I had lost track of time. After traveling for some two-odd weeks, skipping from country to country like it was nobody’s business (stopping in France, Iceland, England and Germany), my body was definitely starting to feel the effects. It had begun to revolt against me, a fact I evidenced by my aching everything and amplified hangriness and—and I wanted nothing more than to rest in the comfort of my own bed back home.
Sadly, this was ____ o’clock (insert time here since time no longer has any meaning) and my flight wouldn’t be leaving for another ~14 hours or so (?), which meant I had to get real comfy where I was, aka Boston, MA, for the time being. I didn’t know much about Boston and it was already late, so naturally you can imagine my hesitance when I walked into my hotel for check-in, the Boston Ames.
You can’t, however, imagine my surprise when I walked into my room, because I can barely make sense of my feelings then. I opened the door, looked around and saw what seemed to be like a luxury apartment, was delighted, confused (all the while being ravenously hungry); kept walking, walking; turned a corner and found myself in a large bedroom adjacent to quite the elegant bathroom.
Welcome to Boston, baby.
Oh my lord, lordy lord they had given me the Deluxe Suite, right up on the 10th floor. As I stared dreamily outside the huge windows that covered the wall, looking out into the heart of the city, Arthur perused around the room, marveling out loud.
It was a living room with a couch and extra armchair with a flat screen TV. It was a room wrapped in what my mind called ‘East coast elegance’: simple, clean colors and prints, well-lit, with lamps burning merrily every few feet, ceiling-to-floor curtains, soft textures, mmmm, now this is how a girl should travel, I thought to myself. There was also a dining room with several chairs, a very large and inviting bed and of course, the aforementioned bathroom with spacious shower that I flung myself into.
(There also was a FANTASTIC mini-bar, with several very useful traveler essentials like converters, scented candles and bottles of alcohol, and it was a thing of beauty.)
Though I had previously had every intention of running around Boston with Arthur like a little misfit, gleefully getting in as much history as I could in a few short hours, my body already had an answer for me ready: ‘no’. No to everything: no moving, no exploring, no strenuous/moderate/light lifting, or it would totally shut down and leave me stranded here to deal with myself.
I looked to Arthur with a huge grin on my face and spoke the words I knew needed to be said:
“Room service, then?”
He grinned back at me looking like the happiest man in the world, and I knew in my heart then that I had made the right choice.
(We had, unfortunately, just missed the fantastic Midsummer chill event, in which the King St. Tavern's Chef Henry Wallace was going to be carving lobster ice sculptures, among other things, to serve with his fantastic lobster rolls. #sadness)
Laying in the marshmallow bed later on (as I liked to think of it) I heard someone at the door and felt my heart race wildly with anticipation, fluttering madly at the sight of Arthur with all the food in his hands. To give you an idea of the decadent room service menu at the Ames, we had ordered a lobster roll, some chicken wings, Carbonara pasta, salad (I know, I know) and clam chowder.
It arrived in style, too: it was all beautiful. My eyes darted from the prosciutto draped over the orecchiette pasta to the spicy bold wings to the clam chowder and then, finally back to the lobster roll, which I bit into eagerly. At $23, it had a pretty high enough price point (I would soon find out, however, that the typical price of a lobster roll in Boston went from $15-$25), but when I looked at it I couldn’t help but marvel at just how much lobster it had on it. How perfectly buttery and soft but crunchy the bread was, or the light and warm flavor of the clam chowder; the sweet champagne vinaigrette on the salad against the spiciness of the hot wings.
As I ate this at the end of the day, sitting in my room bundled in my fancy robe on the couch with Arthur, I sent out a silent thank you to Boston and the Ames for allowing me to feel at home for the first time in weeks, even if it was all the way out here on the East Coast.
For your class, your warmth and your kindness, I say to you, dear Boston: goodnight & thank you for your tasty seafood. You sure know how to treat a girl right.