No Wonder Italians are Known for Yelling
I got together with an old high school friend last night for dinner. Actually, she and I had even dated back when we were 18 years old. Anyway, after months of scheduling issues we finally were able to meet. We agreed that Park Street station was a good central location. I saw her coming around the fountain and she looked identical to her teenage self. Well, her hair was longer, but nothing else had changed. It was refreshing to see!
We walked to the North End and stopped off at my place to chat before heading out for dinner. She wanted to look at photo albums so I pulled out this little box of photos in my living room and we went through it. One of the last photos we pulled out was one of me and her preparing to go to Manray back in 1996. In it, we were both dressed in black, hugging…and I was grabbing her boob*. Then it dawned on me that this photo was taken just hours before she met her husband.
Because after this photo was taken, we went to Manray and she started dancing with this fellow all night long and he ultimately became her husband (married 9 years and counting). We pulled the photo out of my little album box and brought it to CVS so she could have a copy. I’m not so sure he’ll be too keen on my presence in the photo molesting her breast, but he might like to have a photo of his future bride on the day they met.
We then decided to eat on Hanover Street. We had a seat by the window and one of the bands parading through the neighborhood for the Feast stopped right outside and performed the entire time we sat there. We could barely hear each other over the music. When we were done, we walked around the neighborhood and it seems the bands were performing at every corner we took. They were inescapable – making conversation quite difficult and making us yell our sentences to each other.
When all was said and done, I walked her to Haymarket subway station and came home…where I was able to listen to baby-boomers crooning “Unchained Melody” and other oldies on the stage set up around the corner from my home. This went on until about 11PM…and was also punctuated in the middle by a fireworks display that caused my apartment to wreak of gun powder for hours.
Still, I love the feasts. I don’t understand them (statues with dollar bills, marching bands coming down my dead-end “court” to perform for the residents) but I still enjoy them.
*We also discovered two other photos where I was grabbing my friend’s boobs. I’m not sure what’s up with that – being gay and all.
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!! the story about the picture being taken just before she met her future husband is so sweet !! a turning point moment in her life captured before her future unfolded (with your hand on her breast). gotta love that!
i also dare to think that there are a few more gay men out there who will admit to the love for the female breast, me included. i am a tit-man. even in my gay incarnation im still a breast man LOLOL!
Are you saying you like man-boobs? Like this one: http://thesuperficial.com/2006/08/val_kilmer_might_be_pregnant.html
Ooooh, Lise, not pretty. Not pretty AT ALL.
Yeah, Karl, we Italians give good Feast!