Anneli Xie
Profs. Alice Friedman & Martha McNamara
ARTH 266: New Perspectives on the Global City
2018/09/25
Profs. Alice Friedman & Martha McNamara
ARTH 266: New Perspectives on the Global City
2018/09/25
Finding Comfort in New Places: Discovering Boston’s North End
I feel indestructible as I start my bike ride to North End. The sun is shining its stark morning rays on a Kendall Square bustling of morning traffic and paper cup-holding businesswomen, their trench coats flapping behind them like superhero cloaks. Sitting on the benches around the Earth Sphere Fountain is a construction worker smoking a cigarette, the white smoke rising gently through the air. Thursday mornings are my one sacred class-free-morning-day of the week. I’ve just been stuck on the exchange bus from Wellesley for one and a half hours and getting out of the weirdly arched bus seats and never-ending traffic jams feels like such a relief. Now, I’m pedaling across the Longfellow Bridge, pondering at what exact point I’m leaving Cambridge and arriving into Boston. The brisk air is making my ears hurt, but I love the feeling of it breezing through my hair. At the intersection across the bridge, I have a green light and the right of way and pedal past a still-standing half-turning car whose owner almost runs me over and rolls down the window to yell at me in slurs, ending his rampage with: “WEAR A F**KING HELMET!” “How about you learn to pay respect to the bike lane?” I think to myself. To him, I shove my middle finger. That’s how Boston introduces itself to me today, and that's how I introduce myself to Boston.
Crossing the Longfellow Bridge is the first time I feel a divide between Cambridge and Boston. This part of the city seems so homogenous. After having paid close attention to the person yelling at me – a white, middle-aged businessman – I realize that the majority of people here, too, are Caucasian. Having spent most of my time in the close vicinity of other universities, I realize I haven’t experienced much of Boston’s non-student life at all. I also realize I’m not actually in Boston much, spending most of my time hidden away in M.I.T’s design center or studying in Harvard Yard. Most of the time, though, Cambridge and Boston feel connected. Crossing the Longfellow Bridge, however, I’m no longer surrounded by my usual crowd of Asian-American students – the biggest minority group at both Wellesley and M.I.T – nor any international students with accents hard to place. Instead, working men and young adults with “Suffolk University” hoodies blend together amongst a thick Boston accent and the common denominator of white skin.
The roads on this side of the bridge feel more squiggly too. They say Boston is hard to navigate, but I’ve never found it so. Maybe because most of the places I need to get around to can be found along Massachusetts Avenue: Harvard to Central to M.I.T to Newbury, all on one single path. Across the Longfellow bridge, I take the wrong turn several times, wandering about without really knowing where I am. I’m frustrated and upset after my angry morning encounter: I don’t mind sharing the road with automobiles but seeing the long lines of metal chaos and clouds of exhaust makes me angry. They pay no respect to me nor the bike lane, but I have to watch out for them. It makes me miss home a lot: Sweden and all its safe bike lanes hidden away from busy car roads, with a downtown restricted from access by car. The rest of my bike ride to North End seems so hectic in comparison – I can’t seem to focus on much else than not getting hit by a car – and finally, I give up and pull up my phone to trust a blue squiggly line guide me the right way. Google Maps leads me to the Rose Kennedy Greenway, and there, everything feels a little more OK. Entering the park it feels modern, fresh, and clean; a breathable open space with trees and bushes isolating it from stressed car honks. It reminds me a little of Manhattan’s High Line, minus the masses of tourists blocking the path of the old railroads on a sunny day. The greenway is spacious and has plenty of places to sit down – benches and tables where people are currently enjoying their morning coffee or conversation with a friend. It makes me smile. I get off my bike and walk through. I like city life like this; not city life that is all big roads and cars.
Crossing the greenway, the atmosphere is completely different; as if the big, open greenway was a passage to a hidden pearl in Boston’s hectic everyday life. I park my bike on Cross Street and enter on to Salem Street. On these narrow roads, with no cars but construction cars to be seen, I am surrounded by red brick houses, reaching a maximum of six floors high. To my right, water has dripped down from a ristorante watering their balcony flowers, and on my left, someone has painted an aquarium scenery on closed store gates. Meanwhile, police sirens are roaring in the distance, reminding me of the busy Boston I have just hustled through; but here, everything seems at peace.
I walk through Salem Street on a hunt for coffee, crossing alleyways to finally wander out on Hanover Street. Here I take sight of Caffe Vittoria, which I enter. The waitress smiles and tells me “anywhere you want”, gesturing towards the tables spread out in the space. I have scheduled to meet with Melory for lunch and am going to do homework in a café until then – something we tend to do to work around each other’s busy schedules – but the thought of pulling up my laptop to study at Caffe Vittoria is off-putting and a little awkward. I place myself by one of the only tables with less than four chairs, which also happens to be one of two square tables, placed in the very back corner of the café. The rest of the tables are round and can’t possibly fit anything beyond what the café serves. Besides me are two men dressed in business attire, discussing a construction matter. By the counter, the waitresses are chatting in Italian. By the window, a man is reading a book in solitude. I’m not sure what to do; should I go up front and order? Will the waitress come to my table and ask me what I want? As I pretend to fumble for my things to avoid looking lost and awkward, the waiter catches my confused glance with a smile and comes over to ask if I’m ready to order. The whole act makes me think of when my boyfriend and I traveled to Corfu, one of the Northwestern-most Greek islands (and one heavily influenced by Italy), this summer. There we had tried buying coffee at the counter – as is the custom in both Sweden and the United States – but had been told to instead go sit down and wait for a waiter to approach us. I wasn’t expecting that here, and feel really dumb. I end up ordering a cappuccino. It comes out a couple of minutes later smelling like hot chocolate, with a foamy thick milk layer and cocoa sprinkled on top of it. Later, I learn from overhearing a guide entering the café with six curious tourists, that Caffe Vittoria is one of the oldest coffee shops in North End, famous for their cappuccinos and interior decor. I don’t doubt him: my cappuccino is delicious, and the place is beautifully crowded with coffee grinders and machines in the corners, posters in Italian on the walls, and a gelato bar by the cashier. Apart from the tourist guide’s strong American accent, this place feels very European – like it could blend right into the many sidewalk coffee shops in Corfu. It simply lacks the apathy present in many American cafés; the efficiency of Starbucks in the mornings and the crowded haste of Tatté on a Saturday afternoon, both places always full of lone-goers with noses buried deep in textbooks and fingers running rapidly across laptop keyboards. At Caffe Vittoria, I never dare to place my computer on the table. It simply feels wrong. Instead, I observe my surroundings. I learn that Boston’s only cigar bar is run downstairs, that you can come in here late nights to see people sobering up, and I hear a daughter yell at her father for never being there. As people enter and exit, it becomes clear that Caffe Vittoria seems to offer a place for people to come in not to study alone, but to enjoy coffee and conversation – a term we in Swedish has deemed “fika”, and which I have always felt lacking in the United States. Here, the atmosphere isn’t hostile and aloof to match the efficiency of the everyday working Bostonian slaving away for the system, but rather relaxed and homely; as to accommodate for intimate conversation and the catching up between individuals that occurs in the heartfelt moment of now.
Melory arrives a little before 1 pm, and together we have lunch at Galleria Umberto. It’s right across the street from Caffe Vittoria and while crossing, I realize this is one of the few places in Boston I dare to jaywalk (because there are no cars!) I find her inside in a long line of people and while pondering what to get, the lady in front of us turns around to hear us confused about what an “arancini” and a “panzerotti” is. She gladly explains the arancini as a rice ball and the panzerotti as being “fried cheesy potato.” Both are really good, she smiles, and so we get one of each. Prices seem dirt cheap in comparison to what we usually pay for lunch in the city: for our normal individual price, we can both stuff ourselves with pizza, arancini, and panzerotti. Full and satisfied, we keep exclaiming how surprising it is that we have never been here before.
Then starts our walk up to the big sights of North End: Old North Church, the Paul Revere statue, Copp’s Hill Burying Ground, and the Langone park. Our route looks long on Google Maps, but as we put our phones away to walk down Hanover Street, we are surprised by how fast we reach our first sight: the Paul Revere statue. It stands next to a bobcat machine almost bigger than the statue itself, with its pedestal covered by plywood sheets. The entire Paul Revere Mall itself is fenced off. We can barely see the church behind. Melory and I laugh. What an ironic fate for a man symbolizing freedom: being fenced off and defeated by the distractive sight of a big yellow bobcat machine; and what an anticlimactic first sight.
We walk around the fenced-off Paul Revere Mall to get to the Old North Church, and as we’re approaching it, I realize that this was one of the first sights I saw while biking to North End earlier: the white steeple jutting out above all the other buildings in the district. It makes a nice contrast against the otherwise brick-colored houses, stretching up into the blue sky. As we enter the church area gates, a flood of tourists exit along with a middle school class, and as we exit from the other edge, we are immediately met by a souvenir shop. It seems strange that an old and quaint residential area has become infiltrated by so much tourism. I think of the group of tourists I overheard at Caffe Vittoria earlier. Much like they had ruined the feeling of the café being authentically European, so the souvenir shops ruin the feeling of North End being what it is: one of the oldest residential communities in Boston.
The feeling lingers as we enter Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. It is a beautiful place overlooking the harbor, but it feels strange to join the huddles of tourists tramping around a cemetery. The idea itself, of the cemetery being a sight-seeing place, is strange and uncomfortable for me. I’m more interested in the houses across the streets than seeing thin gravestones memorizing the names of people died young. I understand that the place has historic importance – but “look at the window box flowers on the other side!” I can’t help myself – I absolutely adore flowers coming out of windows. It’s a common sight in central/southern Europe and my thoughts go back to Corfu and childhood summers spent camping in Austria. Window boxes just seem like the most unselfish way to care for flowers because they are not for your own viewing pleasure but rather for the unknown peoples of the outside. In a nation so focused on celebrating only a few remarkable individuals (like, say, Paul Revere), it is refreshing to see people altruistic to the collective.
North End reminds me of Europe a lot in that way, with an animated cordiality and sense of well-being. It is a wonderful mix of pedestrian walkways connecting everything from restaurants to residential buildings to laundromats. A welcoming space, and one for people, signified by the narrow roads making it difficult for cars to pass by, and the open doors of restaurants down Salem Street preparing their spaces for the lunch rush, eagerly chatting to their neighbors next doors. Melory and I end our walk in Langone Park, where we sit on the swings overlooking the Charles River. All of my morning anger is gone. Rather, North End has left me with a feeling of comfort, simply. As long as we show compassion to each other: as long as we keep facilitating intimate café conversations, put flowers outside our windows, and talk to our neighbors – life will be just fine.
Crossing the Longfellow Bridge is the first time I feel a divide between Cambridge and Boston. This part of the city seems so homogenous. After having paid close attention to the person yelling at me – a white, middle-aged businessman – I realize that the majority of people here, too, are Caucasian. Having spent most of my time in the close vicinity of other universities, I realize I haven’t experienced much of Boston’s non-student life at all. I also realize I’m not actually in Boston much, spending most of my time hidden away in M.I.T’s design center or studying in Harvard Yard. Most of the time, though, Cambridge and Boston feel connected. Crossing the Longfellow Bridge, however, I’m no longer surrounded by my usual crowd of Asian-American students – the biggest minority group at both Wellesley and M.I.T – nor any international students with accents hard to place. Instead, working men and young adults with “Suffolk University” hoodies blend together amongst a thick Boston accent and the common denominator of white skin.
The roads on this side of the bridge feel more squiggly too. They say Boston is hard to navigate, but I’ve never found it so. Maybe because most of the places I need to get around to can be found along Massachusetts Avenue: Harvard to Central to M.I.T to Newbury, all on one single path. Across the Longfellow bridge, I take the wrong turn several times, wandering about without really knowing where I am. I’m frustrated and upset after my angry morning encounter: I don’t mind sharing the road with automobiles but seeing the long lines of metal chaos and clouds of exhaust makes me angry. They pay no respect to me nor the bike lane, but I have to watch out for them. It makes me miss home a lot: Sweden and all its safe bike lanes hidden away from busy car roads, with a downtown restricted from access by car. The rest of my bike ride to North End seems so hectic in comparison – I can’t seem to focus on much else than not getting hit by a car – and finally, I give up and pull up my phone to trust a blue squiggly line guide me the right way. Google Maps leads me to the Rose Kennedy Greenway, and there, everything feels a little more OK. Entering the park it feels modern, fresh, and clean; a breathable open space with trees and bushes isolating it from stressed car honks. It reminds me a little of Manhattan’s High Line, minus the masses of tourists blocking the path of the old railroads on a sunny day. The greenway is spacious and has plenty of places to sit down – benches and tables where people are currently enjoying their morning coffee or conversation with a friend. It makes me smile. I get off my bike and walk through. I like city life like this; not city life that is all big roads and cars.
Crossing the greenway, the atmosphere is completely different; as if the big, open greenway was a passage to a hidden pearl in Boston’s hectic everyday life. I park my bike on Cross Street and enter on to Salem Street. On these narrow roads, with no cars but construction cars to be seen, I am surrounded by red brick houses, reaching a maximum of six floors high. To my right, water has dripped down from a ristorante watering their balcony flowers, and on my left, someone has painted an aquarium scenery on closed store gates. Meanwhile, police sirens are roaring in the distance, reminding me of the busy Boston I have just hustled through; but here, everything seems at peace.
I walk through Salem Street on a hunt for coffee, crossing alleyways to finally wander out on Hanover Street. Here I take sight of Caffe Vittoria, which I enter. The waitress smiles and tells me “anywhere you want”, gesturing towards the tables spread out in the space. I have scheduled to meet with Melory for lunch and am going to do homework in a café until then – something we tend to do to work around each other’s busy schedules – but the thought of pulling up my laptop to study at Caffe Vittoria is off-putting and a little awkward. I place myself by one of the only tables with less than four chairs, which also happens to be one of two square tables, placed in the very back corner of the café. The rest of the tables are round and can’t possibly fit anything beyond what the café serves. Besides me are two men dressed in business attire, discussing a construction matter. By the counter, the waitresses are chatting in Italian. By the window, a man is reading a book in solitude. I’m not sure what to do; should I go up front and order? Will the waitress come to my table and ask me what I want? As I pretend to fumble for my things to avoid looking lost and awkward, the waiter catches my confused glance with a smile and comes over to ask if I’m ready to order. The whole act makes me think of when my boyfriend and I traveled to Corfu, one of the Northwestern-most Greek islands (and one heavily influenced by Italy), this summer. There we had tried buying coffee at the counter – as is the custom in both Sweden and the United States – but had been told to instead go sit down and wait for a waiter to approach us. I wasn’t expecting that here, and feel really dumb. I end up ordering a cappuccino. It comes out a couple of minutes later smelling like hot chocolate, with a foamy thick milk layer and cocoa sprinkled on top of it. Later, I learn from overhearing a guide entering the café with six curious tourists, that Caffe Vittoria is one of the oldest coffee shops in North End, famous for their cappuccinos and interior decor. I don’t doubt him: my cappuccino is delicious, and the place is beautifully crowded with coffee grinders and machines in the corners, posters in Italian on the walls, and a gelato bar by the cashier. Apart from the tourist guide’s strong American accent, this place feels very European – like it could blend right into the many sidewalk coffee shops in Corfu. It simply lacks the apathy present in many American cafés; the efficiency of Starbucks in the mornings and the crowded haste of Tatté on a Saturday afternoon, both places always full of lone-goers with noses buried deep in textbooks and fingers running rapidly across laptop keyboards. At Caffe Vittoria, I never dare to place my computer on the table. It simply feels wrong. Instead, I observe my surroundings. I learn that Boston’s only cigar bar is run downstairs, that you can come in here late nights to see people sobering up, and I hear a daughter yell at her father for never being there. As people enter and exit, it becomes clear that Caffe Vittoria seems to offer a place for people to come in not to study alone, but to enjoy coffee and conversation – a term we in Swedish has deemed “fika”, and which I have always felt lacking in the United States. Here, the atmosphere isn’t hostile and aloof to match the efficiency of the everyday working Bostonian slaving away for the system, but rather relaxed and homely; as to accommodate for intimate conversation and the catching up between individuals that occurs in the heartfelt moment of now.
Melory arrives a little before 1 pm, and together we have lunch at Galleria Umberto. It’s right across the street from Caffe Vittoria and while crossing, I realize this is one of the few places in Boston I dare to jaywalk (because there are no cars!) I find her inside in a long line of people and while pondering what to get, the lady in front of us turns around to hear us confused about what an “arancini” and a “panzerotti” is. She gladly explains the arancini as a rice ball and the panzerotti as being “fried cheesy potato.” Both are really good, she smiles, and so we get one of each. Prices seem dirt cheap in comparison to what we usually pay for lunch in the city: for our normal individual price, we can both stuff ourselves with pizza, arancini, and panzerotti. Full and satisfied, we keep exclaiming how surprising it is that we have never been here before.
Then starts our walk up to the big sights of North End: Old North Church, the Paul Revere statue, Copp’s Hill Burying Ground, and the Langone park. Our route looks long on Google Maps, but as we put our phones away to walk down Hanover Street, we are surprised by how fast we reach our first sight: the Paul Revere statue. It stands next to a bobcat machine almost bigger than the statue itself, with its pedestal covered by plywood sheets. The entire Paul Revere Mall itself is fenced off. We can barely see the church behind. Melory and I laugh. What an ironic fate for a man symbolizing freedom: being fenced off and defeated by the distractive sight of a big yellow bobcat machine; and what an anticlimactic first sight.
We walk around the fenced-off Paul Revere Mall to get to the Old North Church, and as we’re approaching it, I realize that this was one of the first sights I saw while biking to North End earlier: the white steeple jutting out above all the other buildings in the district. It makes a nice contrast against the otherwise brick-colored houses, stretching up into the blue sky. As we enter the church area gates, a flood of tourists exit along with a middle school class, and as we exit from the other edge, we are immediately met by a souvenir shop. It seems strange that an old and quaint residential area has become infiltrated by so much tourism. I think of the group of tourists I overheard at Caffe Vittoria earlier. Much like they had ruined the feeling of the café being authentically European, so the souvenir shops ruin the feeling of North End being what it is: one of the oldest residential communities in Boston.
The feeling lingers as we enter Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. It is a beautiful place overlooking the harbor, but it feels strange to join the huddles of tourists tramping around a cemetery. The idea itself, of the cemetery being a sight-seeing place, is strange and uncomfortable for me. I’m more interested in the houses across the streets than seeing thin gravestones memorizing the names of people died young. I understand that the place has historic importance – but “look at the window box flowers on the other side!” I can’t help myself – I absolutely adore flowers coming out of windows. It’s a common sight in central/southern Europe and my thoughts go back to Corfu and childhood summers spent camping in Austria. Window boxes just seem like the most unselfish way to care for flowers because they are not for your own viewing pleasure but rather for the unknown peoples of the outside. In a nation so focused on celebrating only a few remarkable individuals (like, say, Paul Revere), it is refreshing to see people altruistic to the collective.
North End reminds me of Europe a lot in that way, with an animated cordiality and sense of well-being. It is a wonderful mix of pedestrian walkways connecting everything from restaurants to residential buildings to laundromats. A welcoming space, and one for people, signified by the narrow roads making it difficult for cars to pass by, and the open doors of restaurants down Salem Street preparing their spaces for the lunch rush, eagerly chatting to their neighbors next doors. Melory and I end our walk in Langone Park, where we sit on the swings overlooking the Charles River. All of my morning anger is gone. Rather, North End has left me with a feeling of comfort, simply. As long as we show compassion to each other: as long as we keep facilitating intimate café conversations, put flowers outside our windows, and talk to our neighbors – life will be just fine.