Boston Town
I've always been a fitful traveler. I absolutely hate air travel; always have. Crammed in among unpleasantness of every variety, especially people who try to bring too much stuff, jamming every nook and cranny of the airplane with their worthless crap.
I'm at the other extreme: One briefcase.
Who needs more for a two-night trip?
Shoes, jeans, a couple shirts, a baseball cap in case of rain or sun.
My laptop, my phone, the power cord, the charger, a few books, some toothpaste and a brush.
Hell, even forgot the toothpaste.
People around me sneezing and hacking. I'm sure they all have swine flu. There's too much turbulence. Flying is unnatural.
I read one book.
I was bored beyond belief most of the time. I mean the book was fine but the company wasn't. I can never remember at such times why I agreed to leave the comfort of my home to endure these travails. I'm not young. My body doesn't appreciate the strain. I'm a nervous flier, and I've never enjoyed traveling anywhere alone. I like companionship on the road -- a need that has gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion when away.
My reward was a stroll down Charles Street, then another down Cambridge Street, with a glance up Revere Street on a pleasantly-warm night.
But I couldn't stop thinking about Dylan -- Bob, that is, and his song set here. Thus the title.
-30-
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