Back from the Dead and an Interesting Cab Ride

So, as I reached the base of the Tower at the Mt. Auburn Cemetery, I began to wonder how I would ever walk all the way back to the entrance gate, because the temperature was becoming increasingly warm and I was feeling awfully overheated. Much to my surprise and delight, at that very moment, a truck pulled up right in front of me, and in it was a man I shall forever call the “Cemetery Sheriff.” In reality, I think he was in charge of security or maintenance or something. I am not a shy traveler, and after he inquired as to whether all was well, I asked if he would mind driving me back to the main gate after I took a quick look around from the Tower. He readily agreed to help me out. So I scrambled to the top, took the quick photo you saw posted in my last entry, and then hurried down to the truck.

The man and I had a most interesting conversation during our short ride together. Turns out, they had just announced that the Michael Jackson jury had reached a verdict, and he was eagerly awaiting the news. We each opined on what the 7-day deliberation period could mean (I guessed, “not guilty”), and he was proud to have predicted the deliberation period accurately. He then shared the tale of his own prior jury service, which surprised me mainly because although it occurred years ago, the man remembered the facts of the case (a real estate fraud scheme) in extraordinary detail. Our visit was pleasant and he kindly dropped me off near the water fountain, when I assume he then resumed his wait for the verdict.

I easily caught a bus back to the Harvard campus and was amused during the trip to see that our driver knew everyone on the route! Thinking of nothing other than replenishing my energy level, I headed directly for the Starbucks that was just off Harvard Square. I realize that this flies in the face of my “no chain food/drink establishments” mantra, but (a) I am addicted to their coffee; and (b) despite being a chain, Starbucks somehow manages to soak up the spirit of its surroundings, and this one was no different. I sank into a nice leather chair near tall windows overlooking the street (this Starbucks is inside the “Garage”, an above-street level group of shops), sipped my tall cup of ice water (interspersed with sips of latte), listened to my Ipod and tucked into the book I’ve been reading, which is called, “Be Happy at Work: 100 Women Who Love Their Jobs, and Why.”

My restful time posing as a student was cut short by a power outage that required the premature closing of the Starbucks. So I returned to Harvard Square and lounged on the grass for a while, apparently looking friendly, as I was called into service to photograph a tourist with her own camera. From my perch beneath a tree, I saw an Oliver from Love Story look-a-like (meaning he matched my mental image) . . . how beautiful was he! And he paced about so moodily . . . it was wonderful.

I felt too mussed from my hiking afternoon in the heat to investigate the Cambridge hot spots, so I procured dinner from an old Harvard stand-by--Beckley’s. Much to my amusement, the burger I selected, with my beloved blue cheese as an accent, was called “the Viagra.” I’m not sure why, but probably that is for the best. While waiting for the burger to be prepared, I checked out the fabulous Harvard Book Store. It is an excellent place and I could have stayed there for hours.

But alas, I had a burger to retrieve. I took just a short hike to the cab stand and caught a ride back to my hotel. The driver seemed sullen at first, perhaps disappointed that I wasn’t in need of a longer ride. He reminded me of the handsome Italian guy from the movie “The Station Agent” (Bobby Cannavale?). At first, I was sure the grumpy driver was intentionally driving in such as way as to throw my camera bag to the floorboards. His cab radio started squawking . . . with a new dispatcher starting a shift. But what’s this? The dispatcher began to regale us with an incessant whine about the future of the cab business and how it will be over if guys don’t start responding to his calls. This went on for a few minutes, with me growing increasingly uncomfortable with/incredulous at what I was hearing. Still, the cab was total silence, other than the sound of the griping dispatcher. All of a sudden, the driver tried to sneak a look at me, apparently to see if I was listening to/hearing his dispatcher’s diatribe. I caught his eye, and he saw that I was listening with interest; we then both burst out laughing, which totally changes the vibe in the car to that of people who have bonded in a difficult situation. He started telling me all about the guy, who is the owner of the cab company . . . the dispatcher sounds like a modern-day Louie DePalma (Danny DeVito) from “Taxi,” complete with a glass window between him and the drivers, and the mean-spirited approach to go with it. The dispatcher droned on and on, sounding like a whiny baby in the body of a man. My driver made me laugh because he bragged about how he is the only one who stands up to the owner, then when he called the dispatcher to announce his location, he spoke like a quiet, respectful kid. I hid my amusement and the driver and I chatted all the way to my hotel, interrupted only by his proclamations regarding the greatness of Pink Floyd (an upcoming concert was announced on the radio). What a classic experience.

More later on Day Four!