How I Made It to Boston, Part 47

The train finally dumped me and my concussed head off at South Street Station, Boston, where my dear friend R. was waiting. It was raining. No, strike that. It was monsooning, only without the nice warm part. It was cold. It was just like the Boston I remembered from my wasted youth—gray and miserable from September through May. God, I love it.

R. had to work, so I asked if I could go with her. She is an accomplished photographer for the Boston Herald. We both started out at Boston University's School of Communication in 19blahdeblah. She stuck it out, and I bailed to get a degree in possibly the most useless field on earth: rehabilitation counseling. (Trust me: there were no jobs for a 22-year-old with a B.S. in that obscure field.) But, no regrets, right? The time was not right for me and wouldn't be right until 22 years later when I finally got my M.A. in journalism.

Live and learn.

In all those years, I had never seen R. in action. She's photographed just about everone you've ever heard of—politicians, musicians, authors, sports stars—and superstars, and just plain regular people. Crises and kids splashing puddles. South Africa. You name it, she's photographed it.

Today (that would be last Sunday, 4/15, try to keep up), she was assigned to photograph a ceremony at Faneuil Hall commemorating Holocaust Rememberance Day. It was a moving ceremony; I had a place to sit and listen to survivors of the death camps, and their children, share their stories, as I watched R. deftly take photos without disturbing the ceremony. It's not so easy.

After that we scuttled back to the Herald's offices, and I got to sit in what used to be the "darkroom" and watch R. do her thing. Some other photographers were there and we all had a merry old time talking about changes in the news biz, the unions, being sarcastic and making fun of things. My kind of peeps!

It's funny how the darkroom has been totally transformed. I remember when there was a circular door to go through so that you didn't let in any light. Now the room is well lit, and littered with desktops and laptops and all kinds of electronic paraphenalia.

Wait, I'm losing the thread ... where was I?

Right. Marathon.

After that, we hightailed it back to R.'s place for a lovely dinner, and somehow I believe I kept up my part of the conversation, which mostly consisted of me asking what the symptoms of a concussion were, my head drooping towards the table and drool running out of my mouth. I make a fun houseguest.

We were all in bed (no, not together!) by 10 p.m., while outside the wind whipped furiously—nay, some would say EPIC-ly! Alarms wer set for a 7:30 a.m. wakeup to get a jumpstart on the Big Day.

(R. and friend)

Part Next: The Big Day.

UPDATED: Of course, I forgot to include a link to the best photo of all! Blame the concussion.