Walking to Work
My office is literally steps away from the Arlington stop on the Green Line, so for the first couple weeks of work I just automatically took the Red Line to Park Street, changed to the Green Line, and rode the two stops to Arlington.
Mary Kate, my office-mate and fellow new Development Editor, told me that she usually walks from Park Street to the office, an option that is both more healthy and less smelly than the Green Line, so I decided to try it. I was more than a little dissuaded by the two weeks of torrential rain, but on a couple of relatively dry days I did enjoy the walk through the Boston Common and along the edge of the Public Garden.
Today I did something different, and got off the Red Line at Charles MGH. My new walking route took me through Beacon Hill, among adorable eateries (The Upper Crust), antique shops (A Room With A Vieux), and high-end pet stores (Fidough’s). All the displays of fancy, unnecessary blown glass and hand-painted skirts reminded me very strongly of the galleries and festival stands in Laguna Beach; it’s comforting to know that no matter where I go, there will be beautiful, largely useless things I cannot afford.
Charles Street ends at the Public Garden, and my office is at the opposite corner, reachable by a path that winds past the Make Way For Ducklings statues, around the pond, under the bridge, dangerously close to the swan boats, and through the ornamental gates on Beacon Street.
Because of the direction I’m walking, I pass Quack first, then Pack, Ouack, Nack, Mack, Lack, Kack, Jack, and finally Mrs. Mallard. These are not the actual ducklings—I’m sure the original Mallard family is by now long dead—but bronze statues that are so much larger than life as to be, unsettlingly, about the size of swans. At 8:45am there are generally no small children attempting to ride on the backs of the duck statues, which is my preferred state of things.
The path at one point squeezes between the shore and a giant tree that is not a willow but still has that drooping-branch structure that makes it the shape of a hollow dome, or a bowl haircut. The twelve-year-old in me immediately starts thinking of ways that this tree can be used as a fort or hideout, but my other eleven years of life experience keep me from actually formulating a plan to come back tomorrow with clothespins and towels and picnic blankets. Fine, maybe I do think about where I would need to hang towels (where the branches are sparse, near the path) and how many blankets I’d need to cover the floor area (a lot – this is a seriously big tree), but I won’t actually do it. Probably.
Down at the pond, the pond turtles have soaked up just enough sunlight to be semi-active; in another hour or two they will probably make it from the top of their 6-foot wooden ramp into the water. Ducks are hilariously fighting their natural buoyancy in order to eat mud from the bottom of the pond, which seems like a lot of exertion for a little bit of wet dirt.
There is one duckling in the entire pond, which makes me think that either all the other ducklings are super-lazy and therefore still asleep, or (much sadder but still probably possible) none of the rest of the duck-babies survived the aforementioned torrential rains. The single duckling isn’t even trying to get underwater, and after several minutes of watching it frantically paddling its tiny, ineffectual feet just to keep from being blown to shore by the gentle morning breeze, I decide that this is probably a wise move.
I am actually early to work for once, so I have time to loiter by the pond and wonder whether, if I were able to lure the duckling to me and then catch it without incurring the wrath of its parents, it could become friends with my cat. It’s an enticing prospect, but the drawbacks (the cat’s favorite toy right now is a bundle of yellow feathers on the end a string, which, when dangled in front of him, he attacks adorably though viciously; also, and more troubling: what if the duck-parents call in backup, e.g., the swans?) eventually convince me to leave the duckling alone. Anyway, I probably couldn’t have successfully hid it in my office all day.
Mary Kate, my office-mate and fellow new Development Editor, told me that she usually walks from Park Street to the office, an option that is both more healthy and less smelly than the Green Line, so I decided to try it. I was more than a little dissuaded by the two weeks of torrential rain, but on a couple of relatively dry days I did enjoy the walk through the Boston Common and along the edge of the Public Garden.
Today I did something different, and got off the Red Line at Charles MGH. My new walking route took me through Beacon Hill, among adorable eateries (The Upper Crust), antique shops (A Room With A Vieux), and high-end pet stores (Fidough’s). All the displays of fancy, unnecessary blown glass and hand-painted skirts reminded me very strongly of the galleries and festival stands in Laguna Beach; it’s comforting to know that no matter where I go, there will be beautiful, largely useless things I cannot afford.
Charles Street ends at the Public Garden, and my office is at the opposite corner, reachable by a path that winds past the Make Way For Ducklings statues, around the pond, under the bridge, dangerously close to the swan boats, and through the ornamental gates on Beacon Street.
Because of the direction I’m walking, I pass Quack first, then Pack, Ouack, Nack, Mack, Lack, Kack, Jack, and finally Mrs. Mallard. These are not the actual ducklings—I’m sure the original Mallard family is by now long dead—but bronze statues that are so much larger than life as to be, unsettlingly, about the size of swans. At 8:45am there are generally no small children attempting to ride on the backs of the duck statues, which is my preferred state of things.
The path at one point squeezes between the shore and a giant tree that is not a willow but still has that drooping-branch structure that makes it the shape of a hollow dome, or a bowl haircut. The twelve-year-old in me immediately starts thinking of ways that this tree can be used as a fort or hideout, but my other eleven years of life experience keep me from actually formulating a plan to come back tomorrow with clothespins and towels and picnic blankets. Fine, maybe I do think about where I would need to hang towels (where the branches are sparse, near the path) and how many blankets I’d need to cover the floor area (a lot – this is a seriously big tree), but I won’t actually do it. Probably.
Down at the pond, the pond turtles have soaked up just enough sunlight to be semi-active; in another hour or two they will probably make it from the top of their 6-foot wooden ramp into the water. Ducks are hilariously fighting their natural buoyancy in order to eat mud from the bottom of the pond, which seems like a lot of exertion for a little bit of wet dirt.
There is one duckling in the entire pond, which makes me think that either all the other ducklings are super-lazy and therefore still asleep, or (much sadder but still probably possible) none of the rest of the duck-babies survived the aforementioned torrential rains. The single duckling isn’t even trying to get underwater, and after several minutes of watching it frantically paddling its tiny, ineffectual feet just to keep from being blown to shore by the gentle morning breeze, I decide that this is probably a wise move.
I am actually early to work for once, so I have time to loiter by the pond and wonder whether, if I were able to lure the duckling to me and then catch it without incurring the wrath of its parents, it could become friends with my cat. It’s an enticing prospect, but the drawbacks (the cat’s favorite toy right now is a bundle of yellow feathers on the end a string, which, when dangled in front of him, he attacks adorably though viciously; also, and more troubling: what if the duck-parents call in backup, e.g., the swans?) eventually convince me to leave the duckling alone. Anyway, I probably couldn’t have successfully hid it in my office all day.
posted by Katherine at 12:08 PM
3 Comments:
At the risk of not being comforting, you are right to be deathly afraid of somehow getting the swans angry at you and suffering direly as a consequence. Waterfowl have a very complex system of allegiances, and it would be unwise of you to invite disaster on your head and the heads of your loved ones, just for a new duck friend.
By walking to work (at least part of the way), the city becomes yours. Brava! And Boston, too, is a moveable feast, or so I've heard.
By walking to work (at least part of the way), the city becomes yours. Brava! And Boston, too, is a moveable feast, or so I've heard.
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