It was like every other Marathon Monday. Living in Boston, it’s a BIG day. If you don’t have it off from work, you take it off months in advance. You have friends who might be running, the Red Sox are playing at Fenway, the streets are lined with people, the bars and restaurants open their patios, it’s Spring time, it’s warm, it’s one of the best days to live in Boston.
My girlfriends and I started the day just as we had for the past few years. We woke up early, put our favorite Sox shirts on, drank some mimosas, and headed to the T to ride to Fenway. This year we stopped at Cask n’ Flagon, a Fenway landmark, for some lunch and drinks. We people watched, planned out the rest of our day, and basked in the sun knowing such an iconic event was going on and we were there for it.
We even ended up scoring tickets into the game this year. And not just any tickets, Green Monster tickets! It was bittersweet for me. I was moving back to Connecticut in less than a month and knew this would be my last Marathon Monday as a Boston resident. I took it all in, and felt so grateful to have lived in such an awesome, exciting, and proud city.
After the game (or maybe a few innings before the end, don’t judge) we headed out on to Landsdowne Street. Before heading down to Comm Ave to watch the runners, we stopped at another bar. We squeezed our way in to the shoulder to shoulder bar, we ordered a drink, and we even danced. That’s the thing about Marathon Monday. You have people running 26.2 miles accomplishing a lifetime goal, you have families singing Sweet Caroline on the bleachers in Fenway, and you have girls in their twenties on the dance floor at Landsdowne enjoying being in their twenties living in one of the best cities in the world.
I bumped into an old friend who I hadn’t seen in a while. She had a terrified look at her face and all she could say was “Did you hear what happened?” Something about a “car bomb.” Slowly, and then quickly, people started emptying out of the bar. Everyone was looking at their phones, trying to get service, asking each other “what happened?”
The Primal Yogi 