Globe Corner Blogs

The day was Sunday, and my parents were on their way. They have visited me many times in Boston, but before there was always a school event already planned for us.  What was I to do this time?  Where would I take them?  The idea of going to the Museum of Dirt again popped into my head, but then I realized I needed an appointment.  This was my dilemma.  Whenever my parents come to Boston we have to go do something. Why, you might ask?  Because I live in a disgusting house with eight other people, and I know that they don’t even want to come in. This is why I need an event for them at all times when they come to visit.

The Boston Harbor Cruise was the event of the day.  I had never been, and neither had my family.  Since it was such a gorgeous day and we all enjoy boating, it seemed like the proper choice.  So off we went on this historic cruise: a cruise of islands, forts, sewage treatment plants, and abandoned buildings.

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I will admit that I do have a soft spot for picture books. Those are little museums for me: I love getting lost in images, the mesmerizing details, in “reading” face expressions, and in thinking through every story caught on camera. Yet at the same time I am incredibly picky when it actually comes to choosing a particular book and taking it home. So it goes — I only want to own those that will keep that grip on me for a long, long time. There aren’t very many of such books, but it only makes my hunt for those gems more exciting.

Now I think I am about to give in and get a new one. Reuter’s Our World Now caught my eye the very moment it appeared in the store, and I still can’t put it out of my mind. At first glance it’s just another world-in-a-year-of-pictures book, but do open it and see for yourself that it’s a real treasure! Every single shot, from oil-covered shores to fashion shows, from subway scenes to soccer matches snaps perfect. Politicians triumph over movie stars in displaying emotions and every single face of a war survivor makes you stop and start thinking…

Yet another wonderful book to get. And knowing that such things don’t last long on a shelf, I better go get myself a copy right now.

Here at The Globe Corner Bookstore, we like to think we know a little bit about world music. We know the beat of a Salsa versus that of a Tango, we know the whine of an Irish accordion from that of a Cajun one, we know a Buena Vista Social Club from a BigBadBoogaloo — we also know which one’s best to dance to around the bookcases on a slow night. And let’s just say we are quite familiar with the Putumayo ouvre. Sometimes I even wake up in the morning with a track off “Arabic Groove” running through my head.

If I’m not careful I forget that, in all likelihood, most people my age don’t listen solely to the traditional music native to their homes. I, for example, listen to more than just the OSU Marching Band’s rendition of “Hang on Sloopy.” This month’s issue of the music/film/culture magazine, Paste, features bands from all over the world. Whether they buck tradition or embrace it, they all rock — here’s a few of my favorites:

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In many of the northern cities I’ve lived in, such as Toronto, Chicago, and Boston, the arrival of warm weather brings a sort of delirium. More than just nicer temperatures, there is a feeling in the air of promise and excitement, mixed with relief and thankfulness. We squint, and recognize that bright yellow orb in the sky, from so many months ago. We are ready to sunbathe, anywhere and everywhere, for the next 90 days.
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While your ears may still be ringing from fireworks and your belly may still be full from binge-eating (and perhaps drinking) BBQs, Independence Day celebrations are yet to be finished! Yes, July 4th has passed. But July 13th is fast approaching. If you find yourself forgetting the significance of this date, you need not worry for two reasons:
1) This date celebrates the anniversary of Bastille Day, the French (yes, French) National Holiday which commemorates their own fight for independence.
2) Bastille Day is actually July 14th. However, remembering July 13th is most likely far more relevant to your life as it’s the date of the Bastille Day in Harvard Square day-to-night block party sponsored by the Harvard Square Business Association.

Heralded as the region’s largest Bastille Day celebration, the joyous day will include live music, a traditional waiters race (no, I’m not exactly sure what that entails…), activities for children, and a en-plein-air beer garden. So check out more details on the event’s official website, mark your calender for this Sunday, and stop by the store to enjoy a 15% discount on all France-related items! Quelle coincidence! All our books and maps of France will be on sale for the rest of July, so you can even catch the end of the Tour de France before you race in.

I have only had one “major” problem while traveling by myself. This happened way back in 1998, when I was working as a teacher in Romania. During my two week Easter vacation my sister and I went on a “sister-bonding” trip through Scandinavia. After dumping her off at the airport, I just wanted to get home and relax. Against my better judgment and multiple warnings from my surprisingly travel-savvy 5th graders to “NEVER EVER TAKE THE NIGHT TRAIN FROM BUDAPEST TO TIMISOARA!!!” I decided to go ahead and take the dreaded night train to Romania. The whole thing was a disaster. Once I got to the train station I was unable to buy a ticket for the “Romanian” portion of my trip, due to local bureaucratic peculiarities that were (and still are) baffling to me. I finally decided that I was going to take a chance and try to buy a ticket from the conductor once I crossed that border, and started to settle into my compartment. While stashing my luggage in the overhead compartment, I was suddenly relieved of my purse by a charming Hungarian petty thief. I channeled my inner Powerpuff Girl, chased the guy down, grabbed my purse back, screamed Romanian obscenities that made no sense whatsoever coming from a girl, momentarily incapacitated him, and made my way back down the corridor to a chorus of “bravos” from all of the Hungarian men that witnessed the event, but didn’t bother to help me. As I sunk into my seat, a large majority of these men surrounded me, pinched my cheeks, told me to be careful, asked why I wasn’t married, and persistently tried to sell me their watches.

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In less than two weeks the Boys of Summer will have reached the halfway point of the season. That’s right — you have only about 5,000 more games til the season is over. Or so it may seem to a (seriously un-American) non-enthusiast. But for the rest of us, especially those of us who grew up with and continue to root for one of the worst baseball clubs in the league, it is a time of renewed hope and enthusiasm: hope that we will not continue to mire in last place; enthusiasm at the outside chance of wearing our jerseys and hats well into September or even in the snow.

By now you may have guessed that, although living in Boston, I am actually a fan of the beleaguered Cleveland Indians, my hometown team. When I was young, before they took a wild whiff at greatness in the early 90s, my family and I often took a quick trip up to “The Big City” and bought tickets minutes before the game started.
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Okay, so some people blog about things of greater consequence — vacations or…beer — but unfortunately I lead a relatively boring life, so here are some of the places in Boston to get that ultimate cheap street food: the humble burrito. This is more for the newcomer or visitor to Boston than a resident, so I will not be listing any of the national chains (eat local folks). A further note, if you’re from the West Coast or elsewhere you may have the idea that Mexican food on the East Coast is terrible, which might or might not be true, you’re just going to have to deal either way. Also be warned, these are my picks, no one else’s.

1) El Pelon: El Pelon Taqueria, 92 Peterborough St. (between Jersey and Kilmarnock Sts.), in the Fenway is one of my all-time favorite burrito places outside of the West Coast or Southwest. Nothing is better on a summer afternoon than hitting up El Pelon before heading over to Fenway Park to watch the Sox. Lines can be long, especially on game days, but they move fast, and if you move faster you can snag a seat. Very good salsa and fresh ingredients. I’ve been told the fish tacos are very good, and they’re on my list for next time. Pelon has the added benefit of being significantly cheaper (and more filling) than anything comparable you’ll find inside the Park or on the nearby Yawkey Way, so you have more cash for beer and peanuts.

2) Anna’s Taqueria: Anna’s, at various locations throughout the city, is right behind Fenway Park on the list of places I consider my church.

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Most people who grow up in tourist hot spots will tell you that along with insider tips on the best seafood buffet (the Calabash joint on Kings Highway South), comes a general sense of superiority over the outsiders who flock to vacation in your hometown. You roll your eyes at all their pale, northern skin; you laugh at the Canadians from places with strange sounding names like Ontario and Quebec, who come down to sunbathe in February; you immediately look at a car’s license plate if it commits a traffic offense, knowing-even before you visually confirm- that the driver is one of them. A tourist. A rubbernecker. Often a Yankee.

So it is a little strange when I return to Myrtle Beach every year to visit my family. I have been away for about ten years, and I am no longer a local. The license tag on my car is not from South Carolina. I have lost my perennial tan. I own snow boots…

Myrtle Beach is a much bigger place now than when I grew up there, not the sleepy small town I remember. The New York Times recently named it one of their “31 Places to Go This Summer.” The city has torn down the oceanfront Pavillion where my grandparents would go on dates and have replaced it with Hard Rock Park, a rock ‘n roll theme park complete with a Led Zeppelin rollercoaster. Admission is fifty dollars, and it overlooks a strip mall and the highway. “How in the world (pronounced “whirled”) are families goan afford that?” asks my grandmother, a lifelong resident.

A lot has changed, but the actual beach, the original tourist attraction, has not. It is still just as beautiful- the sand still as soft and the ocean still as gray and vast. And that still feels like home.

The new destination for the month of July at the store is France (15% off all titles for France!). I always think that I am “over” France, but then something always comes along to remind me why I love it so much. I think that it is precisely all the cliches about France that I love the most. I love the Eiffel Tower, going on bateaux mouches, cafes, crepes, red wine, pain au chocolat and when people mock my “bizarre” accent when I massacre the French language. I lived in a microscopic village in Brittany for a year and now I sound like a strange American-French hillbilly with really outdated slang. I have even been told by professors that my French sounds like the equivalent of what would happen if you sent a Japanese student to the Deep South for a crash course of English. This did loads for my confidence, but in the end I have chosen to think that the way I can’t pronounce my “r” is endearing.

Which brings me to one of my favorite books that deals with being an American struggling with genders of nouns while living in rural France, Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris. He makes me laugh and not feel like a linguistic failure. He also makes me really wish that he sat next to me in one of my language classes. I have a feeling he would be the best dialogue partner ever!