Hello Beantown, part 2

The Bunker Hill Monument is a rounded tower with 250 stairs steeply spiraling upward. Upon our arrival, I assumed we would not be climbing up the wheeze-inducing steeple. Quick as a blink, and much to my chagrin, both Kelly and Lindsay were in the entrance to the monument and heading upward.
Awww. Crap.
So picture this: the two of them; the redhead who ran a mile everyday and the athletic brunette hacked and complained like a couple of old ninnies the entire way up the monument. On the other hand, the lanky kid with a penchant for potato chips ended up pushing past them and took the steps two-by-two.
I only include this detail here, not to embarrass those two sissies, but to motivate them for future physical endeavors. Either that, or to teach them from ever making me climb stairs that don't lead to anything, again.
I was honestly worried for a while that I was gonna hafta carry one or both of my friends all the way back to the hotel. They'd be all passed out and floppy, like dead carp. Boston is a walkable city, sure, but not while carrying duel hundred-pound dead carps around. Also, I needed them to stay awake and alert because the T-system in Boston is confusing and I wasn't sure how to get home from Bunker Hill by myself.
We mercifully climbed down the monument and somehow the girls had both secretly and silently decided that they desired and agreed to seek out ice cream. I'm not sure how they discussed this with one another, I never left their side. But as soon as we hit ground level both Lindsay and Kelly simultaneously announced, "We're getting ice cream."
Cool.
The girls got ice cream and I decided I was more in a smoothie mood. I was previously unaware that smoothies are girly drinks and was given quite a lot of flack for shunning ice cream. I tried to explain to them that this wasn't 'Sophie's Choice' and that I wasn't berating ice cream in favor of smoothies. I just felt like a strawberry banana concoction at that point in the afternoon.
For the next hour my two so-called friends kept asking me if I wanted a bottled water, or if I was hungry for a salad. We passed a pilates studio and they both turned around and asked me if I wanted to stop for a quick session.
Sometimes my best friends seem more like worst enemies.

Aw dang. I forgot to mention that before Bunker Hill, we went to visit the Navy ship, Old Ironsides. It mostly made me think about how much of Chicago's history was burnt down, whereas Boston has been able to maintain so much of theirs. Sorry about forgetting that. That's not good traveloguing I know.
I am also aware that "traveloguing" is not a word, and making up words is not good writing. And while we're at it, I'm also aware that speaking conversatorially with the reader is often lazy writing, which is also bad.
Jesus, who do you people think you are to be so critical of me?

I could hear my footsteps on the city streets of Boston as clear as if I were clapping. It might have something to do with the brick or cobblestones or maybe my feet are flatter than I thought. At any rate, I was fascinated with it. So fascinated in fact that, at one point, walking along Newbury Street, Lindsay pointed up at a building she found to be architecturally interesting. I didn't immediately respond to what she was saying (I can't listen and talk at the same time, dammit), she nudged me and said, "Kid, quit looking at your feet! Geez! You're on vacation!"
I was exploring and experiencing the city in my own way. Also, Boston doesn't seem to hold any kind of zoning laws in regards to the amount of stuff they can have on the sidewalk. Little trees, potted plants, sandwich board signs for every business on the block, outdoor seating, statues, benches, sparkling fountains, freshwater springs, squirrel zoos, everything you could imagine.
What I'm getting at is that the sidewalks were quite narrow and there was a lot of... stuff... cluttering them. All of this stuff, I'd like to mention, were items both Lindsay and Kelly tripped on and over while admiring the architure of certain buildings. Meanwhile, the soothing rhythm or my own footsteps served to insure that I would not be picking twigs and dirt out of my hair after a tumble into a well-trimmed topiary like both girls were forced to do.
I'm just sayin'...
Walking the streets of Boston was incredible, but soon enough, the walking got old. I was ready to see real Bostonians in their true element - where they felt most comfortable.
The three of us headed for the taverns.

In keeping with the honest tone that I am trying to set in this travelogue, I will admit that I have never consumed as much alchol in a single weekend as I did on this particular weekend. I can admit that. But it should also be said that I was never drunk... not really.
Not exactly.
I say this more for the benefit of my 14-year-old sister (whom will be reading this). Anyone with a younger sibling knows the exquisite burden of trying not to set a bad example for them. During this weekend, everytime a camera was hauled out, I set into a frenzied routine of moving any and all beer bottles out of the frame, facing a direction that had no beer signs in the background, and smiling really wide, so my eyes would crinkle up and hide any and all glaze coating them.
Most of you might feel this was a series of pointlessly retarded actions, but think back now, haven't you ever had your picture taken at an inopportune moment only to have it come back and haunt you?
Gee, rereading that last paragraph, I'm beginning to rethink things. Maybe collecting dozens of pictures of me all messy-haired, and red-in-the-face, sucking down a Pabst or some damn thing is exactly what I need to do. I'll collect these awful mug shots, hand them to my sister and say, "See! This is what happens when you drink too much! Don't leave the house until you're 25 or you'll turn out like me! Like me!"
I'm not sure why I'd scream this at my sister, but I would. I just know it.

Okay, where was I? This travelogue has kinda stalled-out. Your patience is waning, I'm sure. Alright, back to the great city of Boston.

Oh wait. No. We're still inside the bars. Getting to know real Bostonians in their element. Sorry. We'll head outside soon enough. You'll get your fix of Samuel Adams and Peter Fanuel later.

We were in a borough called Somerville, where all the cool kids hang out. The bar we plopped in was an Irish joint named The Burren and both Kelly and Lindsay were convinced I was drunk. There is little else in this world more frustrating than convincing two drunk people, that you, are not in fact, drunk along with them. Especially after you admit to feeling a little tipsy. The admittance of being tipsy is an immediate credibility forfeiture in gauging your own inebriation. Therefore the guage is passed on to those around you, and the drunks around me all decided I was one of them.
I began second-guessing myself:
Hell, maybe I am drunk. I don't feel drunk. I'm pretty sure I could walk in a straight line. I remember all the words to the plays I was in during college. I'm aware that Frank James and Jesse James were sibling criminals and Henry James was an author. Doesn't this lucidity mean I'm fine?

I said all this to myself, but I said it out loud. And talking to yourself seemed like a fair indication that I might be drunk.
Lindsay spilled beer on Kelly, not on purpose, but I would have laughed either way. There were no napkins at the table so I retreated to the men's room of this old pub to gather up a handful of toilet paper. As it was one in the morning, the men's room was full. I waited for one of the stalls to become free. There were two stalls and four urinals. Several guys left their urinals and the line moved up. I was at the front of the line and a third urinal became free.
So picture it: the guy leaving the urinal turns to me and says, "It's all yours."
To which I reply, "No, no. I don't need to use the bathroom."
There is an uncomfortable silence.
Then, to make my situation a little more uncomfortable, I turn to the guy behind me and tell him to go ahead of me. In my mind, I was there for toilet paper, in the mind's of the dozen drunk dudes standing in the bathroom with me, it seemed I was there just to watch them all pee.
To these guys I might be some perverted sex creep, but in my mind my actions were the same as politely declining a ride on a busy elevator.
So yeah... I guess I might have been a little drunk.
A stall became open and I dashed into it, having just realized how I might appear to my fellow pee-ers. I remember unfurling half the damn roll around my wrist. I wanted to make sure that I had enough toilet paper to clean the spill because I was damn sure not going back in that bathroom. It's one thing to explain why I was hanging out in the bathroom just seein' the sights, it's quite another to explain why I felt the need to go back!
I ran out of the bathroom like a loon.
I emerged from the bathroom, a little sobered and ready to clean up the beer. Apparently, in the five minutes I was gone, Lindsay and Kelly found a guy to clean it up for them (girls have that power) and somehow managed to spill a second time, only now it was all over my jacket!
Ladies and gentlemen - I give you Boston!

...to be continued.