Listen, Boston, Can You Be Discrete?

Two women in their mid-twenties, squealing and holding each other in a rib-crushing embrace, spinning in a circle. This is the scene that anyone who was in the lobby of Ye Olde Hotel of Grandeur & Class would have seen last Friday at 7:14PM. If any of you happen to be my readers, I apologize for that little display.

When Eve called to say that she was in the lobby, I was as excited as a five year old on Christmas morning. After a quick check in the mirror and the bent-over-bra-readjustment (because I apparently thought I was going on a date?), I raced out of my room and onto the elevator. On the way down, I paced back and forth in the little five by five enclosure. Move faster, elevator! My Best is downstairs in the lobby! Let's go!

As soon as the ornate doors parted and I saw Eve standing there in the lobby, I knew that any chance of acting like the adults we (theoretically) were was out the window. I ran out of the elevator at full tilt, right into Eve's open arms. For the next several minutes, we proceeded to squeeze the living daylights out of each other, rock back and forth, whilst moving in circles, and planting big kisses on each others' cheeks. She's Italian and I'm Irish. The over-the-top displays of emotion can get pretty ridiculous.

And then, of course, I grabbed her hand to see The Ring. It looked so absolutely bizarre sitting there, glimmering on her finger. Eve. Eve who was four years old just three seconds ago, was getting married and had a big, beautiful diamond ring perched on her left hand to prove it. Oh, and The Ring? Well done, Mick. Well done.

It took a while (and a drink at the bar) for things to calm down and, when they did, we headed out to our dinner reservations at Le Restaurant. Oh. Mon. Dieu. The food? Delish. Because you all are dying to know - I started with the beef carpaccio with truffle aioli, crumbled parmesan & brioche croutons, followed by the grilled tenderloin of beef with horseradish whipped potatoes, garlic toast & asparagus, and ended with the warm chocolate torte with vanilla ice cream and sauce Anglaise. Foodgasm. The service? Divine. This is why God created expensive restaurants for foodies like me. I like being waited on, being coddled, being pampered...I'm not gonna lie. Our waiter was made for a girl like me. Oh, really? You don't do flights? Wait, what's that? You will confer with the bartender and create a flight of whites based upon my specific palate? And you will continuously top off our glasses and throw out the wines we don't like and give us more of the ones we can't live without? Yes, that sounds good to me. Thank you Mr. God-like Waiter Man, I want to live with you in a vineyard in Italy and have at least eight of your children. Or something.

So Le Restaurant was très magnifique...right up until I threw up my $90 dinner. I think it's fair to say that my glorious stomach issues of last year are back with a vengeance. Fanfuckingtastic. I look forward to many evenings of vomiting and weight loss.

After tragically few hours of sleep back at the hotel (Thank you, stomach, for making it impossible for me to enjoy the 800 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets I was spending upwards of $200 a night for!), I met up with Eve to kick off the second leg of my Boston trip in earnest. We trounced around Newbury Street for a while and then embarked upon a self-guided Freedom Trail tour of the city (before which we most certainly did not use a public restroom that most certainly did not almost ruin my visit to Boston...see, Eve, I totally blocked it out, just like you told me to). Winding from Boston Common all the way up to Old North Church (and that mighty fine statue of Mr. Paul Revere), I got to see a significant amount of the city. This may be a good time to mention that I have fallen in love with Boston, and fallen hard. I feel a bit like I'm cheating on my full-time lover, New York City, but I desperately want to have an affair. Am I very bad?

No longer able to feel our fingers or toes (or noses or chins), we decided to hop in a cab and head to Eve's apartment in South Boston. Southie. Everything I had heard about that neighborhood brought to mind images of drug deals, murders, and generally bad shit. I was not expecting much. And, granted, the apartment is in an alley. But then you go inside. And you nearly fall over when you see how absolutely amazing and frickin' cute the apartment is. It's big. It's homey. It's decorated like a grown-up apartment. I considered offering first and last month's rent up-front and moving in on the spot. When Eve pointed out the tray of cookies her roommate had made for me as a welcome gift, I started dialing the movers.

I was reluctant to leave Southie (file this under "Sentences I Never Thought I'd Say"), but we had dinner plans at America's Oldest Restaurant. Guess who got sick again? After indulging on a dinner of bread rolls and ginger ale, it was off for drinks (ie. more ginger ale) with Eve's "inner circle" of Boston friends and, of course, her fiancé. It was so great to meet all of her friends and to see Mick again, particularly now that he's my best friend's future husband (when will that stop being weird?). Aside from having an amazing night with everyone, I had an amazing night ogling the oh-so-fine Boston boys. They do not make them like that in New York, what with their pea coats and tallness and scorchingly hot All-American good looks. Even the least attractive man I saw was more attractive that anyone I had recently seen in The City. It was a good night. The highlight, however, came at the very end of the evening. Boston is not New York and the cab situation is...uncivilized. Thank GOD, however, we were in the company of a man of superlative cab hustling abilities. Eve and I would very likely be standing on a corner somewhere in Boston, even at this very moment, were it not for Mick. We made it home safely for one reason and one reason only: Mick is a Man, capital M. [Insert chest-beating and primal roar here].

On Sunday, Eve and Mick and I brunched in Southie (really, I just like saying it...I feel much, much cooler) before heading to the JFK Presidential Library. Highly recommended. Then, to polish off a perfect trip, Eve and I finished off the night in the North End at Il Ristorante. And I didn't throw up, not even a little. Back at her apartment, we tucked into bed, watched/ripped apart a movie, and lamented my unfortunate residence in a city that was not Boston. Even through the next morning, up until the very minute I left to catch my train, Eve tried to get me to agree to move. She decided that Shuffles was not worth going back for (and, really, I have to agree with her there) and I should simply call into the office and explain that I had moved north. I'm seriously considering the proposition.

Because I lurve Boston.

(But most of all because I lurve Eve).