Friday morning I woke up at the friendly hour of 4:00 to drive myself to little old Salt Lake airport. Naturally, I forgot to check in to my flight until midnight–7 hours before my Southwest flight. C28. There were only 2 people waiting to board after me. Ahead of me was a herd of NASCAR fans in mullets and 80s dad jeans. It was a middle seat life for me.
As soon as I stepped off the plane in Baltimore I was overwhelmed with diversity. I haven’t seen an ethnic minority in 7 months! And there were gay people! It made me laugh. There was also a disturbing amount of loafers and boat shoes, something that is wholly East Coast and that I cannot allow myself to support.
I had a lovely time in Bean Town (as Leslie called it–which, unfortunately, reminded me of an ex-boyfriend’s tendency to use “flicking the bean,” as a description for female masturbation. This memory rose in the back of my mind like a swallowful of vomit that I tried to suppress).
We stumbled upon Boston’s gay pride (at which I procured a Chipotle T-shirt that has a rainbow burrito and says Homo Estas?), made new friends at a bar that encouraged board games, attended a Dragon Boat Festival, and saw the sights.
The very first night, we went to a jazz club called Wally’s Cafe. It was very petite with a stage at the front, upon which stood a little Charlie Brown band. It was an armpit of a jazz club, really.
There was something naughty about making eye contact with a trumpeter as he takes his instrument to climax. The bass player fingered his instrument like he knew his way around a vagina. My line of eye contact with the lead guitarist was blocked by a triangle chia pet attached to a gentleman’s head. And he was fine. (The guitarist, not the human chia). He licked his lips an unnatural amount of times.
At the end of my trip, I found myself erased of (most) preconceived east coast prejudices. [They still have that whole boat shoe thing and cardigans tied in the front across their shoulders.] The only thing I found Boston lacking was fry sauce.