… at 10:44. Across from UD at a long wooden table sit a father and son on their way to Plymouth. “Going there to take pictures,” says the father. He wears a pilgrim hat; his son wears a three-quarter.

While we wait for our train to DC, Mr UD walks around the busy station. At its center, next to the holiday train display, people gaze at the big schedule and gate sign as if in a saint’s presence. Their awed uptilted faces are lit by the streaming sun.

*********************

Here we go. Business Class, Acela, Washington DC. Pulling away from rickety old Boston – Mr UD and our cabbie went back and forth about all the construction zones and how you have to sit in traffic around them for hours – UD ponders the failure of this city, over many years, to appeal to her. To her it feels wintry, rickety, past it.

*********************

A dream UD had last night:

She is sitting beside Luciano Pavarotti on a comfortable couch. He is in despair. UD puts a consoling arm around him and says:

The line between dignity and farce in opera is a thin one and not all productions manage to cross over into dignity.

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3 Responses to “The sun’s streaming in to South Station Boston…”

  1. Steven H. Cullinane Says:

    Ridi, Pagliaccio.

  2. Margaret Soltan Says:

    Steven: Si, si.

  3. James Says:

    The third paragraph’s the nugget for a Tom Friedman column! Rickety old Boston, birthplace of the American Revolution, as metaphor for American decline.

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