Borders Books is closing its downtown Boston branch (where I've done almost all my Christmas shopping over the past decade), which means more debate over why a growing, prosperous city has such a crummy central shopping district. The Filene's Pit debacle is one reason, of course, but there must be ways to improve the neighborhood around that giant hole on Washington Street, just as Boston should be able to fix up the Government Center area instead of being distracted by the unlikely prospect of tearing down City Hall. (Both places were in my "10 Worst Things About Boston" post.)
Tuesday's Boston Herald has some suggestions from its business writers for turning things around. But I can't imagine a casino being a good thng, despite Frank Quaratiello's argument that it would bring "foot traffic" and fill in storefronts. Don't gambling establishments offer cheap food and drink and do all they can to stop people from leaving? Are people really going to play the slots and then drop $80 for a meal at BIna Osteria or Petit Robert?
Besides, a lack of foot traffic isn't really the problem. There are plenty of pedestrians at all hours of the day, thanks in part to all the workers in the area. Nighttime is a different story, and other Herald writers are correct to urge more housing and round-the-clock activities, though I think the city has already been aiming for that.
My suggestion is cut back on the glitz (which is proliferating nicely in other parts of the city) and turn Downtown Crossing into an historic district.
This post is part of a countdown series on songs that have stuck in my head and are part of my iTunes "hit parade" of most-played tracks. See all the posts here.
There are a lot of trains mentioned in my most-played songs, so I'll probably write more about them later. I like trains; songwriters love them.
"Freight Train," by folk singer Elizabeth Cotten is short and sweet, as opposed to the many epic songs about railroads, but it hits on several recurring themes in train tunes. There's the idea of an escape from an oppressive or boring life ("Please don't tell what train I'm on/They won't know what route I've gone"). One could escape from one's hometown in a car or on a plane, but those modes of transport imply too much deliberation and control over one's fate. Jumping on a train has an air of impulsiveness and a sense of leaving one's fate to a higher power. Often in these songs, the protagonist isn't sure where he or she will end up, or even where the train is headed. ("Midnight Train to Georgia" is kind of an exception, but the singer isn't the one taking off.)
Trains are often a metaphor for death, thanks to their linear nature. They move in one direction, always toward the end of the line. Cotten mentions her own mortality, echoing the "don't tell" line from the beginning of the song: "When I am dead and in my grave/No more good times here I crave/Place the stones at my head and feet/Tell them all that I've gone to sleep."
Finally there's the sound of a train as a symbol of life, a reassurance that the world is continuing to turn (on schedule) no matter what happens to one's own existence, and that how "Freight Train" ends: "When I die, Lord, bury me deep/Way down on Old Chestnut Street/Then I can hear old Number 9/As she comes rollling by."
Here is a video of Cotten playing the song (with a little help from Pete Seeger) that's very close to the recording I listen to.
I wasn't necessarily going to link to this essay on elevators, but last night I kept dreaming about them, so it must have hit a nerve. Krystal D'Costa provides a nice mix of psychology and physics in her short piece for the Scientific American. She describes one of the terrors of riding in a high-rise:
There’s always at least one. There I am at work, waiting — a bit groggily — with a group of people to board the elevator. The car finally arrives and we shuffle in, arranging ourselves Tetris-style and shifting accordingly as the elevator stops - on what seems like every floor - to let people off. After about the third stop someone will invariably pipe up from the back of the car: “Must be the local.” Most mornings the worn joke will be met with a murmured acknowledgment and calculated silence. In New York City, on an elevator packed with strangers the norm is silence. Though cell phone talkers are increasingly invading this space, for the most part polite, short acknowledgment is acceptable (if given at all) and companionable silence is preferable. But every now and again, someone will cheerily take the bait (“Haha! Yup, tell me about it. Local all the way!”) and strike up a conversation. It upsets the dynamic of the elevator ride, making the rest of us feel like interlopers.
D'Costa does not get into the scourge of healthy-looking people taking the elevator for one or two floors. In my apartment building, I sometimes see people taking the elevator from the second to first floor to go to the exercise room. (I can understand taking it back up one floor, if an exercise bike has turned your legs to jelly.)
I love "only in Montreal, never in Boston" stories, and the Mirror has a cheeky item about a movie theater in the Plateau built in 1914 that is still going strong, thanks to a dedicated clientele of porn viewers. Originally called Le Globe (as in Shakespeare's theater), it's now known as Cinema L'Amour. (And it does seem to have a splendid little auditorium, regardless of what's on the screen.)
Mirror writer Matthew Hays explains one way that the cinema has gotten a boost:
[Owner Steve] Koltai says Cinema l’Amour has picked up business in recent years, with
the advent of swingers clubs. “Couples come here to check out the
movies and other couples before they head to the swingers’ clubs. It’s
understandable that things begin here, or that people might be inspired
that way. I mean, everything’s geared to intimacy. It’s impossible to
come and not get turned on by the movies. I should really be renting
rooms as well.”
See? Some quaint urban customs can survive the Internet!
On the other hand, Boston is no slouch when it comes to re-purposing movie palaces. On Washington Street, you can eat a chicken foot while enjoying murals and chandeliers from the golden age of Hollywood.
Write to me at robertdavidsullivan at gmail dot com.
