Last Night in Boston

There's a moment of silence on Boylston Street that blows in through the window on the breeze from the Charles River. It arrives around 4AM, just after the last of the night time people has left for home in the last taxi. The traffic lights are blinking yellow and the streets are almost empty.

After a night of lively sounds, the silence wakes me up. I listen to the quiet, then the day starts to flow. First I hear the rubber thump of the early morning runners, then the homeless guy arrives and starts yelling about eggs again, and the trucks pull in with their beeping and clanking to deliver another load of fresh shellfish to the cafes across from the hotel. 

Last night we ate ambrosial crab cakes and sweet oysters and drank California wines at the Atlantic Fish Co. We didn't order the Loire Valley wines because the price for a single glass was three times the price for an entire bottle in France. We laughed, and we thought about how really, really good we got at drinking that amazing local wine from the little Vival store in Monts-sur-Guesnes. 

We laughed, and we thought about how cheaply we will be eating very soon, back on our patio under the shady trees, looking across the hot dusty valley up to our beloved cowboy mountains. It'll be pinto beans for us for a long time, after the big splurge of this once-in-a-lifetime vacation.