Sniffing bags in the garage
We stood together, hunched over the trunk of his car in the Boston parking garage, sniffing the aromas of various white bags.
Closing up the bags, I said to Ed, “You know. This looks bad, us standing here sniffing all these bags. Anyone watching us would think we had something more interesting than coffee here!”
We both laughed, and one of us commented that while freshly ground coffee smelled great, it was too bad it didn’t taste just as good when you brewed it.
Given that Christmas was only a few weeks off, the coffees were gifts for several of our friends. This was an era before local coffee shops, so it was a rare opportunity to find so many exotic and flavored beans in the stalls of Quincy Market.
The first weekend away
Ed had been up in Boston all that week and the next for a software training conference. Since he was already there in a hotel, he invited me to join him for a weekend in Boston. That was the first time I’d ever spent a weekend away in a hotel with someone I was dating. Yet again, I felt no worries. Just excited to spend time with him and explore Boston. Between shopping, museums, and restaurants, we were having a great time.
In fact, that whole fall, getting together with Ed on weekends had been such a joyful time. We both loved food and history, went to museums, went horseback riding, and took walks in local nature parks. Sounds just like one of those classified ads. But truly, no matter where we went or what we did, being with him was peaceful and fun.
We kept finding that we had so much in common. And he respected my wishes. Some weekends, I didn’t want intimacy, just companionship. And he never pushed. I was always amazed that a man could actually accept and respect boundaries, ESPECIALLY around sex. So it made perfect sense that I was totally at ease going away with him.
Anyway, later that particular Saturday afternoon, done with shopping and frozen from the biting cold, we started back to the parking garage. Winding our way from Quincy Market, we turned down North Street, trying to get out of the wind. We suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a farmer’s market. Booths of fresh vegetables and all kinds of foods lined both sides of the street, and people packed the street. Vendors stood around 50-gallon drums that served as makeshift fireplaces, which we gladly made use of ourselves. In spite of the cold, it was a special moment. Just a small little world of its own, tucked into the middle of this bustling city.
Continuing down the street from one fire barrel to another, we turned down a side alley and headed toward a large intersection that turned out to be Union Street. There on the corner was this most amazing seafood restaurant in an old brick building — The Union Oyster House. Apparently, it is now a National Historic Landmark and has been a restaurant since 1826. In fact, according to the sign there, Daniel Webster used to spend many a night at its oyster bar, downing “a brandy and water with each half-dozen oysters, seldom having less than six plates.”
Absolute perfection
Between the charm and ambiance of the old brick building, its history, and the fact that it featured the freshest of seafood, not to mention that it looked incredibly WARM, we went in. And it was better than we dreamed.
The crowd inside generated a warmth that immediately started thawing our frozen faces. People were jammed everywhere, especially surrounding the wooden oyster bar. The old dark wood of its base supported a display that was mounded with piles of fresh oysters half-buried in ice, and surrounded with barstools. If only the place could talk, what stories it could tell. History just oozed from every wooden panel, and I half expected to see the ghost of Daniel Webster sitting there amongst the crowd.
The hostess took us up past the second-floor level that was filled with dark bench tables to a booth on the third floor. It was a bit quieter up there, so we could actually chat and hear each other. It was like stepping back in time to another world. Dimmed lights. Wooden booths and floors. Parchment-type menus. And the dinner itself. Warm drinks. Thick clam chowder. Baked stuffed lobster. And us. A moment of heaven on earth.
And then…
After dinner, with stomachs full and bodies warmed, we strolled back out into the cold and ended up inside a little bar called Frogg Lane, which is long-since gone. But that night we sat there bundled up and indulged in hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps, and topped with Creme de Menthe-drizzled whipped cream. The night was absolute perfection. And then…he said it….
“I love you.”
And I quietly freaked out inside myself.
Soul Mosaic 
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