Boston

We just got back from a quick trip to Boston.  We used to live there when we were first married, back in the mid to late 80’s.  This trip triggered some PTSD on not one, but two fronts: accents and driving.

Let’s start with accents.  We have all watched enough Mark Wahlberg, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck movies to know that they speak a different language in Boston.  However, when I first moved there, those guys were mere teenagers and those movies had yet to be conceived. At the time I think Mark Wahlberg was not even Mark Wahlberg, but Marky Mark.

This is all to say, that I was somewhat unprepared when I arrived in Boston and lacked the knowledge that I would need an interpreter.  I mean, I thought we all spoke the same English language across the 50 states. Who knew?

Granted, we did have JFK.  But he was assassinated the year I was born. What little concept I did have of Boston-ese can be attributed to him, gleaned from various film clips.   And for sure, I had heard that expression that goes like this, “Pahk yah cah in Hahvad yahd”.  So there was that.  I wasn’t completely in the dark you could say. 

However, there is nothing quite like being suddenly immersed in another language and culture, and what little you thought you knew just isn’t enough to prepare you.  I was suddenly thrust into Boston living, working, and socializing.  It could have been China for all that I was able to navigate this new terrain.

For example, there was the time where one of Ernie’s coworkers invited us to dinner.  As we entered their house, his coworker introduced us to his two sons.

Coworker: Hi, I’d like to introduce you to my sons, Mike and Kyle.

Me:  Hi! Nice to meet you both, Mike and Kyle.

Coworker:  No. No. It’s Mike and Kyle.

Me:  Yes, I know, Mike and Kyle.

Coworker:  No. It’s Mike and Kyle.

Me: Mike and Kyle, right.

He tries elongating it..

Coworker:  No. It’s Ma-a-a-a-h-h-h-k and K-a-a-a-h-h-h-l

I stood there for a minute.  It was clear their names weren’t Mike and Kyle.  This Who’s On First farce needed to end.  I wracked my brain for other boy names close to Mike and Kyle and then the old “Pahk yah cah in Hahvad yahd’ came back to me.

Me:  Oh!! I am so sorry!! Mark and Karl! So nice to meet you Mark and Karl.

It took me awhile, but I soon trained my brain to insert an ‘r’ every time I heard the ‘ah’ sound.  Pahlah? Parlor. Shahk? Shark. Mahk? Mark. I was pretty proud of myself actually, until one day this happened.

I’m at a coworker’s house and her dad answered the door, with their beautiful yellow lab dog.

Me: Hi! I’m Mary.  I work with Tracey, she’s expecting me.

Dad: Hi! Nice to meet you. I’m Bill.

Me: Hi Bill, nice to meet you.  And what’s the name of your beautiful dog here?

Bill:  Bahnny.

My now finely trained Boston-ese brain says to me, “ah sound, add an r”

Me:  Hi Barney!

I smile as I bend down to pet him, happy to be with a sweet dog and proud of my language skills.

Bill:  Ummm, no.  It’s Bahnny.

Me:  Yes, Barney.

Suddenly I’m having Mahk and Kahl flashbacks.  My brain is going, does not compute, does not compute, it should be Barney.

Bill:  No.  First, she’s a girl.  Her name is Bonnie. B-o-n-n-i-e.

Me:  Oh! I am so sorry! Hello Bonnie girl!

Apparently, there were exceptions to the rule.  I was stymied.  It would take more time to crack the code I could see.

It also wasn’t just the dropped ‘r’s.  It was the o’s, which seemed to add an ‘r’.

We were in a car with one of Ernie’s clients, when she said, “Watch out for that porthole!”. 

Porthole?,” I asked with some confusion.  We were clearly in a car, on a road and nowhere near any ships.

 “Yes, “ she said, “Porthole.”

Ba-boom. We hit a pothole. 

Oh!,” I exclaimed, “You mean a pothole!”

And don’t even get me started on the different names they have for things, like tonic means soda, elastic means rubber band, barrel means trashcan.  Imagine my confusion my first day of work when my boss asked me to get her a tonic, some elastics, and put something in the barrel. Huh, what?

But enough of accents and language, let’s move on to driving, shall we?

I’ve driven in a lot of major cities in this country, including NYC and LA.  And when I say this to you, believe it.  Nowhere has worse drivers than Boston.  NOWHERE.

One morning I am driving up the highway to work. I am in the right lane, where anywhere else that would be considered the slow lane.  However, there is no slow lane in Boston.  There’s only the fast lane, the faster lane, and the fastest lane. 

And the shoulder of the road? Also known as the breakdown lane of the road? Guess what? NOT A SHOULDER! Nope! That my friends is for passing people in the far right lane who aren’t driving fast enough! Who knew? I was driving 80 in the right lane, speed limit on the highway was 55, and yes, I was passed on the shoulder.

Now, that may seem crazy enough.  But it gets crazier.  I exited my office one day for lunch.  My building was in a pretty busy part of the city, opposite Filene’s Basement.  So, it’s a pretty dense area with lots of people.  I was standing on the sidewalk, not far from the corner, deciding where to grab lunch when all of a sudden, a car to my right decided it didn’t want to wait for the light to change to make a left, and in order to get around the car in front of it, drove up onto the sidewalk, cut the corner, and back on to the road.

Boston. Where you can pahk yah cah in Hahvahd yahd.  Better yet, don’t drive at all.  Take the T.