The old trusty Stagecoach was our carriage of choice back in 1987… and now I’m bustin’ for Boston 35 years on.
We partied on the bus from Scotland down to London, and again in Covent Garden.
While the stewards didn’t have enough booze to fuel the thirsty students on the plane… or did they?
As this Scots sniffer dog discovered the staff’s secret cache on my way back from the loo.
And relayed the news to my buddy Toothie before we, er, formed our own relay team to keep us going.
Which sounded a smashing wheeze until we hit the wall of humidity in New York.
The Combat Zone
A Greyhound bus up to Boston and a run-in with a Colombian over bunk beds in the YMCA later, and we were ready to settle in.
To our unfurnished apartment in the Combat Zone up the top of Tremont Street.
Where the music from the Artic lorry went deep into the night.
And we were introduced the following morning to Isaac who was bestowing little pouches to the brothers.
From his deckchair at the bottom of the steps.
Working the Boston beat
Hardly the best prep for our first week at Guadalaharry’s (think Mexican TGFIs) in the historic Quincy Market.
Where we learned what it was to be bus boys.
Clearing up, washing dishes and filling bowls of tortilla chips (I’ve gone off them for life).
And taking the crumbs of 10 per cent of the waiters and waitresses’ tips.
Of course at that time during the Massachusetts Miracle of Governor Mike Dukakis.
Three Jobs Jim
You were nothing if you didn’t have three jobs.
And so come the evening I was off to stand door and serve tables at The Black Rose.
And then on Saturdays it was back to Quincy Market, and Faneuil Hall.
To clean out ice cream cannisters in a cramped kitchen on the hottest summer for years.
Boston high life
Now there are more relaxed breaks to Boston, which with Philadelphia is the cradle of the revolution.
And I am setting out to enjoy just that at the Godfrey Hotel in Washington Street.
Where I will also be wined and dined in Shojo in Tyler Street, Chinatown.
But while wage slaves need their creature comforts.
There will again be thousands of post-university students heading back to the States this post-Covid summer.
And as an addendum to our New England adventure we did treat ourselves on my last evening there.
Fishie on the dishie
At the Union Oyster House, the oldest, best, and most expensive eatery in Beantown.
But not too fussy to give you a bob for the inevitable slops from your bucket of piscine treats.
I’ll take a walk down Memory Lane when I hopefully get over later today.
And maybe a saunter down State Street to The Black Rose.
Where I’d be astounded if they weren’t playing The Black Velvet Band.