Arrived in Boston late evening, almost midnight by the time I got through border control. Annoyingly, they let US citizens pass through super-quick, while all foreigners have to wait in a massive cue for 45 minutes.
In UK time, which might supposedly define my bio-clock, it was 4am by the time I got to the hotel. By some kind of mixup, work hadn’t actually paid for my room, so I had to stand around for a while to find out if they were going to send me back out on the street (I didn’t possess enough money to pay for it myself). The receptionist sort-of tried to help me, and as he anxiously tapped away at the database, I noticed faded tattoos of red and blue stars on the backs of his fingers.
When I eventually got my room, I was too wired from travel, or hunger, or something, and couldn’t contemplate sleep. The hotel is the most expensive I have ever stayed in (payed for by work of course… eventually), but it’s actually quite shabby and somehow tacky. It’s the Marriott Tremont: I would recommend avoiding it and looking for a $20-a-night hostel instead.
Unsleeping, I went out to get some American food. Right away I was hit by one of their outrageous portions: a massive bowl of linguine of which I managed to eat about a third, even though I was starving. All around me in the late-night diner, massive rotund people polished off their plates. I felt very ashamed and furtively threw two thirds of my linguine into one of the bins thoughtfully provided.
When I walked out of the diner, I saw the hotel receptionist who had checked me in, smoking, just finished work. We talked a while, then went for a beer. He is a writer (when he’s not at the Marriott reception), and damned proud of it.
Just like last time, I immediately like America. It’s got some kind of vibrant, casual energy that the UK and Europe don’t have.
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