yourself out from under the warm covers. This is the city of Boston at its best. The people I see and the scenes I witness, remind me of the diverse character surrounding me.At 8:30 am, I head down Commonwealth Avenue, dodging the occasional sleepy student and trying, unsuccessfully, to listen for the ring of a bicycle bell. If I hear the tinkle of the chimes, I might just be able to jump out of the way, before a bike whizzes past, so close that it skims the skin on my left thigh.
Crossing over the BU bridge to the Cambridge side of the river, I pass the Boston University boathouse. Proud of its fine look and gold-edged trim, this morning I hear and see the crew boys pulling up to the dock, after a solid 2 hours out on the water.
The esplanade pedestrian path takes its traveler right along the water's edge, giving him or her a breathtaking view of downtown; silver skyscrapers rising out of shimmering water into a pale blue sky.
As I come to the final bridge before the Museum of Science, I cross over the bridge and pass a
filming crew for Ben Affleck's new movie. A group of five to ten men dressed in black shirts that read "Massachusetts Film Crew" load and unload a large truck, camera equipment blocks my way, but I use this as an excuse to pull out my point and shoot and click a few pics.Up ahead, I almost trip over a homeless man on my way down the bridge steps to reach the Storrow Drive overpass. The gentleman apologizes and, uncharacteristically (I assume) for a runner, I stop and extend my hand in greeting. "I'm Catherine," I say, asking if I can take a picture of him. He shakes his head and puts up a cigarette-laden hand, to block his face. I would rather you didn't, says the man named Husar. "I'm in several books, you see..." He tells me to look him up in Street Soldier, a book written by Edward MacKenzie, jr., Phyllis Karas, and Ross A. Muscato. He says that they allege he is connected to the Irish Mofia and to the infamous Boston gangster, Whitey Bulger. Okay, Nice to meet you sir, gotta keep running!
I pass multiple more street dwellers (6 to be precise) alongside the river, whose presence seems much more peaceful in the serene setting than it would in the middle of Government Center, surrounded by concrete and steel. The men and women I find have built themselves a nest for the night and are snuggled under old blankets or bags of retrieved garbage, asleep and at ease.When I reach the Boston Sailing School, there are already two folding chairs set out on one of the wooden docks. Up at 7 am, Ryan and David have staked their claim on tanning territory. They are determined to get every last ray of September sun, before "it's too late." Good ole New England advice.
My last stop is the stop I have been anticipating all morning. But, the two Russian fishermen who set up camp on a small embankment along the river are no where to be found this morning. I am devastated. Sure that it was me who scared them
away, I check two other spots for signs of their misshapen fishing hats and red and white striped chairs, but to no avail. I knew when I spoke to them yesterday, I should never have used the only phrase of Russian I know ("I love you").
Oh well, another morning, another time, another place. Perhaps.
By Catherine Moore, camoore@bu.edu
