This weekend, Stuart and I went to Boston. Now, those of you who have been following the plot long enough know that Boston and I do not have a very good relationship. I sneer at her skyline and I scoff at her “subway”. When I told my family that I was going to Boston with Stuart, my brother coughed on his drink and said, “Are you running a FEVER? You HATE Boston.” Boston itself, surely, has a sign somewhere that says, “Boston: Almost Everyone Loves It Here, Except Krissa.” Everyone knows this about me. Even the Bostonians I like know my feelings about Boston. I say all this in anticipation of all you damned Bostonians that are inevitably going to whine and complain in my comment box, after reading the ensuing post in which I am COMPLETELY IRRATIONAL AND LAUNCH SNARKY MISSIVES AT BOSTON FOR ALMOST NO REASON AT ALL. Please refrain. I know you love Boston. And I love you. But I don’t love Boston. OKAY?
Where was I?
Oh, right. Stuart and I went to Boston on Saturday. And Saturday in Boston, despite the frigid temperatures, was very pleasant. We had tea and beer atop the Hub with Bryan Adams and his charming girlfriend Sonia, who took time out of a family wedding weekend to welcome us to town. That was rocking cool of them and I totally am sort of in love with them forever now, and the Top of the Hub was wonderful. In New York, when you’re forty odd stories above the ground, you still feel like you’re surrounded by buildings, but in Boston, it seriously felt like we were IN THE SKY. With the exception of the Hancock building, it was like we could see clear to Canada. We spent an hour pointing out little churches and squares down at ground level, and it was really the charmingest thing EVER.
We even started making plans to return to Boston (!) in the summer, to see the swans at the Public Gardens and take a whale-watching tour from the Harbor. We loved Commonwealth Avenue and wondered what it must have been like at the turn of the century. Standing in the middle of the Public Gardens, looking west as the sun set over the statue of mumble mumble dude who fought for america WHEEE mumble mumble, Stuart even said, “I’m starting to see what the fuss is about Boston.” It was truly lovely. Pleasant.
Very pleasant, that is, until the very end. The very end was very far from very pleasant.
We got to Back Bay Station exactly four minutes after the 6:58 PM train left for Rhode Island. Yes, okay, we should have picked up a schedule when we arrived. But
1. they weren’t conveniently located anywhere and
2. in New York, where Big Boy Mass Transit lives, there’s always another train after a few minutes, thirty at the most.
Not so in “quaint”, “historical” Boston. We were told by the man working the counter (who, by the way, probably threw the first barrel of tea overboard, he was JUST THAT OLD) that we’d have to wait until 8:50 PM. It was seven o’clock and we’d have to wait until EIGHT FIFTY IN THE EVENING. ONE HOUR AND FIFTY MINUTES.
I wanted to cry. Then I wanted to be back in New York. “Just pretend that you’re in Penn Station,” I told my whimpering self, “it’s okay, you’re back where you belong, where they have TRAINS THAT RUN, you’re GOING TO MAKE IT, DAMNIT.” Sadly, wishes : horses :: beggars : ride.
So we exited Back Bay Station to try and find shelter. Two blocks away, fortuituously located on Stuart Street, there was a Starbucks, the Beacon of all Waiting Peoples. And this, dear readers, is what we found:

Finally, two chairs in a little corner with a little table. Finally, we could rest our cold and weary bones, after spending the day tramping from Back Bay to the Prudential across the Commons to Fanueil Hall down to State Street onto the T to Back Bay again. Finally, we could have a cup of tea and at least relax for forty minutes, until eight PM, when the cafe closed. It was so nice, it was like this:

Stuart opened his book and I just tucked my tired boot-clad feet under myself and felt warm for the first time in several hours. I’m already a great proponent of Starbucks as a convenient and effective business model that has a transparent and fair employee policy and a decent cup of coffee. But this open Starbucks, with couch-chairs (rare!) and a strong cup of tea made me want to SERIOUSLY MARRY STARBUCKS FOREVER. As I regained feeling in my ears and toes, I started composing an Ode to Starbucks. It went like this:
“O, Starbucks, in times of crises and hurt feet, in times of desperate need for JUST ANY CUP OF COFFEE, in times of confusion about where to meet your friends, in times of-”
“Excuse me,” the college-age barista jerked me out of my ode to his employer. “We’re closing in ten minutes.”
“WHAT? It says 8PM on the door.”
“Yeah, well, we’re a little slow, so we’re allowed to close up and leave.”
Asdkjfhsakfjnsadkjf?!?!? was pretty much all my brain could muster. That translates roughly into WHAT THE FUCK YOU STUPID STINKING COFFEE-SERVING KRISSA-HATING BASTARDFACE HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME ARGH SMASHY SMASHY SOB.
Now, there are two points I need to clarify.
1. It wasn’t that slow. Someone had come in every five minutes and there were exactly three of the five tables with customers at them, still drinking their Starbucks Brand beverages. And
2. Don’t give me that Poor Employee Crap. I worked at Starbucks too, and we had really slow nights where there was NOBODY in the store and just two or three people smoking their tenth cigarette at the tables outside and we STILL couldn’t close the store thirty minutes early because we felt like leaving. On the Fourth of July, our manager told us that if we made NO SALES for TWENTY MINUTES, then we could go. It didn’t happen. I know what it’s like to want to close up and go home, I truly do. That doesn’t mean you do it when there are Customers Who Are Cold And Barely Like Boston As It Is.
But I was too tired and disoriented and cold to disagree with this guy, even though later, I realized what complete and utter bollocks that was and should have insisted that he allow us to remain there until eight. Instead, I whimpered and sniffled and made this face a lot:

We stumbled out into the icy air at 7:35, still with over an hour to kill on the increasingly Mean Streets of Boston. I don’t say “MEAN” in the sense of “STOLE MY LUNCH MONEY”. I say “MEAN” in the sense of “WHERE ARE ALL THE GODDAMNED COFFEESHOPS AND DELI COUNTERS AND BOOKSTORES”. For about eight minutes, we stood there trying to figure out why we’d come here at all and if we could teleport ourselves back to civilization New York. And then we decided to shiver our way to the Prudential Center and hope to God that the Barnes and Noble was more humane than the Starbucks. And by “humane”, I mean, “OPEN TO A REASONABLE TIME OF NIGHT LIKE ELEVEN.”
On the way there, I started to get really irrational, even for me, and I’m the girl that won’t eat broccoli because it looks like little trees. I swore that if the Barnes and Noble was closed, I’d never come to Boston ever again and I completely meant it (even more than I mean it when I swear that I love you bitches but if you trash me on my comments for getting mad at Boston I WILL TOTALLY CUT YOU). Luckily for us (and for Boston, and for not getting flamed on my blog for swearing off Boston), it was totally open and full of things like BOOKS and WARMTH and we sat in the bookstore cafe, elated by our victory over freezing temperatures and surly baristas. We stayed there until 8:30, reading travel guides to Prague and Terry Pratchett books (and now we can even go BACK to Boston in the summer for swans and whales and more quaint lovely streets because I didn’t have to swear OFF Boston because of one stupid train and one stupid barista but seriously next time we’re picking up a train schedule and bringing a portable 24-hour diner with us).
As we left the store to return to Back Bay and get back to Rhode Island, I said, “Boston has redeemed itself a little,” but then Stuart pointed out that by that, I really meant “Barnes and Noble still rocks my face off as always” but also with a tinge of sadness because I also really meant “this is the first time that Starbucks has failed me and I don’t like it when Starbucks fails me because they have Caramel Apple Ciders and that bitch I knew in college who hated Starbucks will be right, the same close-minded brat who coincidentally was from BOSTON”.
As we rode the clanking wheezing commuter train out of the Capital of the Revolution, we both still felt a little like this, but it was mostly for dramatic effect SO PLEASE DO NOT ATTACK ME I’M MOSTLY KIDDING ABOUT THE BOSTON-HATING:

In all seriousness, it was a wonderful day in a lovely city. It wasn’t Boston’s fault that we got kicked out of Starbucks into the freezing cold. That was the barista’s fault, who didn’t get a tip THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
But I’m telling you man, while cobblestone streets and quaint winding alleys are all well and good, Boston could stand to learn a thing or two about TRAINS. See also, RUNNING THEM. SEE ALSO, NEW YORK.
I’m just saying, is all.