Alabama's tallest building

Very busy the past couple of days so rather than detail my adventures, here are some more photos from my trip that lasted from May 2nd to May 7th.

Two Virginia courthouses:

What was interesting was that these buildings were right in the middle of town and had to be driven around to get to anything else.  Where New England towns are centered on the Town Green, an open space, these county seats were centered on the county courthouse.

Remember I described the tallest building in Mobile, Alabama on May 7th?  Here's the Mobile skyline:

I know it's not very awe-inspiring.  I did mention that there are only three skyscrapers, and that one on the right is a beauty.  Here's what it looks like in a little more detail:

I was talking to someone from Mobile recently and she told me that not only is this building the tallest in Mobile, it is the tallest in all of Alabama.  No mean feat, that.  I asked her what it is called and she couldn't remember, "It's the Tall Building."  I asked her who built it.  "I think it's an insurance company," she said.  I'll have to wait a bit longer until I get the answers to the really pertinent questions.

Just reminiscences for now.  I have a very tight schedule the next few days but business will resume its usual tempo shortly.

Isn't she lovely?

The Little Ninja with the Blue Ridge Mountains in the Background:

In the small community of Locust Bottom, in the Shenandoah Valley:

How do I remember I was in Locust Bottom?  This was on the other side of the road:

Somewhere in the woods in southeastern Tennessee:

You thought I made up the Alabama Museum?

My favorite photo from New Orleans:

Much as I'm enjoying riding my bicycle, I do miss having the Little Ninja keeping me company.  I took the bicycle out on the Neponset River Trail yesterday.  It's a great ride starting at Tenean Beach and ending at the River Street stop on the Mattapan High Speed Line.  This is a nice trail, short trail (a little over 2 miles) that runs along the Neponset, passed Cedar Grove Cemetary, along a salt marsh, parallel to the trolley tracks, and through that brick gingerbread wonderland of Lower Mills.

Goodbye Jacob Wirth

 Boston isn't known for it's cuisine.  Please don't send me emails about baked beans, toll house cookies, parker house rolls, boiled pot roast, cod or white clam chowder.  I'm from around here and I know all of these things but except for the clam chowder, none of these things is really succulent.  There are good restaurants in Boston but, needless to say, most of them don't capitalize on the "New England" aspect of their kitchen.  Durgin Park is an exception, but they are in the middle of a tourist destination (the soundtrack of their website is worth the click).

Jake's Black Label Sausage.   This should be the title of this post because this is what I ordered at Jacob Wirth for lunch.  Whatta wurst!  The sausage and a pint of Narragansett left me full as a tick the rest of the day.  This was one nice grilled sausage served on a toasted bun with sauerkraut but I don't go to Jacob Wirth for the food.  I go for the atmosphere.  The place has changed little over a century.  I like that.  I like looking over bygone momentos and looking at the scrollwork that supports a pressed tin ceiling.

I like it as much as I like my 'Gansett, Neighbor.  I wholeheartedly agree that you're not from New England if you aren't drinking the Official Beer of the Clam (this digression, including illustration, is copyright Narragansett Brewing Co. PR)

I love old things that have withstood the test of time.  I'm no Renaissance Faire aficionado or colonial re-enactor but I like anachronisms.  I liked the Dutch Tavern in New London.  I love Boston's landscape and I look forward to participating in the ongoing traditions that make up New Orleans.

Midnight Public Garden

If you've read these posts for the past month or so you might get the impression that I am against Boston and for New Orleans.  That isn't entirely true.  While Boston and I haven't been the best fit, even with me being a born and bred Nutmeg Yankee (and that may be the reason), Boston is a beautiful, beautiful city.

It is full of the most breathtaking parks and views you will find in any American city, hands down, bar none, and I'm not talking through my hat.  The Emerald Necklace, the Esplanade, Boston Common, Castle Island, all these places have a charm that cannot be matched.  All of these places have the perfect setting for what are essentially perfect jewels.  There is one that I like best most of all though, and that's the Public Garden.

With its pond in the middle, the statuary scattered throughout along winding, tree shaded paths, the flower beds different every time you visit and always in full bloom, the statue of General Washington staring down Commonwealth Avenue, the birds, the ducks and, of course, the swan boats, the Public Garden is a place of delights.

Photo credit: zipzapnzoom

Last night I walked through the Public Garden at night.  Ducks were sleeping in the lawn and there weren't many people about.  A few lovers groped on park benches facing the water, their passion undisguised by the shadows.  The swan boats were tied up and moored out of reach.  The ruffled breast of the pond caught and tossed back the glittering lights of the Four Seasons and the rest of the surrounding cityscape.  A guitar player perched on the cast iron gingerbread bridge, strumming Iberian melodies as people tossed coins into his open guitar case.  It was a romantic night.

I've never been in the Public Garden at night before.  It was time now that the Domesday clock is ticking.  In case you have the impression that I think everything in New Orleans is better, that isn't true.  I like City Park and I like Audubon Park, but they are little compared to the beauties Boston's parks harbor.

We didn't stop for a nightcap.  The T would stop running in a half hour anyway and we were in no mood to pay for a cab.  We went home, the atmosphere of the Public Garden at midnight casting our states of mind.  A nice night.

A last Boston bath

What would you do if you only had two weeks left in Boston?

I walked a few blocks from my house to Carson Beach and then walked the rest of the way along the tideline to Castle Island on the tip of South Boston.  I figure this will be one of the last times I'll be able to feel sand and broken bits of granite pebbles and shells under my bare feet.  There don't seem to be many (any?) beaches in New Orleans.

High temps in the air yesterday were seventy-two degrees bit the surf in Dorchester Bay was as bath-like as the late spring Atlantic ever is in New England.  I couldn't say it was cold.  Rather, it was brisk and refreshing.  It felt like home and in a month or two it won't be much warmer.  It felt like the beach from the halcyon days of my youth.  New England Atlantic: blue as a slab of gray steel and as welcoming as flint and puddleglum: may children forever play in your spray.

It is a far, far different and more sparkling world than that carved out by muddy Ole Man River.

At Castle Island I had a lunch of $1.60 hot dog's at Sullivan's and I walked around the fort and watched the airplanes coast down to landing across the harbor.

There are other things to do these last two weeks, but this was a pleasant thing to do to start ticking down the list.