is also home to classic brick row houses, our AirBnB charmingly nestled within one, complete with architectural flourishes of elegant archways above narrow stoops leading to slender doorways.

After dropping our bags off, we were in search of brunch, so we first walked along Tremont Street past the Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help to check out a restaurant called Milkweed, but it was far too crowded, so we settled on The Mission, an unassuming bar and grill establishment with fashionable wood floors, a long bar cluttered with colorful bottles of booze, brick walls recalling a bygone era, all anachronistically contrasted with a sound system piping in nostalgic 1980s new waves hits by New Order, Billy Idol, and Flock of Seagulls.

We started, naturally, with some boozy refreshments, a “bourbon and bubbles” for me (prosecco, bourbon, orange liqueur, sweet bitters, lemon) and a “ginger old fashioned” for Matt (ginger spiced whiskey, bitters, brown sugar). For our mains I enjoyed huevos rancheros (I can never resist a good huevos rancheros), while Matt had avocado toast (but dressed up with poached eggs, queso fresco, and jalapenos on sour dough) with a side of a blueberry pancake (he can never resist a good pancake). The meal was exactly what we needed after an early morning flight, and while it wasn’t the most exciting meal we’d have while in Boston, it was nonetheless a great preview of amazing things to come.

While we battled a food coma combined with some jet lag on account of our early morning flight, we tried our best to stimulate our senses by exploring the immediate neighborhood, first enjoying views of the old Peter Bent Brigham Hospital, a stately red brick structure embellished with a Greco-Roman facade of five wide columns elevating a classic triangular pediment. We next made our way to the nearby Kevin W. Fitzgerald Park, a small greenspace situated atop a tall hill, offering more stunning views of the Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, an imposing romanesque structure difficult to miss, its twin towers with pointed spires rising high above all else, bells tolling every 15 minutes to the traditional “Westminster Quarters.” The park also offered detailed glimpses of puddingstone blocks: medium-sized boulders consisting of a conglomerate of various pebbles, rhyolite particularly easy to spot on account of the volcanic rock’s pale pink and maroon hues. It was really nice to have a moment lying in the grass amongst the puddingstones (“There’s not a lot of time to rest except for right now in the grass,” Matt dryly remarked) to catch a brief respite before the long night ahead.

After heading back to our AirBnB to get ready for an utterly decadent evening of French cuisine and French music, getting dressed in our best (me in a blazer, Matt donning a bow tie), we took the green line train to the Prudential station, and with some time to spare before our dinner reservation, strolled around the neighborhood for a bit. Matt and I marveled at how clean this part of town was, and how charming as well, sidewalks constructed of stately red brick, elegant lampposts standing tall as sentinels, small gated gardens embellishing narrow walkways to grand rowhouses built of more stately red brick. We also were able to enjoy views of Union Church, its stark stone exterior capped with tall, pointed roofs, the spire of a steeple reaching high above everything around it and towards a crisp, clear blue sky.

Eventually we sat down to an extremely indulgent meal at Petit Robert Bistro. And oh my gosh, what a meal! I’ve previously enjoyed real French cuisine in actual Paris, and the fare at Petit Robert did not disappoint. We were seated outside on the restaurant’s sidewalk patio, and I could have sworn that our server had a real French accent, but Matt insists he just sounded like some Bostonian kid. I think we’ll never know the truth, but knowing Matt’s knack for reasonable objectivity, he may very well just be correct.

I was, however, feeling self-conscious to try to order something that made palatable sense, especially in regards to what wine we chose. Before choosing a bottle, however, Matt and I designed our menu first, starting with escargots de bourgogne (a sumptuous triumph, six snails submerged in a sinfully buttery parsley sauce) followed by coq au vin for me (a festival for the senses, chicken leg quarters generously enveloped in a savory red wine sauce) and boeuf bourguignon for Matt (that classic dish, the beef delicately tender and flavorful, the mashed potatoes more a puree, creamy and smooth), all with a side of wild mushrooms (cooked ever so slightly to retain a bite, dressed with a rich, enticing sauce). After deciding all that, I quickly googled “wines that go with chicken and beef” and landed upon cabernet sauvignon, and so when we ordered up our meals paired with the wine, our handsome waiter remarked, “Oh yes, that’ll do. What a wonderful, savory meal. Great choice of wine.”

Feeling pretty proud of myself for impressing the waiter, our courses came to our table at a nice leisurely pace. And it was all absolutely divine. To finish off, Matt had a crème brûlée (naturally; it’s practically all he had when we were on our cruise last November) while I had mousse au chocolat maison. Both were so delicate and creamy, but I have to say I think I preferred Matt’s dessert over mine, even though I simply adore anything with chocolate.

Soon it was time to head to Symphony Hall, a 10 minute walk away (enjoying views on the way of the First Church of Christ on Massachusetts Avenue, a gorgeous structure with a giant reflecting pool sparkling with light from tall lamps lined on the pool’s southern perimeter), to attend a performance of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. And what a delight it was to see this gorgeous hall and listen to this masterful ensemble. Constructed from 1899 to 1900 and designated a U.S. Historical Landmark in 1999, outwardly the hall is a grand structure, designed in the Italian Renaissance revival style, a low pitch roof suspended at the main entrance by eight classic columns, a brick facade adorned with seven tall, narrow wooden doorways. The inside is not only a marvel for the ears (it’s one of the first auditoriums to be designed in accordance with the scientific principles of acoustics), it is also a triumph in aesthetic simplicity, a soothing palette of cream and gold energized by more stately columns that flank Greek and Roman statues depicting Apollo Citharoedus, Demosthenes, Euripides, and Diana of Versailles amongst others. The ceiling was masterful art all on its own, elegant beams embellished with an ornate pattern, the beams all arranged in right angles against each other, forming squares and rectangles arranged in a dignified display of symmetry. At the head of the long, narrow hall stood imposingly a grandiose organ situated at the very back of the stage, all framed with a proscenium of elaborate gold leafing.

Soon, the concert opened with a Berlioz, his Grand Overture to Waverley (it was fine—just one of those standard opening overtures, triumphant in its arrival, forgettable as soon as it’s done), followed by Gandolfi’s Ascending Light, a two-movement work that features the pipe organ, a magnificent piece of music, lively and energetic.

But what I really came to listen to was what came last, Camille Saint-Saens’s Symphony No. 3, a childhood favorite. While Saint-Saens may not necessarily be a composer on the top of people’s minds when asked to make a list of “the great” composers (and while his Le Carnaval des animaux may be his most famous work), there’s just something about his third symphony that tantalizes and enchants my ears unlike any of his other works.

The symphony is composed in two movements, but each movement consists of two parts, so the work can be perceived as a symphony in four movements. I’ve listened to this music over and over again, and I just don’t tire of it. It is a sublime piece of music that I find just absolutely perfect, the first movement opening with the strings, their gorgeous, hovering chords answered by a chorus of winds, delicate and beguiling, before the whole symphony increases tempo and erupts in a torrent of faster rhythms while sustaining sweeping, gorgeous melodies. The second part of the first movement is absolutely and opulently luxurious and lavish, the epitome of what adagio should sound like, rich textures slowly unfolding as mesmerizingly gorgeous chords intensify enthralling melodies, everything vividly colorized in warm hues by the presence of the organ, its sustaining harmonies almost at times imperceptible, but a glorious, enveloping resonance nonetheless.

The start of the second movement recalls the faster section of the first movement, strings and winds chasing each other energetically, brilliant cascades of pitches showering the ears with fountains of music, a timpani ominously announcing its presence in short, rhythmic bursts. Eventually, this energy gives way to a momentary pause of sustained chords followed by descending scales in the strings, weeping in great sighs of despair, while a single oboe responds in contrast with a simple yet beautiful ascending melody. Soon (and it seemed a moment much too soon) we arrived triumphantly at the radiant second section of the second movement, a glorious C major chord resounding brilliantly from the organ, all stops pulled, for several long seconds, until the strings and brass follow this pronunciation triumphantly with celebratory exaltations, all to call into existence the most gorgeous melody imaginable, strings soaring and lofty, the piano delicately accentuating the melody with celestial arpeggiations. It is such a magical, magical moment.

I adore this music. And it couldn’t be more perfect, more elated, more glorious, or more jubilant. Good triumphing over evil. Light dispelling dark. Everything that is beautiful outshining the most terrible human excesses. Music to outlive the ages. Music to remember forever.

What a day! What an evening! What a show! What an incredible way to start our adventures in Boston!

Stray observations:

1. I’ve long had a rule to arrive at airports two hours before the departure time. As we had a 7am flight, this meant arriving at 5am which sounded terrible. So we decided to arrive at 5:30 instead. But how I wish we would’ve arrived at 5:00 anyway. Everything just didn’t go our way. As we stood in the agent assist line to get our bags checked, the line moved at a glacial pace as the queue was full of all the problem children: each of the four agents at the desk were stuck on the phone as they helped resolve whatever dumb question the passengers had. So, we decided to leave the line and self-check our bags, but as soon as we left the line, the agent assist line started moving with graceful speed to the point where someone who was behind us got their bags checked by the time we finished self-checking ours. And then when we got into the security line, we again chose the slowest line, held up again because the TSA staff had to rotate through the stations bringing the line to complete halt. Meanwhile, I’m anxiously looking at my watch and receiving alerts that boarding had started. By the time we got to our gate, our group had already been called to board, so we just walked right onto the plane. It was a very stressful morning.
2. As if boarding the plane wasn’t irritating enough, the television screen in my seat froze. When I called for help, the flight attendants announced over the speakers that they wouldn’t be able to come until we reached a certain altitude. By the time someone was able to help, they restarted my screen, but it froze again. So then they had to reset several rows of screens. Meanwhile, Matt was texting me, “I feel like I’m on a sitcom.”
3. When we arrived in Boston and as we were waiting for our Lyft driver to pick us up to take us to our AirBnB, we saw actor Mario Cantone also waiting for a Lyft. I adored him in Sex and the City, but he seemed to be in a decidedly sour mood as we all stood around for our cars.
4. You’ll no doubt at some point pass through the mile-long Sumner Tunnel as you make your way from the airport into town. The 90-year-old tunnel is a major artery that runs deep below the Boston Harbor, and it recently endured a massive 2-year restoration project to address significant structural deficiencies. The project concluded in October 2024.
5. Our AriBnB also had easy access to Stop & Shop, a handy grocery store. As we used the self-checkout, we had a laugh at the rather talkative computer voice haltingly ordering us to “please… place… your… BA-NA-NAS… on the… scale.”
6. Make sure to buy a multi-day CharlieCard to pay for all your trips on the trains and buses in Boston. You can buy them from fare machines at any major subway stop in the downtown zone. If you don’t have a CharlieCard and aren’t near a machine to buy one, you can pay for train and bus fares with a credit card or smart phone as you board.
7. When we sat down at Symphony Hall, another couple insisted that we were in their seats. So we ambled over to a different section of the first balcony. But I double checked our tickets and I was positive they were in our seats; so I promptly told them that it was they who were in the second balcony and not us.