Tuesday, my sidekick and I walked upon the same cobblestones as abolitionists and escaped slaves on the Black Heritage Trail.
We stared at a basement that once harbored escaped slaves as part of the Underground Railroad. As a light sprinkle fell upon the narrow streets of Beacon Hill, it sent shivers down my spine to walk in the footsteps of such brave men and women.
At each site, I read the corresponding paragraph in my guidebook to Nora, fingered doors and bricks and leaves, and stood in silence as I pondered an institution of such brutality.
Los Angeles has never given me this experience. A moment where I hold my daughter, whose father is considered Black by most strangers (he's actually half Filipino and half African-American), and stand upon the thresholds of known abolitionist activity. Run my hand across church pews where members of the 54th regiment once sat for worship, enter schoolhouses that were the first in the country to integrate (1855), visit community meeting halls where passionate and dangerous speeches were hurled against those that would keep humans in bondage.
It was along this trail and around a brick corner that there was suddenly a voice. It came from a dilapidated synagogue behind a wrought iron fence...a man with wild silver hair waved at us. He beckoned to us to come inside for a tour and to make a small donation at the end. I gladly obliged. As you long-time readers know, I have a fascination with Judaism and this would be my first visit to a synagogue.
Yesterday was more of the powdered whigs and powdered sugar trail. We traipsed through the quaint streets of the North End, Boston's own version of Little-Italy. They had recently celebrated a Saint's Festival; thus, there were still silver crowns spanning the streets. Old men outside of cafes and cigar shops speaking loudly in Italian. Beautiful olive-skinned girls at gelaterias and bakeries with thick Old Country accents.
It was in the Modern Bakery that I finally collapsed with my front pack of Noodle and my backpack of Noodle gear. I ordered a chocolate-dipped canoli filled with vanilla custard. Nora had her gourmet banana puffs. And more than the ivy-covered headstones, Paul Revere houses, old churches, and Boston Harbor vistas, this was my memory for the day. Slurping out the velvet cream and crunching into the chocolate shell of my pastry...realizing after a few minutes that Nora's head had been dusted with powdered sugar.
Ah, Boston. Some shots just beg to be taken.
Cheesy or not.
Comments