Homework, homework...

Now that Mark's back in school, he's back to the nightly homework grind. But he's been taking it very seriously, and I'm so proud of him.

I caught him in a contemplative mood last night. It was definitely a Kodak moment, my boy and his studies, so I captured it for posterity. 

And this is one of my SMART friends...

Recently, some friends came to the States for a visit. They flew in from Australia, where they live. He's American, she's Australian, and my friend Nicky and I were very excited to see them.

We were also excited to meet their gorgeous baby girl. Sophia was beautiful, sweet and super happy. She doesn't talk yet, but she's very vocal, so Nicky and I spent a lot of time trying to make her giggle.

Later on, we were discussing how cute Sophia is, and what great parents Ted and Nicole are. We also marvelled at how Ted has absolutely no Australian accent whatsoever, even though he's lived in Sydney for 15 or 16 years. 

Nicky paused for a minute, and then said, "I wonder what Sophia will speak."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You know," Nicky explained. "Since her Dad's American, and her mom's Australian."

Now it was my turn to pause. Then I burst into laughter, and I told Nicky, "You know they speak English in Australia, right? She's gonna speak English, like both of them!"

Nicky got all flustered and said that's not what she meant, she really meant would Sophia have an American accent or an Australian one, blah blah blah. But for the rest of the evening, I couldn't get that thought out of my head, and I just kept giggling about it. Every time I looked at Nic, she glared at me and told me to shut up.

Which I would have done...if only I'd known which language she meant, American or Australian.

The Phantom Menace

Who knew I'd spend so much time obsessing over an inanimate object that is not even mine?? (Honestly...this is what my life's been revolving around--now I know why some of my friend's refuse to get cell phones!)

Mark's had his cell phone back for a week now, which is commendable. But what I've realized this week is that I spent too much time telling him not to lose it, and not enough time teaching him how to use it. 

I know this because my own cell phone has been ringing non-stop. So far, I've gotten calls from my mom, my brother Smed, and my sister-in-law Mari. They called to say Mark's phone is repeatedly calling them.

"Tell him to hang up," I told my brother, Smed, who called this morning.

"I did," he said, in the same tone I use with Mark when I'm irritated. "He's not listening--I can only stand in the street yelling at the phone for so long before people think I'm crazy."

That made me giggle. Bonus points to Mark for making his uncle look goofy on the job.

So I called Mark myself. At first the phone went straight to voicemail--guess he was still (not) talking to Uncle Smed. I called back a couple minutes later, and someone answered--but forgot to talk. I listened to the playground chatter for a couple minutes, all the while shouting, "Mark. Mark! MARK!!!" progressively louder into my phone (I feel your pain, Smed). Mark finally hung up on me, so I called back.

"Hello???" he answered, in a very surprised voice. Apparently, he's only used to making, not receiving, calls.

"Mark, turn your phone off," I said. "Keep it off during class, and don't turn it back on again until after school!"

"HELLO??" he said, again. Seriously. He couldn't figure out who was calling him. I could just imagine him staring, baffled, at his phone, wondering who had his number, and why they were calling.

"TURN OFF YOUR PHONE!" I yelled. "You keep calling Grandma and Uncle Smed, and it's bugging them."

"What?!" he exclaimed. "I didn't call anyone!"

I just sighed, and realized it's a good thing God made Mark cute.

I finally hung up. I assume Mark turned off his phone, since no one else reported any more phantom phone calls.

I did learn, however, that Mark is right on par with his peers and their phones (I'm talking to you, Sean!). On his way to school, Sean asked if I'd text his mom, because he forgot his phone at home. I told Liz to call Mark if she needs Sean, but who knows how successful that will really be. We decided there's some kind of cosmic force at work that allows only one boy to have his phone on him at any given moment. Inevitably, the other boy's phone will be at home, lost, off or busy calling someone else.

So, my apologies in advance if Mark calls you. I've only put a lucky few of you into Mark's contact list, and he's been hard at work using up all your minutes.

On a related note...if this is a timely topic, and you've been wondering if your own child is old enough to have a cell phone, let me save you some time and energy. The answer is no. They are not old enough. Not now, not soon, not until they have moved out of your house and gone off to college. Where, presumably, they will use said phone only to call you and ask for money.

But on the upside, you probably won't get those calls very often. Because, you know...they can't find their phone.

Mommy lessons

I like to read a lot, and some of my favorite things to read are mommy blogs. They have a calming effect on me, as I realize I'm not alone in raising a savage beast smartly disguised as a very cute little boy.

I was reading one of my favorites when Mark came into the room. He was so quiet, I didn't even hear him at first. I just felt a presence, turned slightly, and there he was, reading over my shoulder.

"Ack!" I shrieked, startled. "You scared me! What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, but he wasn't looking at me, he was scanning the web page in front of me.

I closed it out of habit. There was nothing objectionable onscreen, it was just irritating to have someone reading over my shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Getting new tips?"

"What?" I asked, confused.

He nodded at the screen. "Is that where you learn everything?" he asked. "That's where you get your instructions?"

I suddenly realized what he was asking, and burst into laughter.

I'd been looking at a blog called The Meanest Mom (http://themeanestmom.blogspot.com). Mark thought it was an INSTRUCTIONAL WEB SITE, and that I was doing research on how to be the meanest mom!

"It's not a teaching site," I told him. "I read it because it's funny, not instructional."

He just stared, and I could tell he didn't believe me.

"Really!" I exclaimed.

He still stared, then finally walked away.

"I didn't learn all this from a web site!" I called to him as he left the room. He was shaking his head in disbelief.

But it's true--I learned my mothering skills firsthand from The Master, waaaaaay before there even was an Internet. I learned from the original Meanest Mom, who took great pride, not offense, in the name--my own Mother. She's the one who raised us with the motto, "I'm your Mom, not your friend," and I'll always be grateful to her for that.

Even if Mark thinks I'm cheating, and getting the answers from a web site...

This makes me sad

CNN.com runs daily polls on their web site, usually in conjunction with a popular news story.

I was shocked to see the results from a poll the other day. Seems more than 47,000 people (52% of the respondents!) rarely go to one of my favorite places on Earth. And they admitted it!

I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they said "Rarely" because they get their books old-school style--from the library. Or maybe they order their books from online retailers. (Which I also do when I'm pressed for time.)

But still, there's nothing I find more intoxicating than roaming the aisles of my local brick-and-mortar bookstore. I love the feeling of going through the new hardcover bestsellers, of sorting through the oversized trade paperbacks, of laughing at the colorful kids books with brightly colored covers and funny titles. And don't even get me started on finding hidden treasures in the clearance section, gorgeous photo coffee table books or funny craft or skills books.

I can't believe that 52% of the people who took this poll experience that feeling only rarely. And don't even get me started on the bottom 18%--I'm just chalking that up to criminals and housebound sick people. Because really, I can't think of a reason those people wouldn't want to go to a bookstore, other than that they were busy serving time or physically unable to!

I'm (not) listening

I thought Mark was the only person who doesn't listen to me, but now I'm starting to worry. My co-workers aren't listening either. Not even when I write something down and a little window flashes it in front of them. 

Case in point: here's a real instant message exchange I had with a co-worker in another office. I removed last names and identifying product names to protect the innocent (and my job), but otherwise, the conversation went down just like this. 

At 10:01 a.m:
Adam: Hello Heather
Heather: Hi Adam
Adam: are you still the primary contact for Product ABC?
Heather: Yes. Also for Products 123, and XYZ.
Adam: can you update the migration documents with a valid migration quarter?
Heather: Yes, I will do that.
Adam: thanks!
Heather: n/p

At 10:10 a.m.:
Adam: Lorna is listed as the contact for Product XYZ, should I change that to you?
Heather: Yes, please. Also change Product 123 to me as well.
Adam: will do thanks

At 10:38 a.m.:
Adam: hey Heather, do you know if Lorna still owns Product 123?
Heather: Nope, that's me. >>Bites down on fingers to keep from screaming and/or typing something very negative.<<

Adam: ok thanks
Heather: Sure.

You should note all absences of snark or "WTH??" comments. And you should be super (super!) proud of my professional demeanor, because honestly, it took more restraint than I thought I had to type the same answer three times in a row. To a man who clearly was not paying attention. And can't read.

Well, the upside is that even if Mark doesn't listen to me, it obviously won't hinder his job prospects. 

My son is slowly trying to drive me insane...

...and it's working.

Mark swears he's old enough for a cell phone, while I quietly contend he is not. This belief is based on the number of times and places I have searched for Mark's lost phone, including (but not limited to) go-kart tracks, baseball fields, summer camps, his friends' houses, and even my own car. I have fished it from his pants mere seconds before dropping them into the wash, after he's sworn he checked the pockets multiple times. Three weeks ago, he tired of losing it, and completely killed the phone when he took it for a swim in the ocean. Apparently, saltwater is bad for cell phones.

But this weekend, he almost pushed me over the edge with that dang phone. After spending the day at a theme park with the Boy Scouts, he returned to the church, where a parent's meeting was in progress.

"Hi mom, bye mom," he called, as he passed by. He joined the other scouts outside, where they were busy not interrupting the parent meeting.

But an hour later, Mark came back in like a hurricane, talking fast, and grabbing my stuff on the table. I isolated the words, "your," "phone," "call," and "me," but everything else was just babbling.

"What do you need?" I asked, plucking my cell phone from his hands.

"You need to call my phone!" he said, urgently. "It fell out of my pocket while I was wrestling!"

And though I didn't quite get the urgency, I called the phone and followed Mark outside.

Where it was now pitch black.

I headed toward the school lunch area, but Mark headed out to a giant athletic field instead. Did I mention it was pitch black? And giant?

I stared at the giant, black field and sighed. I'd never actually looked for a needle in a haystack until that very moment.

While Mark and a few other boys scoured the field in the dark, I called his cell repeatedly.

"That's weird," I called out. "I can't even hear the phone ringing."

And somewhere, out in the dark field, Mark shouted back to me, "That's because it's on vibrate!"

I don't know how Mark lived past that particular moment in time, but I think it has to do with him being out in the dark field. If he'd been anywhere close to me, I might have strangled him immediately.

"It's on VIBRATE?!?!?" I yelled. "Are. You. Kidding. ME??"

I think smoke actually billowed out of my ears, and I may have blacked out in rage for a minute.

"It should still light up when you call," said another logical young scout. I think his calm manner shocked me out of my momentary rage. I took a deep, calming breath, stopped dialing Mark's phone, and used my phone as a flashlight instead.

We covered that field two, three times, with no luck. Finally, after 40 minutes, I thanked the other scouts and parent and called off the search.

But Mark didn't get off so easy. We returned to the field at 7 the next morning, where he resumed his search, again with no luck.

He left his contact info with the church. I made him empty his backpack again, and call the Scout leader he drove to the park with, on the off chance he left the phone in the car.

"It's not there," Mark insisted. "It fell out of my pock--" He stopped short when he saw me glaring at him.

"You'll buy a new phone tonight with your allowance," I said quietly. Mark immediately began to protest, but I snapped my finger and hissed "SHHHHH!" a la the Dog Whisperer, and like a good pup, Mark went silent.

"You have to pay for it because YOU LOST IT," I said. "No more discussion!" He opened his mouth, and I SHHHHHshed him again.

Mark moped all through dinner. He'd been saving his money for a new bike, and this would put a serious hurt on his savings.

"Well, think how much it'll cost you if you keep losing your phone every month," I told him. "Twenty bucks a month to replace it, over 12 months a year--that's $240 a year."

He gasped. "That's more than bike I want!" he cried. "The bike is only $200!"

I smiled, and channelled Jon Lovitz from A League of Their Own.

"Well then, this would be more, wouldn't it?" I said.

Mark continued grumbling. I didn't quite understand all the mumbling, but I gathered that he could see the bike slipping from his future, and he was not happy about it.

We were literally heading out the door to buy a new phone when the home phone started ringing. I looked at the familiar caller ID number, then shouted, "It's your phone!"

Turns out, Mark HAD left the phone in the car. It was safe and sound at the Scout leader's house, and we could pick it up whenever.

Mark whooped it up all the way home. He sensed how close to death he'd really come, and he was grateful he'd gotten the phone back. I smiled at him, finally ready to forgive the little bugger, when he pushed me right back to my unhappy place.

"This phone's okay," he said nonchalantly. "But can I still buy another new phone? A cooler phone?"

I couldn't answer him. Instead, I simply pointed to his bedroom, and from my crazy eyes and the smoke once again pouring from my ears, he knew exactly what it meant. It meant, for the second time in as many days, he was about to have another near-death experience.

"Fine, good night," he conceded. And smartly headed off to bed without another word.

I shoulda put a ring on it

Raising Mark is a daily living example of Newton's third law of motion: For every action, there is always an equal and opposite reaction. No matter what I say, Mark says the opposite. No matter how strong my opinion, Mark has an equally opposite and strong opinion. Whenever I say black, Mark says white. Or, to paraphrase the Beatles, I say stop, and he says go, go, go.

This weekend was a prime example of that law. I let Mark practice his "manly" work skills by putting together a new bookcase. At first, he was all excited. His voice dropped a few octaves, and he grunted a la Tim Allen in Home Improvement when he answered that yes, he wanted to put the bookshelf together. He told me exactly what kind of tool he'd need (a Philips screwdriver) and lined up all the screws and book shelf pieces in order before he started.

Mark was excited because he digs anything that involves tools, right up until he realizes he's doing manual labor. With this realization comes the whining about how hard the task (whatever task) at hand is.

He was 10 minutes into the bookshelf when the whining started. I was about to shoot him a steely mom glare, when he suddenly perked up.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, jumping to his feet.

Our neighbors were having their wedding reception next door, and it was time for the bouquet toss. The DJ summoned all the single women to the dance floor, and in the background, Beyoncé was singing about all the single ladies.

"All the single ladies!" Mark repeated, in a falsetto singing voice. "Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh-oh, oh oh oh oh!"

And before I fully realized what was happening, he was doing a spot-on, hip-shaking, finger-waggling version of the single ladies dance. Right there, in the middle of my living room, among the loose screws and various shelving pieces, was my very own male Beyoncé impersonator.

I watched him for a moment, then burst into laughter. The more I laughed, the more he exaggerated his booty shaking and the higher his voice became. Finally, the song ended, and Mark fell to the floor, also laughing.

"Come on, Boy-oncé," I finally said. "It's time to finish building the bookcase."

"OK," he answered. And so he set about putting the pieces together, all the while humming about the single ladies.

The pitchmen are winning

Mark's always been susceptible to advertising, especially on T.V. When he was little, I'd find him watching cartoons with a pad of paper next to him, where he'd scrawled toll-free numbers and the names of wonder products we simply must have. I spent a good deal of his fifth year explaining that we did not need water globes or clay-like plastic you could mold into shapes. He was crushed every time, but not dissuaded. The next Saturday morning, he'd have a whole new list to run by me.

Now he's more into the radio than T.V., but he's just as highly attuned to the ads. The other day, he tracked me down and excitedly explained that he'd just heard the most amazing commercial. 

"It's for a new cell phone," he gushed. "It's only $50 a month, with FREE unlimited minutes and texting."

"You already have a phone," I reminded him. He snorted. He's got a cheapy pay-by-the-minute phone that doesn't even have Internet access. (The shame!!)

"Yeah, but this phone is better," he scolded me. "Free unlimited minutes and texting! Didn't you hear that part? FREE!"

I shook my head, and sighed. I reminded him of the first thing he said--the $50 a month part. He just looked at me blankly.

"So...can I get it?" he finally asked.

"Sure," I said. "As long as you pay for it."

And suddenly, it all came together. I actually saw the light go on in his head.

"I don't have $50 a month!" he shouted.

"Me neither," I answered.

"Guess my other phone's good enough," he said, glumly.

"Guess so," I agreed.

And then, just like that, we were all on the same page again. Can't blame him for trying, though...

New math strikes again...

Today was not only the first day of school, but also Mark's first day as a middle-schooler (ack!!). 

In our time-honored tradition, I took his first-day-of-school photo, along with his friend Sean. Mark always flashes the appropriate number of fingers, according to the grade he's starting. Today, he started 6th grade.

Turns out school can't start soon enough, as far as math is concerned--and maybe Mark should've put in a little more time with those math worksheets this summer.

 

Day 19 Boston, Mass, 5 1/2 hours flying

Today was the last day of our vacation…Although I felt more than a twinge of sadness at that realization, I was bound to make the most of our day.

We started the morning with a harbor cruise, included with our hop on/hop off bus fare. The streets were already humid by 9 a.m., but it was nice on the water. 

After our boat ride, we had to say good-bye to Donna. She’d driven her own car down to Boston, and was heading home. It was sad to say goodbye, especially for Mark, who could no longer tease Donna about how she pronounces “Connecticut.” ;-)

But it was on to our next adventure—the Sam Adams brewery tour! I was beside myself, like a giggly, excited little kid on Christmas. Besides the Rock N Roll hall of fame, this was what I’d looked forward to the most!

We took the subway, also known as the T. We navigated to the right line, and congratulated ourselves on finding the right train. We were so busy patting ourselves on the back, we almost missed the announcement that this was an express train, on its way to the end of the line. We quickly jumped off, and caught the next train, which did, indeed, stop at Sam Adams.

I could tell the brewery was a popular destination—there was a note taped inside the subway operator’s kiosk with directions to the brewery. They must get a lot of dopey tourists asking which way to the brewery!

We followed the sign to Porter St.—I love that! (Don’t think Sam Adams makes a porter ale, though.) The only thing better would be if it was on Lager St.

We got there just as the tour was starting—while Amber and I were outside taking silly pictures, Edra got us tickets. The tour guide led us to a presentation room, but I could barely make it past all the big silver brewing barrels. I hugged one big barrel, thanked another for its golden delicious offerings, and stopped at a third for more pictures. Then I finally joined the rest of the group for the presentation.

The tour guide was busy telling us about the ingredients in Sam Adams beer. The stars were the hops and barley, which were passed around in plastic cups for us to smell. Mark was very excited to taste the different kinds of dried hops and barley, and seeing as that was as close to a beer as he'd get, I let him.

My favorite part of the tour, of course, was the tasting room! It was a bar, with four taps and pitchers of beer already drawn. I was giddy at the sight. 

 

Mark was equally excited, because the guide offered up full bottles of root beer to all the non-drinkers, which Mark willingly accepted. 

We tasted four different kinds of beer: the original Boston lager, a seasonal summer ale, some rare kind of cherry ale, and a fourth one I can’t remember (did I mention I was a little excited?). We had a good time, and were determined not to let those pitchers of beer go to waste. Mark eventually tired of us, and went off in search of the gift shop.

By the time we finished, it was just past lunchtime. Since we’d be on the plane for dinner, we decided we needed a good lunch to tide us over. Luckily, the brewery offered a shuttle over to Doyle’s pub, the first place to sell Sam Adam’s beer. As luck would have it, the shuttle pulled up just as we were leaving.

We hopped on. Our driver was friendly at first, but turned when some other tourists asked him where to eat in Chinatown. He didn’t have much interest in Chinatown, or tourists who did. He seemed pretty mad, so we said, “Let’s go to Doyle’s!” which cheered him up and let him re-focus.

We were already in a happy mood, but when the shuttle driver yelled, “Hang on!” and gunned, it, we lost it. We all went flying to the back of the shuttle, and just erupted into laughter. Which egged on the crazy driver—he started pumping the gas and brake pedals so that the shuttle hopped down the street like a bunny. We laughed again, until the traffic light turned green, and he pounded the gas pedal, and set the tires screeching. He turned the stereo up as high as it could go, and then, just when we thought we couldn’t handle any more, he flipped on some disco lights! We were dying!!!

Doyle’s was great. It was filled with other happy brew tour patrons. There was even a Sam Adams cut-out, which the young hostess told us was her prom date (yes, she really took him to the prom!). We loved that story. Amber wanted to bring him to our table, but the hostess said there was a closer Sam in the phone booth by our table we could bring over for a visit.

Which is exactly what Edra and Amber did. I watched them make a beeline toward the phone booth where Sam was lurking, then watched them drag poor Sam to our table. I immediately started cracking up. Mark, on the other hand, tried diving under the table (poor guy doesn’t realize how funny his mom and aunties are!!). A loud, laughter-filled photo shoot ensued. 

Along with lunch, we ordered beers, not because we really needed any more, but because we got to keep the magic glasses it came in. (The glasses were specially designed for maximum enjoyment of the Boston Lager.) We enjoyed our lunch, our magic glasses, and our nice buzz, and before we knew it, it was time to go. We waited a few minutes outside until Mr. Crazy Shuttle Driver screeched around the corner and up to the curb, “Forever in Blue Jeans” blaring, and gave us another memorable ride back to the T.

We suddenly realized that it was almost 3:30, and we had a plane to catch. We’d packed all our luggage before, so we collected our bags, the car and directions to the airport. Amber dropped us off, and hugged us tightly. After almost three weeks away, it felt good to be going home, but it was also sad to see our vacation end.

And then it was time to board the plane. That was the best part of all…because even though it took us three weeks to get to Boston, it only took us 5 ½ hours to get home. And boy, was it good to see my own bed after all that time!

Day 18 Boston, Mass No driving

OK, sorry I’ve been missing from the blog…here’s the second-to-last day of our trip…

Did I mention Boston is hot? Because it is—hot and humid, a condition we delicate Californians are simply not used to.

But we made the best of it. Today, per Amber’s request, we started our day with a duck. A duck boat, to be exact, although if we’re really being exact, it’s more of a duck boat/car. We piled onto the duck…vehicle…which was driven by a genuine Boston character. Mack was his name, and he had a Boston accent as thick and rich as a Boston cream pie. 

Mack was hilarious—he gave us a great historical tour, and lots of corny jokes. Then he drove us into the St. Charles River, where we cruised along, through the locks, and around the parks. It was pretty darn cool. Not often you can say your tour bus made such a splash…

We walked the city a bit more, looking for a hop on, hop off bus stop. The buses, which were super tall and lime green, were easy to spot all throughout the city, but finding an actual bus stop proved more than a little daunting. We walked from the duck tour all the way back to the Public Garden without seeing a bus stop once.

Luckily, there was a little restaurant next door called Parish next to the Garden. The duck staff had highly recommended it, and we were not disappointed. We ordered sandwiches, and they were all wonderful. Mark got a mac and cheese that was to die for. He couldn’t keep our forks away from it! 

After lunch, we strolled through the public garden, Edra and Mark playing football, Donna and Amber taking photos. We ambled over to the Boston Common, and then trudged uphill toward the State House (did I mention it was hot? And humid? I’m just sayin’…)

We finally flagged down a bus, and climbed aboard, ready to part with the $12 ticket fare. Which actually turned out to be $38, a good deal more than the sign on the side of the bus said. But we were just glad to be on the bus, so we paid the fare, and sat back in our seats.

Our goal was to get to the U.S.S. Constitution. What we didn’t know was that while it was close, the bus had to loop back around to get there, which took about an hour and a half. Edra got off a few stops later to take a different bus to Harvard, but Amber, Donna, Mark and I enjoyed the ride. We had a super cute, young tour guide who was really knowledgeable and taught us a lot about the city.

We were also stoked because the bus stopped at one site we hadn’t seen yet—Fenway Park! That was very cool. I met up with some old friends here.

Our next stop was the U.S.S. Constitution, aka Old Ironsides, the oldest working battleship in the country. I’m not big on boats or military history, but the ship was lovingly restored and gorgeous. We had to go through airport-level security to get on the ship. Donna, who was wearing her sling, made quite an impression with the security guards. They were in awe after she explained she was injured during roller derby, and they congratulated her on being a tough chick!

Like I said, the ship was beautiful. 

The cute sailors weren’t so bad, either.

Kris called, and said she was at a nearby tavern. That was all we needed to hear—we bailed off the ship and walked a few blocks to the Tavern on the Water, where we met up with Kris and her family.
 

 

The tavern was awesome—right on the water, with a killer view of downtown. We ordered the local beer, Sam Adams, which also happens to be my favorite (I loved ordering it right there in Boston!) and nachos.

It was early evening when Kris and Dennis left, to take the sleepy little Caroline home to bed. We opted to stay a bit longer and take the water taxi home. We missed one taxi, but I got the phone number from the side. However, the taxi never came back, and no one answered the phone later. So the bartender called us a different cab, captained by a young guy with a thick accent named Chris, who looked like he wasn’t even old enough to drive a car, let alone a boat.

There was another couple in the taxi, too, and we quickly made friends. We were all in awe of Chris’ Boston accent, and asked him any question we could think of, just to hear him answer.

Chris was only allowed to drop us off at a certain pier, which was nowhere near our hotel. We begged and pleaded, and knew we’d won when he asked, “Do you have anywhere to be tonight?” We assured him we did not, thereby winning an extended sunset harbor cruise.

We cruised to the other side of the harbor to drop off our new friends. Chris then slowly headed back to the main pier which was private but unoccupied after 8 p.m. He was doing us a favor, and we didn’t want him to get in trouble, so we paid him and quickly exited the boat. Our 45-minute private cruise cost us a whopping $5 each!

We decided to grab a quick dinner on the way back to the hotel, but by 9 p.m., everything was closed, even Quincy Market and its 1000 stalls of snacks. We opted for the one open restaurant, enjoying pizzas and one final Sam Adams before bed.