There and back again

There comes a time in one’s life as a Bostonian when, either out of an Ishmael-like malaise of a damp, drizzly November in the soul, or for something more banal, like a new cheese slate from Crate ‘ Barrel, he must make the parlous journey and visit his friendly neighbor to the north.

I made just such a trip to Cambridge last Saturday to walk around Harvard Square. I took the 66 bus from my apartment in Allston. The bus ended its route right by the square’s tourist epicenter, Harvard Yard.

I had intended on walking around the yard for a bit, pretending that the weather was almost warm enough to still enjoy and insisting that those dark clouds did not contain rain. Instead I caught the tail end of a marching band performance on the steps of the Widener Memorial Library.

When the band finished, members continued to play impromptu riffs as they walked, so I followed them through the yard and out onto Massachusetts Avenue (or Mass. Ave., for you hip locals). I lost sight of them at first, leading me to wonder how exactly one loses an entire marching band. For a moment I felt a bit like David Hemmings in Blowup, and decided it would be a good idea to go back into the yard, lest I was about to become crushed by some existential ennui.

I delighted in stopping awhile to watch tourists crowd around the statue of John Harvard and touch one of the feet. This was delightful because my friend at Harvard has told me how many drunken students have peed on that statue.

A child walked by and asked his parents, “Is this John Harvard?” Sorry, Timmy, but the answer is no. Not only is the statue not of John Harvard (no pictures exist), but the year the college was founded is incorrect (it should read 1636, not 1638) and John Harvard is not the school’s founder. But hey, let’s not blame them for trying. I think we should erect a giant statue of Ephraim Boston, founder of Boston University.

I gave “John Harvard” a final rub for good luck and left the yard. I walked down Church Street and onto Brattle Street, where many historical houses are blah blah blah including 1325 blah blah when William of blah blah it doesn’t matter. As far as I’m concerned, the only Brattle Street institution that matters is the Brattle Theatre. Recently, the Brattle’s operators announced that the theater is dangerously close to shutting down for financial reasons, and a major fundraising drive is underway.

In an area where $400,000 spent in the housing market might buy you a cot and a chamber pot, you would think that the Brattle Theatre will be able to meet that monetary goal by the year’s end. Just in case, though, you owe it to yourself to see at least one movie there before the theater closes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I’m sorry if my dreary November soul is weighing things down, but I can’t understand how such a great institution can be in this much jeopardy in such a brainy, cultured area. So went Rome, I suppose. But then, Harvard Square is no Rome, not even close. So what chance does the lowly Brattle have?

My mood lightened up a bit in the whimsical bric-a-brac shop Black Ink, on Brattle Street. For 50 cents, I bought an eraser that looks like a peanut. I’m not sure how much I need an eraser that looks like a peanut, but I could think of no compelling reason not to buy it. Also, I was still seething about the Brattle, and peanut erasers are funny.

When I left the store, I almost ran right into a troupe of people in zombie makeup and tattered clothes. They were growling and pounding on storefront windows, causing the general sort of ruckus you’d expect zombies to make. My David Hemmings ennui was quickly returning.

It was now raining steadily, so I ducked into the Garage for a break. The Garage is a collection of eateries on the first floor and slightly left-of-the-mainstream shops on the second.

I relived fond memories of coming to the Garage freshman year with various girls. On the second floor, there is a body piercing and tattoo shop where on any given afternoon, out of some combination of good reputation and proximity to an Urban Outfitters, you can find a steady clientele of freshman coeds getting their nose pierced.

Hunger and a reluctance to head out into the rain got the best of me, and I ate some pizza from Crazy Dough. Though the meal was decently priced, if I’d known I was going to stop for pizza, then I would have gone to Pinocchio’s on Winthrop Street. Be sure to refer to it as “Noke’s” or your status as a tourist will be as easily identifiable as the wooden puppet’s prevarications.

Shortly before leaving Harvard Square, I was able to spot through the increasing downpour a few other places that brought me back to freshman year, but I would not have time to visit them today. There was the overpriced sushi bar where service was friendly and age was no object, and the ice cream shop where I brought my parents for parents’ weekend.

Maybe it’s too much thinking about what might be looming after college, but with the exception of a spontaneous peanut eraser purchase, walking the familiar streets at Harvard Square reminded me of just how much I’ve felt as if I was in a wasteful rut for the past two years. But what really disturbed me was that the more I thought about it, the more I enjoyed the image of all those innocent tourists led astray by the urine-soaked imitation of a founder who never was.