randomscribbles

nightwalks around boston harbor and little italy in the north end. drowning in the smell of freshly baked warm cannolis and little colorful italian cookies and chocolates at the modern pastry, which had really been in that corner for more than seventy years despite of its name. discovering the secret cigar bar in the basement with its misleading, just-for-show, empty front room, where the back door led to several rooms surprisingly full of people puffing away their cubans and talking. a humidifier room for which people pay $5,000/year just so they could smoke their own cigars they kept in one of the little rows of humidor boxes across the walls. having armando brought you three shots of liqueur while in the background the old italian waiter danced away with the old woman who worked behind the counter. talking and laughing and getting excited about meaningless things over three cups of creamy cappucinos and three slices of tiramisu with a dear friend and a 54-year old harvard professor who got more energy and enthusiasm than many people half his age. trying to find our way to the hidden parking spot on beacon hill through uphill winding roads that almost broke my boots' heels. promising ourselves that we would definitely go back to the cigar bar next time and buy ourselves three big cubans.