Raising hell in Boston

I know I ought to be churning out blog posts about western Massachusetts, which is where I have spent the majority of August (for the record, I love it here, and I'm certain I'll be back). There is plenty I could be writing about: the things I'm learning, the people I've met, the respective experiences of travelling in the countryside and in the city, the reunions with old friends and the subsequent goodbyes. I could write about the week I spent weeding, hoeing, fruit picking and laying hay on an organic farm with my new friend Lilian and a pair of kittens. But what I really want to write about, friends, is my experience of touring Boston by segway.

Rebels.

It wasn't part of my plan to go on a segway tour. Nor was it part of my plan to go back to Boston, but I turned out to have a few days unaccounted for, and my friends Kate and Clare generously offered to host me at their apartment in the North End. When I arrived they listed a number of potential Boston activities I might like to partake in during my stay. They admitted slightly abashedly that they had long been wanting to go on a segway ride, and now they had the perfect excuse: an out-of-town visitor who ought to see the city. The out-of-town visitor did not take a great deal of persuading, and when her hosts offered to cover the cost as a birthday gift, she was, as the French say, partante.*

Generally I shun organised city tours because I resent paying the price of a kidney for whistlestop ride around monuments and buildings I'd rather just visit on my own. But a segway tour struck me as being altogether different. For one thing, it was to be a full two hours long. For another, IT INVOLVED RIDING A SEGWAY.

More conventional modes of transport allow the sightseer to retain a modicum of dignity, but such a small one that it is barely worth bothering about. Tour buses are filled with foolish-looking people pretending to be serious adults. The first rule of segway-riding, however, is that you must leave your dignity at home. You must throw yourself into the task with childish, unironic enthusiasm. You must embrace everything about the experience, from the complimentary 'Certified Glider' photo cards that mean precisely nothing, to the yellow plastic walkie-talkies that dangle attractively around your neck without transmitting any audible information, to the surprising but inescapable fact that you are on a segway, in public. You may tell yourself that those who stop and stare are merely admiring of your courage, or jealous of all the fun you are having, but it is preferable to admit early on that they are really doing so because you look ridiculous, and, when all is said and done, are ridiculous.

When the fateful hour arrived, we set off for the depot, kitted out in sensible closed-toed shoes and drawstring rucksacks (actually, that was just me). On arrival we were shown an instructional video in which an unfortunate stick person endures a series of near-fatal segway accidents. I will admit at this point to feeling a certain reluctance about proceeding to the next activity, which was to get on an actual segway. I do not need safety videos to remind me of the finite nature of existence or the fragility of the human condition, and I wasn't sure I wanted to add 'freak segway accident' to my ever-lengthening mental list of Ways I Could Potentially Die. Nevertheless, I followed my friends to the segway-mounting area, where a small but ovoid man instructed us to choose from a selection of flattering helmets. We met our fellow segway tourists (gliders), a trio of boisterous middle aged ladies named Janet, Mary and Olga, one of whom was wearing a T-shirt that said 'I LIKE SEX and the city'. After five minutes of instruction we were all pronounced qualified, and then we were on the road. Not the pavement, friends. The road.

We were told to stick together no matter what. If Jeff, our instructor, went through a red light, we were to follow him through it. If he rode out into the path of an oncoming vehicle, we were to follow him into it. It didn't take long for someone to ignore these directions. At our very first intersection, Olga took it upon herself to wait for an approaching car to pass instead of following Jeff across. I don't know what the collective noun for a group of segways is but I suspect it may be a swarm when in motion and a gaggle when stationary, and at this point, the distinction had become confused. Those ahead of Olga swarmed away, oblivious, while the rest of us gaggled nervously behind her, feeling unpleasantly vulnerable without Jeff, who was dashing about trying to round us all up. It is infinitely preferable when the same collective noun applies to everyone.

'But there was a car coming!' Olga protested, when we were reunited.

'Cars stop for segways,' replied Jeff, and I am happy to report that he seems to be correct. The compassionate driver is no more likely to mow down a swarm of segways than he is a family of ducks. It's a good thing I discovered this before we crossed the two most perilous intersections of the ride, which Jeff, as he cheerfully informed us, likes to call 'Frogger Level One' and 'Frogger Level Two'.** A total of eight lanes meet at Frogger Level Two. I have to admire Jeff, who leads parties of inept gliders across this deathtrap on a daily basis. His ability to remain calm throughout the process will forever be a mystery to me.

What with all these potential hazards, coupled with the need to actually control the thing, segway-riding takes a lot of concentration. For that reason, it isn't the best idea if your purpose is to actually see the city, because you generally have more pressing concerns than admiring the view. Ask me which parts of Boston I went through, and I can barely remember; I was too busy trying not to mow anyone down. But I don't think anyone really goes on a segway because they want to see the scenery. They go on a segway because they want to go on a segway. You may tell me you don't harbour a secret desire to do the same, but I can't promise to believe you.


*Game, ready.
**Apparently Frogger is a game in which the player must direct a frog to cross the road without getting splattered. But maybe you knew that.

Everything I know about Henry

Henry is a small dog of indeterminate breed residing in Conway, Massachusetts. Here he is, indulging in one of his preferred pastimes:

Henry is mostly terrier, and this may be why he is sometimes driven to bark furiously at passing cyclists, other dogs, and tall, unknown men. But for the most part he has a gentle, friendly demeanour, and demonstrates his affection for his human companions by sleeping on their beds, climbing into their laps, offering them his paw, and occasionally chewing their socks.

Henry has long, thick locks, particularly around his rear end, which is capped by a cascade of grey and white tail. His legs are similarly hirsute, although the voluminous hair that covers them shrinks significantly when wet. If his daily walk takes him past a river, Henry may feel inclined to paddle a little, which reveals the fragile skeleton beneath the fur and gives him the appearance of wearing pantaloons. The hair on his stomach is also plentiful, and is useful for warming one's hands on if it turns chilly. But the crown jewel of Henry's coat is the hair on his head, which invariably looks handsome whether it is brushed backwards, forwards, upwards, outwards, sideways, or simply parted down the middle. Henry endures human attempts to style his forelock with patience and stoicism.

For the benefit of his health, Henry is taken out for a constitutional twice daily. Since he lives at a (non-metaphorical) crossroads, the options for this are many. He can be taken up the hill into the woods, down the hill to the cemetery or the river, or towards the town centre and over a covered wooden bridge. Each route is equally picturesque and equally aromatic, although all the years he has spent in Conway have left Henry a little blase about the visual and olfactory scenery. Sometimes he puts his foot down and says outright that he doesn't want to go, and may express his desire to turn back shortly after setting out. But on other occasions he quite enjoys himself and declares, when it is time to go home, that he would much rather carry on walking. It all depends on the mood he is in. He is approaching middle age and knows his own mind.

The main purpose of these outings is to give Henry the opportunity to perform his daily necessaries. He does not have access to a W.C. so it is important he use the time wisely. On a good day he will perform enthusiastically in full view of the assembled company, who may feel called upon to make observations about the colour and consistency of what he has produced. Fortunately Henry is very open about these things and does not consider such comments an affront to his dignity. On other days he is less enthusiastic about the task, but since a failure to perform inevitably results in the walk being extended or repeated, I suspect his reluctance may, at least in some instances, be feigned.

Chief among Henry's talents is his ability to elicit sympathy from his human companions, even in circumstances where no sympathy is due. For example, if he should appear disgruntled at being denied doughnuts, ice cream or Chinese food, someone will always say 'oh, poor Henry', even though a luckier, more comfortably situated dog has never been known to exist. Then he may be picked up or have his ears petted, or given some kind of canine delicacy from a special drawer, or simply have sweet nothings recited to him in a voice reserved especially for the purpose. If Henry's feelings are injured, his companions are always anxious to comfort him by whatever means are available to them.

It is all because there is something beguiling about Henry. It is to do with the way he uses his eyes and ears to articulate his thoughts, and with the shape and size of his head, which fits perfectly into a cupped hand, and it may also have a little to do with the dainty row of teeth visible beneath his snout. It is largely due to these charms that an encounter with Henry inspires instant love and devotion.

From a distance, Henry appears to be a dog much like any other. But once one gets to know him a little better, one realises that he is not simply a dog, but a canine person.

That is why you don't forget Henry, once you have met him.