Two weeks! I must have said it five or six times. Two weeks on the road with two cats in late June and early July driving from Massachusetts through the South visiting my parents in Blairsville, Georgia and her family in east Texas on our way to Albuquerque just sounded like a bad idea. Dovetailing with this plan, however, was a good solution to the timing problem involved with a two-week road trip: PODS - Portable On Demand Storage. We had two sixteen foot PODS delivered to our driveway. We loaded them ourselves over five days, then the trucks came as we were putting the lock on the first one and stuffing the last of the stuff into the second one. They were hauled to Albuquerque, where they would await our call for delivery. Perfect.
Carmen had flown to Albuquerque the day after her graduation from Andover Newton, made arrangements to rent a house during her internship there, and brought back a key to the place, as well as lots of pictures of it.
I'll spare you the details of our packing and moving stuff. Suffice it to say that our Freecycle account got a major workout, and still we left behind about three pickup truck loads of stuff for our landlord and their handy man to deal with. Carmen at the wheel, where she would stay for the entire trip, we pulled out of the driveway in Watertown at noon on Wednesday, June 24th, 2009, four years and two hours after Carmen had pulled into the driveway in Belmont, Mass. We stopped at a sub shop for lunch to take with us, and made for the Mass Pike, serenaded by two howling kitties. Two hours later we gassed up in Sturbridge, brought the cats up front to hang out with us, and headed out on Interstate 84. Territories were established. Yinny Yin Yin hung out between us on the shift console, and Remus J. Lupin dove down between my feet. This was pretty much the configuration for the entire seven days we would all be in the car together.
We barrelled ass through Connecticut and that ninety or so miles of New York on the way to Pennsylvania, narrowly missing New Jersey. Once in Pennsylvania I got on the phone to Choice Hotels and lined us up a pet friendly room at a Quality Inn near Scranton. This motel was nice enough, but the best part was the little hole-in-the-wall mom and pop Italian restaurant in the strip shopping center across the street. After an excellent dinner we went next door to the Dollar Store, where we found a Moses action figure for Carmen's altar, and a tiny hand broom and dust pan for our kitty litter clean up in the motel room. We (I) needed it!
We left pretty early Thursday morning, kitties in their carriers and snack bag handy. Carmen decided that today was a good day to start listening to the borrowed lecture CDs about Islam. I set up the new technology bought for the occasion, a device that transmits your separate device's output to a blank channel on your car radio. It works great until you near a city where that blank frequency isn't blank any more. I was drafted to take notes as well as to pause the lecture when discussion or clarification was called for, and to change discs and radio frequencies when necessary. This took us through Pennsylvania, Maryland and West Virginia and into Virginia, where we stopped for gas and lunch. Time to put away the technology and bring the kitties out of exile. We parked in the shade, set up a litter box on my side, put down a small dish of water, and we went inside the fast food joint for gut bombs and rest room action.
When we returned we found the water spilled, litter on the floor and Miss Yinny Yin Yin camped out among the pedals on Carmen's side. I carefully opened the passenger door and grabbed ReLu, handed him to Carmen, removed the litter box to the special resting place on top of the carriers in back, got back in the car, took ReLu from Carmen, and he dove to his spot on the floor. Carmen opened her side, grabbed Yin, handed her to me, strapped herself in, and we were ready to go again.
We spent the night near Roanoke in a somewhat seedier motel next door to a Shoney's, where we ate for old times' sake - we hadn't seen a Shoney's in four years. The next morning we gassed up and got ready for the final push to Blairsville, Georgia. We did some more Islam lecture listening before gas and lunch in Greenville, South Carolina, then did the kitty shuffle to tide us through the afternoon. We were getting pretty durn good at the kitty shuffle by now, just in time to spend a week at the "cabin" in the mountains of north Georgia.
We exited Interstate 85 onto US 76, which winds through the mountains all the way to Blairsville and beyond. We didn't need gas yet. We drove on past Clemson, Seneca and Westminster, South Carolina. We entered Georgia. For some unknown reason, we didn't get gas in Clayton - maybe because we didn't know that the next thirty five miles would be a gas-guzzling roller coaster ride with no gas available until Hiawassee. We were white-knuckling it for the last ten, hoping not to run out in the wilderness. We didn't. We pulled into the first gas station in Hiawassee and filled 'er up. Plenty of gas to get to Blairsville.
It was a pleasant week with my parents. We talked and laughed, went grocery shopping and "cabin" carpet shopping, ate at some of North Georgia's finest restaurants, and watched the flying squirrels eat sunflower seeds from the squirrel-proof feeder in the dead of night. Fun stuff.
We left on the morning of the 4th of July. Our plan was to NOT be in Crosby, Texas on the 4th of July, and this plan accomplished that goal. We headed south, around the west side of Atlanta and on into Alabama on Interstate 85. Carmen was nervous about driving a ferrin Toyota with Massachusetts tags through the deep South, but the biggest excitement of the day was in southern Alabama, where a rock from a dump truck ahead of us bounced off the highway and cracked the windshield. Carmen's nervousness about this did not abate when we drove into a horrendous nasty thunderstorm in Mississippi. We felt as if we were back in Florida again, in tropical weather. We pulled into a motel near Biloxi, got a room and the four of us hunkered down to wait out the storm. First the cable TV went out, then the power went out, and we were stuck in the dark in the horrendous heat. But the best part: the bathroom ceiling was cracked and crumbled and looked as if it would fall in at any moment. This was not a restful stay, especially after the storm ended and the locals started up their fireworks.
July 5th was a better day. We plowed on through Mississippi and Louisiana, gassed up and had lunch at the Cracker Barrel near Lake Charles, then hung with the kitties and headed down the home stretch to Crosby, Texas.
We were issued a room with a faulty latch on one of the two doors, and a house full of peeps who were not at all accustomed to having cats around. Cat feeding time is a delicate arrangement involving two separate rooms and one of them quiet enough for our little blind girl to be calm enough to eat, while Remus cries and tries to get to her feeding place. The bathroom that was Remus Lupin's feeding station had three doors, one of them with the aforementioned latch (which I fixed very soon after our arrival) and the other two opened and left open randomly by the aforementioned peeps. There was a cage of birds in the living room which were made no less attractive to ReLu by moving them up to the loft. And the serenity factor was totally absent unless everyone was asleep. Even when all but one was asleep, that one, Carmen's sister, climbed up on a glass-topped coffee table and crashed through, leaving a horrendous gouge in her leg and blood everywhere. Our three days in Crosby were not as serene as the seven in Georgia. But we had some fun. We shopped at Walmart, Sandra and I went for hearing tests, and we got our windshield replaced. The Wednesday that was our last day in Crosby we had a cookout in the ninety some degree heat, and we ate inside in the air conditioning.
Thursday morning we packed the car back to its former state with one major exception: the back seat was left open for Carmen's thirteen year old niece Brittany to ride with us to Albuquerque. She was to help us unload the PODS and get a taste of life outside of the Crosby Circus. She had her text-friendly cell phone and her portable DVD player, so she was good to go. We wended out way through Texas on those long straight roads until we got to Interstate 45, then it was on through Dallas, with gas and lunch on the far side. Then on north on Interstate 35 in mounting traffic toward Oklahoma City.
I called my Choice Hotels connection again, and we figured out a pet friendly reservation in Oklahoma City, where it was now one hundred five degrees with as much humidity as you could ever want and then some. The guy gave me directions to the hotel, and in the thick of rush hour traffic, we found that the exit we were told to take was closed. We exited at our next opportunity. I called the hotel and asked for the address while Carmen was busy firing up the Garmin GPS. After another half hour of battling our way through traffic ans stiffling heat, we made it to the hotel. The pet friendly rooms were on the third floor.The air conditioner was simply not up to it. By 6:00 in the morning when we were packing up to leave, the room had almost cooled down. We got out of there as fast as we could.
The Garmin was now programmed with our address in Albuquerque. She guided us out of the hotel, to Interstate 35 south and onto Interstate 40 west. Then she said, "Drive four hundred thirty seven miles and exit right." Across western Oklahoma, across the Texas panhandle and into New Mexico we went. We tried to point out interesting stuff to Brittany, but she had never heard of Roger Miller or Historic Route 66. She was much more interested in texting her friends, "Whatcha doin?"
We were getting pretty hungry as we entered New Mexico. We all agreed that the Dairy Queen in Tucumcari, advertised on billboards for many miles, sounded like a good place to get some lunch. We took the exit and followed the signs, mouths-a-watering. We arrived at the place only to find hundreds of motorcycles parked in the lot and hundreds of unsavory-looking humans crowding the building. We moved on. The snack bag was getting mighty low, and it got lower. Horses headed for the barn is what we were. We plowed ahead three more hours and finally achieved Albuquerque. Ms. Garmin told us to exit onto Wyoming Avenue, guided us to Academy Road and Ventura Blvd., Freedom Way and DeVargas Loop, to Bent Road and all the way to number 9516. At last, the trip was over!
We set up the litter box in the shower in the master bedroom, put out dry food and water, turned on the AC and went out in search of something to eat. Garmin tried to help us with that, but we ended up finding a little hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant without her help. Then we went to the Walmart and Smith's Grocery Store near the house and stocked up on some necessary items.
The ensuing week was one of discovery, work and frustration. Our cellular phone service worked perfectly everywhere but in or around the house. Our land line with DSL would not be installed until Tuesday. The PODS people kept trying to call us to schedule delivery but couldn't get through. If we called them we had to have account numbers and passwords ready in a spot where the phones worked. Carmen finally borrowed Brittany's super duper phone and got everything straightened out. POD 1 arrived Monday morning, traded out for POD 2 on Wednesday.
Once my stainless steel shelving was here I began my early morning routine with feeding kitties, making coffee, eating breakfast and assembling shelf units. When we saw that there was space on the two-car garage for two more sets, we went to Sam's and bought a membership and two more sets of shelves. Now both sides of the garage are lined with shelves, and one car space is piled with stuff. Moving in July will be much easier than last year.
Brittany helped us unload the PODS as much as she could with one hand tied to her phone ("Whatcha doin?") and she still had no clue about closing doors to prevent cats or air conditioning escaping the house. Still, she helped unload and carry stuff in. So we all took the Sandia Peak Aerial Tramway to the top of the Sandias one afternoon, we went to Old Town for supper and souvenir shopping one evening, and we went to the Family Fun Center for go-carts, bumper boats and putt putt golf on the night before she flew back to Houston. It was fun, but we were all glad to have it over.
So we got our phones and computers fired up, and I began dilligently searching for a job. I am still searching, although I have had a few things going on. I've been an extra now on all three TV shows filmed in Albuquerque. I built most of the scenery for Albuquerque Little Theatre's production of White Christmas. I worked eleven hours on the Isletta Pueblo exhibit for the Albuquerque Museum. I fabricated an ox head for the First Unitarian Church Christmas play. And I've written a fascinating blog about my adventures on the road since 1972. Add that to about two hundred games of Scrabble on Facebook and you have a life well lived.
I hope I can find a job in our next location.
Catch you sometime after July!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Around And Around And Around We Go!
In November of ought five, our friend Anthony came to visit, but he didn't want to stay with us, which was a relief. He searched around "nearby" hotels, looking for one with smoking allowed rooms at reasonable rates. He decided on The Royal Sonesta in Cambridge - close to Belmont - and there he stayed. I knew the location of the Sonesta, because it was a couple blocks upriver from the Museum of Science, where I had just spent a month working on the brand new Star Wars exhibit, produced and installed by Mystic Scenic Studios (currently showing in Anchorage, Alaska.) I could get there by Red Line and Green Line and sixty nine bus. Easy peasy.
I went and collected him on Saturday. He wanted to go to the North End and sample the pizza and the cannolis at the places recommended to him by people in Orlando. I had figured out how to get close to Hanover Street by the Green Line, which we did, and found Hanover Street. The pizza recommended by Orlandoans was not so good, but Bostonians recommended Regina's about three blocks off of Hanover. That was good pizza! The cannolis recommended by Orlandoans were not so good, but Modern Pastries, recommended by Bostonians, now those were some good cannolis! We found our way back, and I learned a few things I didn't know about the Green Line - like that not very many north/westbound trains go all the way to Science Park. You have to look for the "Lechmere" designation on the front of the front car.
On Sunday we were scheduled to go to the IMAX theater in Framingham to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I was going to go get him and bring him back to Belmont by Red Line and #73 bus, but Carmen got all adventurous on me and wanted to try driving to the Royal Sonesta. Hmmm. I googled up on it, including their directions to the place, and we set out.
Getting to Memorial Drive was easy. Follow the #73 bus overhead wires to the big clusterfucked intersection near Mount Auburn Hospital, and go right instead of left or straight. Memorial Drive follows the west bank of the Charles River, with minimal opportunities to make a wrong turn - mostly - until you're within sight of the Museum of Science. There it splits three ways. The only choice that's marked is the one that goes to Charles Town. The most likely looking one took us across the river into downtown Boston. We got swept onto Storrow Drive, chose a lane, and ended up on the Tobin Bridge to Chelsea. We got off the highway as soon as we could, I studied my maps, and we tried again. Coming off the (toll) bridge this time, we chose a lane and went right back into downtown Boston again. Damn! We found a bridge, crossed the river and made it to Memorial Drive again. We went for another run at the tree-way split. This lane took us into the city a different way, we found our bridge again, and returned to Memorial Drive. I said, "Well, we've only got one choice left." She said, "Here, use my cell phone and call Anthony. I'm not going around this merry-go-round any more." I called Anthony and told him to take a cab to Belmont and we'd meet him there.
It was some small consolation to us that the Cambridge Cab driver didn't know how to get to Belmont. We had to talk him through it, chased him down and caught up with him at Waverley Square. We paid for the cab, hauled ass to Framingham, and barely made it to the movie in time.
Not long afterward I was riding with a lifelong Boston resident who got caught in the same vortex twice before finally making it to the Museum of Science. Afterward, he needed gas, so he drove across the highway into Charles Town. Aha! If we had taken the Charles Town option...! There again, once you know where to go and how to get there, you can see the markers pointing the way. But they're not going to just tell you how to go. "If you don't already know, you don't deserve to know. And by the way, fuck you!" And welcome to Boston.
I went and collected him on Saturday. He wanted to go to the North End and sample the pizza and the cannolis at the places recommended to him by people in Orlando. I had figured out how to get close to Hanover Street by the Green Line, which we did, and found Hanover Street. The pizza recommended by Orlandoans was not so good, but Bostonians recommended Regina's about three blocks off of Hanover. That was good pizza! The cannolis recommended by Orlandoans were not so good, but Modern Pastries, recommended by Bostonians, now those were some good cannolis! We found our way back, and I learned a few things I didn't know about the Green Line - like that not very many north/westbound trains go all the way to Science Park. You have to look for the "Lechmere" designation on the front of the front car.
On Sunday we were scheduled to go to the IMAX theater in Framingham to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I was going to go get him and bring him back to Belmont by Red Line and #73 bus, but Carmen got all adventurous on me and wanted to try driving to the Royal Sonesta. Hmmm. I googled up on it, including their directions to the place, and we set out.
Getting to Memorial Drive was easy. Follow the #73 bus overhead wires to the big clusterfucked intersection near Mount Auburn Hospital, and go right instead of left or straight. Memorial Drive follows the west bank of the Charles River, with minimal opportunities to make a wrong turn - mostly - until you're within sight of the Museum of Science. There it splits three ways. The only choice that's marked is the one that goes to Charles Town. The most likely looking one took us across the river into downtown Boston. We got swept onto Storrow Drive, chose a lane, and ended up on the Tobin Bridge to Chelsea. We got off the highway as soon as we could, I studied my maps, and we tried again. Coming off the (toll) bridge this time, we chose a lane and went right back into downtown Boston again. Damn! We found a bridge, crossed the river and made it to Memorial Drive again. We went for another run at the tree-way split. This lane took us into the city a different way, we found our bridge again, and returned to Memorial Drive. I said, "Well, we've only got one choice left." She said, "Here, use my cell phone and call Anthony. I'm not going around this merry-go-round any more." I called Anthony and told him to take a cab to Belmont and we'd meet him there.
It was some small consolation to us that the Cambridge Cab driver didn't know how to get to Belmont. We had to talk him through it, chased him down and caught up with him at Waverley Square. We paid for the cab, hauled ass to Framingham, and barely made it to the movie in time.
Not long afterward I was riding with a lifelong Boston resident who got caught in the same vortex twice before finally making it to the Museum of Science. Afterward, he needed gas, so he drove across the highway into Charles Town. Aha! If we had taken the Charles Town option...! There again, once you know where to go and how to get there, you can see the markers pointing the way. But they're not going to just tell you how to go. "If you don't already know, you don't deserve to know. And by the way, fuck you!" And welcome to Boston.
Unmarked
It was a rainy Sunday in August of 2005. I had already a) talked to the Business Agent of IATSE Local 481 and been told that if I like to build scenery, I should go to work for Mystic Scenic Studios (which is the same thing Local 11 told me) and b) filled out all of the applications and big-ass checks required to be considered for membership. What I needed to do was get recommendations from two members in good standing. I had had a short telephone conversation with a Jake Forrester, and made arrangements to meet him and show him my stuff at the next IATSE business meeting. This rainy August day was the day of the business meeting in Woburn. I already had been to the IATSE office by MBTA, but, being a rainy Sunday, I decided to take the car. The meeting was to be held at the Red Roof Inn near the office. Easy Peasy.
I studied my Rand McNally map of Greater Boston before I left, and my Google map of Woburn, and the Woburn page in the Atlas of Eastern Massachusetts. All of these lay open to the appropriate sections on the passenger's seat. My NAB bag with my portfolio and resumes was in the back. I set out on this epic journey of about ten miles with trepidation in my heart. In two months in Massachusetts, we had been lost six or seven times already, and that was with a navigator diligently working to keep us on track. I was on my own.
The first part I knew: Trapelo Road to Route 60 north - called Pleasant Street because at that time (they have repaved it since) it was small sections of pavement between potholes, giant cracks and fallen away edges with steep precipices to avoid. Crossing from Belmont into Arlington the road got much better. Then all I had to do was find Route 3 and follow it to Woburn.
I was not disappointed. I found Route 3 just fine, but following it to Woburn was a different matter altogether. Twists and turns, barely marked intersections, totally unmarked forks in the road. I had it for a good long stretch, and was feeling good about my progress, when suddenly I passed a sign that said "Welcome to Somerville," and I knew things had gone awry. I found a parking lot where I could study my maps, and tried to figure out where I had gone wrong. In fact, I have studied those maps ten or twelve times since, and STILL don't know how it happened. So I figured out a way to get to Woburn by taking the Mystic River Parkway and the Fellsway, and thanking Carmen for the compass mounted to the windshield, I set a course roughly north northwest. It was a beautiful drive most of the way, past the Fells, a vast chunk of parkland around a series of ponds.
After about fifteen or twenty minutes of holding to a NNW course, I came out of the wilderness and onto city streets. I knew I wanted Washington Street, but I really had no idea what street I was on or where it was in relation to Washington, if indeed I was anywhere near Woburn. I forged ahead, keeping watch for the ever-elusive Massachusetts street sign. There! A major intersection. I was on... wait for it... Washington Street! I pulled off, studied my maps, and found the major intersection. I was within about six blocks of my meeting, which was scheduled to start in about five minutes. Woo Hoo! I continued on and found the Red Roof Inn. I parked and went in search of my meeting. No sign of it anywhere. I asked at the front desk. Their meeting room was closed for repairs, and the IATSE meeting had been moved to some other location.
I used the pay phone to call the IATSE office. I got a recording telling me to where the meeting had been relocated, and set out again. I found the building, found the unlocked entrance door, found the room with the IATSE meeting in full progress, and decided to wait outside until it was over. An hour or so later, the doors opened and people were streaming out. I went in and asked about Jake. He was pointed out to me, and I set out my pictures and resume while he talked business to a couple of members. When he got to me he seemed impressed with my portfolio and resume. Then he said to me: "You know, working in the movie business in Massachusetts isn't enough to make a living. We all freelance at other places to make ends meet. The best place to go is Mystic Scenic Studios. They aren't Union, but they pay pretty well." He told me about a few other places to talk to about freelance work, promised to get me recommended for membership, and I went home by a way I knew: Interstate 95 to US 20 to Route 60 to Belmont.
A few days later, after emailing my resume AGAIN to Mystic Scenic Studios, they hired me for four happy years. In September IATSE voted me in, told me I had to pay them about 900 more bucks to maintain my membership, and a couple of months later put me on the NIGS list (Not In Good Standing) for not paying them 900 bucks. Not many months after that, Jake came to Mystic for a freelance gig. He was not at all unhappy with me for the choice I made. It was a good choice.
I studied my Rand McNally map of Greater Boston before I left, and my Google map of Woburn, and the Woburn page in the Atlas of Eastern Massachusetts. All of these lay open to the appropriate sections on the passenger's seat. My NAB bag with my portfolio and resumes was in the back. I set out on this epic journey of about ten miles with trepidation in my heart. In two months in Massachusetts, we had been lost six or seven times already, and that was with a navigator diligently working to keep us on track. I was on my own.
The first part I knew: Trapelo Road to Route 60 north - called Pleasant Street because at that time (they have repaved it since) it was small sections of pavement between potholes, giant cracks and fallen away edges with steep precipices to avoid. Crossing from Belmont into Arlington the road got much better. Then all I had to do was find Route 3 and follow it to Woburn.
I was not disappointed. I found Route 3 just fine, but following it to Woburn was a different matter altogether. Twists and turns, barely marked intersections, totally unmarked forks in the road. I had it for a good long stretch, and was feeling good about my progress, when suddenly I passed a sign that said "Welcome to Somerville," and I knew things had gone awry. I found a parking lot where I could study my maps, and tried to figure out where I had gone wrong. In fact, I have studied those maps ten or twelve times since, and STILL don't know how it happened. So I figured out a way to get to Woburn by taking the Mystic River Parkway and the Fellsway, and thanking Carmen for the compass mounted to the windshield, I set a course roughly north northwest. It was a beautiful drive most of the way, past the Fells, a vast chunk of parkland around a series of ponds.
After about fifteen or twenty minutes of holding to a NNW course, I came out of the wilderness and onto city streets. I knew I wanted Washington Street, but I really had no idea what street I was on or where it was in relation to Washington, if indeed I was anywhere near Woburn. I forged ahead, keeping watch for the ever-elusive Massachusetts street sign. There! A major intersection. I was on... wait for it... Washington Street! I pulled off, studied my maps, and found the major intersection. I was within about six blocks of my meeting, which was scheduled to start in about five minutes. Woo Hoo! I continued on and found the Red Roof Inn. I parked and went in search of my meeting. No sign of it anywhere. I asked at the front desk. Their meeting room was closed for repairs, and the IATSE meeting had been moved to some other location.
I used the pay phone to call the IATSE office. I got a recording telling me to where the meeting had been relocated, and set out again. I found the building, found the unlocked entrance door, found the room with the IATSE meeting in full progress, and decided to wait outside until it was over. An hour or so later, the doors opened and people were streaming out. I went in and asked about Jake. He was pointed out to me, and I set out my pictures and resume while he talked business to a couple of members. When he got to me he seemed impressed with my portfolio and resume. Then he said to me: "You know, working in the movie business in Massachusetts isn't enough to make a living. We all freelance at other places to make ends meet. The best place to go is Mystic Scenic Studios. They aren't Union, but they pay pretty well." He told me about a few other places to talk to about freelance work, promised to get me recommended for membership, and I went home by a way I knew: Interstate 95 to US 20 to Route 60 to Belmont.
A few days later, after emailing my resume AGAIN to Mystic Scenic Studios, they hired me for four happy years. In September IATSE voted me in, told me I had to pay them about 900 more bucks to maintain my membership, and a couple of months later put me on the NIGS list (Not In Good Standing) for not paying them 900 bucks. Not many months after that, Jake came to Mystic for a freelance gig. He was not at all unhappy with me for the choice I made. It was a good choice.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
MBTA
I lived in Greater Boston for four years and five days and never drove to work once. Most days I got up at 3:30am, fed the kitties, ate breakfast, drank coffee, made my lunch, cleaned up the kitchen, took out the recycling and scooped the litter boxes before leaving the house at 5:00. From Belmont I took the #73 electric bus to Harvard Station, the Red Line subway to Downtown Crossing, the Orange Line to Forest Hills Station, and the #34E bus to downtown Norwood for the half mile walk to Mystic Scenic Studios. With a few exceptions, the trip home was easier. There was a Commuter Rail station a hundred or so yards from Mystic's back doors. The Franklin Line couldn't get me TO work on time, but even if I had to wait an hour for the next train, it got me home sooner than going back by the bus and the Orange Line. The Commuter Rail took me to South Station where I caught the Red Line back to Harvard and the bus home. When we moved to Watertown, the only difference was the #71 bus instead of the #73.
When I worked on Mystic's crew at the Museum of Science, I had many different ways to go, mostly starting with the bus to Harvard. I could take the #69 bus to Lechmere Station and walk five blocks to get there about 6:20. I could take the Red Line to Charles/MGH Station and walk ten or more blocks to get there a few minutes before 6:00. I could stay on the Red Line one more stop to Park Street Station and take the Green Line to Science Park Station, nearly across the street. That Green Line thing I did when it was raining or snowing heavily. During the last year there I discovered another way, the earliest possible way. The #57 bus out of Watertown Yard (not to be confused with the Watertown Busway, where the #71 goes) had a 4:30 am bus that went all the way to Haymarket Station, where I could catch the first Green Line train and be at Science Park by 5:30.
In four years I was late for work four times, two of them being weekend schedules. One morning it was snowing to beat hell, but I got to work my usual half hour early. People were calling in one right after another to say they were stuck in bad traffic. Mr. Ray, the owner, said to all of us there, "Jim Emerson takes fourteen trains to get here, and he's early!" I was stranded once, when the bus that served the Park School area where we were installing cabinetry, only ran until 8:00 pm, and we finished work at 9:30. Probably ten times there were breakdowns or other emergencies that could have made me late if I didn't build in a fat cushion of time every day. Going home was a different story. I was much later than usual getting home due to MBTA malfunctions probably ten times in four years. But they always got me home.
One afternoon I got a call at work. Carmen had been taken to Saint Elizabeth's Hospital in Brighton due to chest pains. She was in no danger, but I should come there to support her and see her safely home. I ran out the door and jumped on the Commuter Rail train to South Station. I ran to the Information booth. "How do I get to Saint Elizabeth's Hospital in Brighton?" I asked breathlessly, a wild look in my eye. The Information man got a puzzled look. "Hmmm," he said, "I think the Green Line goes down there somewhere." He smiled, happy to have helped me. First of all, I knew that the Green Line splits into four routes "down there" and his advice was meaningless. Second of all, there was a System Map on the wall behind him. All he had to do was turn around and look. I came around the counter and looked it up for him. Red Line to Central Square, #47 bus to Brighton. Thank you very much for the Information.
Carmen, as we know from "The End Of The Beginning Part 1 and 2" loved to go to Harvard Square. She even worked there for a few months. Her haircut person was there. There are funky shops and funky restaurants, including our favorite, The Border Cafe. And, from Harvard Station one can get anywhere, like Porter Square or Logan Airport or Quincy Market or the Prudential Center or Beacon Hill or the theatre district. We went to Rhode Island by Commuter Rail out of South Station. We went to Salem, Mass by Commuter Rail out of North Station. I went to North Georgia by Amtrak out of South Station. We (almost) never drove into the city.
While most of the time my MBTA ridership was commuting to work, there were a bunch of times I went out for adventures. During our second winter there was a long cold spell, lows in the teens to single digits, highs in the twenties for weeks in a row with no snow to ruin any pond ice. I had my skates at the ready, and one Saturday morning I looked up the routes to the Fells, where there were many large ponds. I packed my skates, got on the #71, Red Line to Downtown Crossing, Orange Line to Malden Station and #99 bus to the medical center across the street from Spot Pond. I expected to see dozens of people on the ice. There was nobody. It was quiet, peaceful, perfect. I skated for two hours all by myself, on ice that was at least 8" thick. I mosied on home a tired but happy camper.
I once rode the Red Line all the way to the south end of the line, Braintree, on a Saturday and took a bus from the station to the only Red Wing shoe store within my reach. Good shoes.
I rode to the shop in Norwood and back one day when I was working overnight shifts at the Museum of Science. I took the camera and made my parents a photo essay about my commute to work and the layout of the shop. I got the camera home just in time to head out for work.
The website, http://www.mbta.com/ is an excellent source of information. All the schedules for all their transportation are there. I found out early, though, that the Trip Planner can't be trusted. When Mystic hired me and told me to be there Monday at 7:30, I went to the Trip Planner and entered my starting point and destination, with 7:30 as my arrival time. The planner flat out told me it couldn't be done. So the preceding Saturday morning, on a Saturday schedule, with a signal malfunction at Downtown Crossing, I tried it. I made it to Norwood in plenty of time.
I became active in the MBTA community. I was a member of Transit Works, a loosely organized group of customers who did a little bit here and a little bit there to at least show them that somebody was paying attention. I attended a couple of brainstorming meetings about how to improve service and efficiency. The coolest thing was the Transit Diary. For two weeks I carried this fat book around. It contained six-page questionaires about forty rides: one six-pager for the 71 to Harvard on Monday morning, one six-pager for the Red Line to Downtown Crossing on Monday morning, etc. for forty "links." It asked about time, crowdedness, cleanliness, odors, politeness and helpfulness of drivers and other employees, safety issues, all kinds of stuff. It was a pain in the butt to keep up with, but it was kind of fun as well. Plus, gathering that information blow by blow for two weeks made us realize that, by and large, the system really works well - especially for as old and as massive as the system is.
I miss the big old "Charlie on the MTA" world. I used to say that I was a Boston gopher. I'd ride through tunnels underground, pop my head up and look around, then go back to the tunnels. For years I had no idea how to get from Harvard Square to Porter Square on the surface, or from Park Street Station to Downtown Crossing. I learned the latter one morning when the Red Line was stalled at Park Street, and I followed a (grumpy) crowd that decided to walk those six blocks rather than wait. Little by little I learned my way all around Boston, under and over. Then we moved away to a city with a third rate transit system. I sure do miss the MBTA.
When I worked on Mystic's crew at the Museum of Science, I had many different ways to go, mostly starting with the bus to Harvard. I could take the #69 bus to Lechmere Station and walk five blocks to get there about 6:20. I could take the Red Line to Charles/MGH Station and walk ten or more blocks to get there a few minutes before 6:00. I could stay on the Red Line one more stop to Park Street Station and take the Green Line to Science Park Station, nearly across the street. That Green Line thing I did when it was raining or snowing heavily. During the last year there I discovered another way, the earliest possible way. The #57 bus out of Watertown Yard (not to be confused with the Watertown Busway, where the #71 goes) had a 4:30 am bus that went all the way to Haymarket Station, where I could catch the first Green Line train and be at Science Park by 5:30.
In four years I was late for work four times, two of them being weekend schedules. One morning it was snowing to beat hell, but I got to work my usual half hour early. People were calling in one right after another to say they were stuck in bad traffic. Mr. Ray, the owner, said to all of us there, "Jim Emerson takes fourteen trains to get here, and he's early!" I was stranded once, when the bus that served the Park School area where we were installing cabinetry, only ran until 8:00 pm, and we finished work at 9:30. Probably ten times there were breakdowns or other emergencies that could have made me late if I didn't build in a fat cushion of time every day. Going home was a different story. I was much later than usual getting home due to MBTA malfunctions probably ten times in four years. But they always got me home.
One afternoon I got a call at work. Carmen had been taken to Saint Elizabeth's Hospital in Brighton due to chest pains. She was in no danger, but I should come there to support her and see her safely home. I ran out the door and jumped on the Commuter Rail train to South Station. I ran to the Information booth. "How do I get to Saint Elizabeth's Hospital in Brighton?" I asked breathlessly, a wild look in my eye. The Information man got a puzzled look. "Hmmm," he said, "I think the Green Line goes down there somewhere." He smiled, happy to have helped me. First of all, I knew that the Green Line splits into four routes "down there" and his advice was meaningless. Second of all, there was a System Map on the wall behind him. All he had to do was turn around and look. I came around the counter and looked it up for him. Red Line to Central Square, #47 bus to Brighton. Thank you very much for the Information.
Carmen, as we know from "The End Of The Beginning Part 1 and 2" loved to go to Harvard Square. She even worked there for a few months. Her haircut person was there. There are funky shops and funky restaurants, including our favorite, The Border Cafe. And, from Harvard Station one can get anywhere, like Porter Square or Logan Airport or Quincy Market or the Prudential Center or Beacon Hill or the theatre district. We went to Rhode Island by Commuter Rail out of South Station. We went to Salem, Mass by Commuter Rail out of North Station. I went to North Georgia by Amtrak out of South Station. We (almost) never drove into the city.
While most of the time my MBTA ridership was commuting to work, there were a bunch of times I went out for adventures. During our second winter there was a long cold spell, lows in the teens to single digits, highs in the twenties for weeks in a row with no snow to ruin any pond ice. I had my skates at the ready, and one Saturday morning I looked up the routes to the Fells, where there were many large ponds. I packed my skates, got on the #71, Red Line to Downtown Crossing, Orange Line to Malden Station and #99 bus to the medical center across the street from Spot Pond. I expected to see dozens of people on the ice. There was nobody. It was quiet, peaceful, perfect. I skated for two hours all by myself, on ice that was at least 8" thick. I mosied on home a tired but happy camper.
I once rode the Red Line all the way to the south end of the line, Braintree, on a Saturday and took a bus from the station to the only Red Wing shoe store within my reach. Good shoes.
I rode to the shop in Norwood and back one day when I was working overnight shifts at the Museum of Science. I took the camera and made my parents a photo essay about my commute to work and the layout of the shop. I got the camera home just in time to head out for work.
The website, http://www.mbta.com/ is an excellent source of information. All the schedules for all their transportation are there. I found out early, though, that the Trip Planner can't be trusted. When Mystic hired me and told me to be there Monday at 7:30, I went to the Trip Planner and entered my starting point and destination, with 7:30 as my arrival time. The planner flat out told me it couldn't be done. So the preceding Saturday morning, on a Saturday schedule, with a signal malfunction at Downtown Crossing, I tried it. I made it to Norwood in plenty of time.
I became active in the MBTA community. I was a member of Transit Works, a loosely organized group of customers who did a little bit here and a little bit there to at least show them that somebody was paying attention. I attended a couple of brainstorming meetings about how to improve service and efficiency. The coolest thing was the Transit Diary. For two weeks I carried this fat book around. It contained six-page questionaires about forty rides: one six-pager for the 71 to Harvard on Monday morning, one six-pager for the Red Line to Downtown Crossing on Monday morning, etc. for forty "links." It asked about time, crowdedness, cleanliness, odors, politeness and helpfulness of drivers and other employees, safety issues, all kinds of stuff. It was a pain in the butt to keep up with, but it was kind of fun as well. Plus, gathering that information blow by blow for two weeks made us realize that, by and large, the system really works well - especially for as old and as massive as the system is.
I miss the big old "Charlie on the MTA" world. I used to say that I was a Boston gopher. I'd ride through tunnels underground, pop my head up and look around, then go back to the tunnels. For years I had no idea how to get from Harvard Square to Porter Square on the surface, or from Park Street Station to Downtown Crossing. I learned the latter one morning when the Red Line was stalled at Park Street, and I followed a (grumpy) crowd that decided to walk those six blocks rather than wait. Little by little I learned my way all around Boston, under and over. Then we moved away to a city with a third rate transit system. I sure do miss the MBTA.
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