The inn

Some concern has been expressed that these travel blogs are getting a little long, and that perhaps some readers may lose interest. So, under advisement, I have shortened today's entry, which describes the inn where we stayed:

Our inn was OK.

(We hope you enjoyed this "virtually useless tour" of our inn! If not, you may continue reading the rest of my description, which is entirely optional. Remember, you can stop reading here.)

The T deposited us and our considerable luggage in a lovely neighborhood of "brownstones" (a New England term meaning "uppity rowhouses that all look alike"). We had no idea which one housed our inn (another New England term for "fancy bed and breakfast, but with fewer letters"), and we stood like orphans abandoned on the side of the stagecoach stop in the old West, looking for the family who supposedly wanted to adopt us. We began our very methodical search by choosing a side of the street completely at random. Of course it was the wrong side, as a helpful passerby explained to us when we told her what number we were looking for. House numbers, as far as we could tell, are a closely guarded secret that is not shared with outsiders. You have to look very closely to see them, as some are on the roof, some are hidden in the grass, and no doubt others are inside the house.

Phone numbers, too, apparently are not meant to be useful in Boston. When we called what should have been a helpful person at the front desk for directions, we got only a recording, reassuring us that someone would be available at 8:30 Monday morning. It was 6:30 Sunday evening.

You might guess that I was not kindly disposed toward this inn, even before we had located it. Assuming we did locate it.

But we did, and the first thing I noticed was that we had been given a room on the third floor, and of course there was no elevator. "Well," I said cheerfully to Joe, "you're always complaining that you have no time to work out. Here's your chance."

But our room offered the usual charming features of an old inn -- it was hard to tell whether its name, The Inn at 1750, referred to the address or to the date it was built -- including original wood floors; a charming fireplace in the lobby; faded, peeling wallpaper; a lumpy bed, etc. Upon entering the room, I did what any traveler does: I looked for the evaluation card. Not surprisingly, I did not find one. Only establishments that are either smugly secure in their service or that are bent on being told everything they're doing wrong put out evaluation cards.

The pillowcases and sheets looked very tired, as if they had been pressed into service in 1750 and not been given a break since. But we slept soundly enough, and in the morning we went downstairs to experience the second part of our stay: breakfast.

If any other guests had been dining -- and I use that word loosely -- at the same time as us, they would have had to sit on our laps. There was no seating in the lobby, which was where the breakfast was located, and both the quaint table on the porch and the one in the front yard had only one chair. Either there was a desperate shortage of lawn chairs in this neighborhood, or we were unknowingly staying at a B&B for singles.

Breakfast itself, in the grand tradition of bed & breakfast establishments, seemed to originate at the 7-Eleven store down the street. There were bagels and peanut butter and an enormous cooler of water to wash these down with. There was also something that looked like coffee, but since we didn't try it we couldn't be sure.

Buoyed by this hearty breakfast, we set off for a day of exploration, returning quite late and falling into our lumpy bed, which was just as tired as we were. The next morning we were awakened, at a very early hour, by the sound of voices conversing excitedly, and loudly, in Spanish. I strained to catch some words I might recognize, but the voices did not seem to be discussing either the numbers 1-10 or the command to "sit down," which represent my sole knowledge of Spanish. I remembered that some work was being done in some of the other rooms and concluded that they were getting an early start. For a terrifying instant, I wondered whether they were coming to work on our room, and would cheerfully tell us in Spanish that we did not need to move on their account, we could just "sit down."

I will say that the inn graciously allowed us to keep our luggage there after we had checked out, as our plane did not leave until later in the evening. And at no extra charge, either. Of course, we have not checked our Discover bill yet.