Freedom, I write your name…

I board on the train and I instantly fall asleep as I go further East. My night is going along Great Lakes reflected in the dark and the dawn. Thus, I awake in Lake Erie’s blue, it is incredibly quick but awfully beautiful in the morning light. Lake Ontario is further, unreachable; then I start to undress winter trees since only stripped forests run after me now. I utterly understand still winter life idea now. Is American winter harder or am I only more observant here? Colors have sadly fade away and this train journey is unfortunately less admirable than what people praised.
Until I reach the sparkling light winding throughout New York State and enlightening me in the process. A new autumnal color is born, it goldens naked trees and makes me forget nature’s lifeblood is asleep. Leaves on the ground draw a new landscape in colors of the wind.
After I have crossed Indiana and Ohio; after a quick encounter with Pennsylvania; I go from New York State to Massachusetts, ancient New England that, for a surprising reason totally matches my idea of New England. In some places, I could almost gaze at some Scottish castles’ ruins.

I reach Boston in a dark night, a bit windy, still milder than my departure from Chicago. The town is so quiet compared to Midwest’s permanent noise, the town is so clean compared to Chicago’s mess. Boston lands softly on its public garden shores, hurrying up my explorations, longing for our encounter. It is very British. Very 18th century Europe.

Awaiting for my Boston nights’ hosts, « Cheers » bar – Hannah’s favorite – is comforting my short hours, random neighbor of my sleep.

The next day, a thin layer of wet snow waits for me on the typically English red-bricked side walk. Following each of my steps, rain is slightly falling, rain is falling like cats and dogs. I therefore lingers inside, time for clouds to not be sad anymore, in order to start the Freedom Trail. From historic places to revolutionary buildings, I am being taught how America began. The idea of the Nation not the continental drift of course, since Boston was the starting point of Independence War. I follow the red line on the ground in this open air museum, with, of course, no shelter. I sink into those words like a music. Boston Tea Party. Horrific Acts. Stamp taxes. Bunker Hill Battle. etc. etc*. In this beginning of pilgrimage, I realize there is no mention of the pre-history, of previous native populations living here. I have definitely left Western America.

But already Freedom must be patient, Art is longing for me. I therefore meet Christine, an English lady who fancies some French words; she travels me throughout some extravagant streets in Back Bay. And she leads me to the museum of Fine Art where we have lunch around a glass of wine like classy Parisians.
Then, it is time to get stunned. Or not. We walk the different artistic current alleys reversing history and I get some sparkles in the 19th century room, I can tell when Niagara Falls became muses of some artists. I am waiting for my slap in the heart but it never comes. I have troubles getting lost in paints when someone, no matter who, is with me; I need solitude to understand a masterpiece’s tours and detours. To be endlessly moved or fleetingly move myself. Then, my body is getting tired, my body as well… Christine wants to share Harvard with me and I go, absolutely curious of this mythical place, totally oblivious of history. This is where our paths part, thankful of such a beautiful day together, promising some new encounters maybe one day.

I walk back to Downtown, in the wet night, happy and light, clouds finally dried up. I have a stop in Haymarket district, looking for a true Boston Irish pub… The Green Dragon, on the corner of this very touristy part of the city, is my haven, even it is not really Irish. The beer is good, conversations are surprising and the night quite nice in the end. And far from being over…! Since back at my student hosts’ place, a long talk about artists’ responsibilities in the world keeps us busy and drifts to what changes and transforms you. Very interesting conversations that lead me to my longed bed so so late.

And my last day finally rises, even rainier than yesterday. You don’t really feel like going out, you need time to go from the warm comfort of the inside to the weather listlessness. I nonetheless cheerfully meet back the Freedom Trail, exactly where I left yesterday. I first learn there is another trail, dedicated to Black History, on Beacon Hill; I think I will give a chance to its detour later on the day.
The rain gets absolutely insane as I am exploring Little Italy uptown. It sounds like Mediterranean lands suddenly, it even smells like Italy. The cold flood tells me I am wrong though… Indeed, the Freedom Trail not only travels you through time, it also brings you to some other place in the world.
Then, I cross the river, hoping to find some Tee Party leaves on Charlestown quays, but here you praise the Bunker Hill deaths. I walk war time and I think about unfair memories.

Soldiers of the other side, English soldiers in other terms, died without their name on a monument. What an injustice! Because nobody in England would build a wall praising the ones against American Independence, and the New Nation is too busy applauding his Revolution heroes. Thus, all this poor man, forced to join the army for the most, by weapons or starvation, are forgotten. But everybody remembers generals, even opponent… What an injustice! Why? Because they had a title, a rank? If the World truly wanted to be as peaceful as it claims to be, all veterans’ names would be written somewhere. Friends or Enemies. White or Black. Green or Red. So, we only remember how stupid any war is, how lethal any fight becomes. All those man on the wrong side of history have already sacrificed too much: their lives; wouldn’t we save them from oblivion? Why do we do that? Because it should be more honorable to die for your country than for your family? Because the rule of many is supposedly stronger?
In most cases, soldiers didn’t have a lot of choices, they had to fight (and die most of the time!). And if the cause isn’t fair according to History, they are forgotten when executioners are remembered. Why? Shouldn’t they be the crucified, shouldn’t their name be the buried ones? What an injustice! Instead of talking again and again about Eichmann or Goebbels, couldn’t we talk about soldiers forced to join the Weirmart and/or the SS – there are more of them than we think – whose names were forgotten because you would have to be crazy to build something praising WWII German soldiers!
My mind is going too far and I deeply question oblivion and who tells history. My mind is going further and I am mesmerized by the unknown citizen who made history as well but was not remembered because there are too many deaths left being any war.

The rain never stops, I take shelter in the Museum where a Ranger from this National Park of another kind shares Boston’s origins. New England actually is one of the first American colonies with Virginia, except colons were more organized in Massachusetts, they arrived with a more precise goal. This is why this land soon became of refuge for Puritans, fleeing away from both politic and religious corruption; despite their name, they could be very progressive in some ways, they were part of the first Sons of Liberty. The Ranger also tells me his own version of Boston. According to him, the city has a cultural particularity since no matter the population’s first origin, they all want to be part of a bigger whole. Except for the starving Irish during the Great Famine. He explains to me a lot of Québécois moved here after they were French defeated during the Seven Years War, because they needed jobs and Boston was an industrial place.

This free trail ends at the US Constitution Museum, an old ship stands and I don’t understand why it is related to Revolution. I visit the boat’s cargo hold and enjoy my ride in the water taxi, generously and freely provided for my own cross, in order to reach the true Tea Party quays. I knew Charlestwown was way too far.

All of a sudden, the wind arises like an endless storm. Clouds are running in the sky, they don’t have time to cry anymore. The wind is pushing me in Ireland’s arms. Or close. I wander in South Boston, looking for a sign, for a memory, gone for long. If Charlestown was the Great Famine’s haven; here is the 20th century Irish district. Everyone left towards suburbs though and there is nothing left of them. Not a pub. Not a word. Only a small Catholic Church with an iron gate.

My day ends in a coffee shop down Beacon Hill because the library is already closed. Back to the urban hill without going up, without knowing more about slavery, I choose another history around a hot chocolate: colorful mine on the screen, the one linking me to those I love. The wet cold has killed both my painful feet and my resilient soul!

When I awake for my departure, it is such a sunny day! God is really laughing at me! Thus, the crazy wind was meant for something. Thus, the violent storm has created sun beams as I am leaving?
I won’t complain about heaven’s whim though, because it opens my imagination. This weirdly Irish weather – except for its impossible and happy mood swings – reveal me Molly’s destiny, one of my future novel characters. Starting in Boston, I day dream even more of my intertwined written fates, those I will unroll when I go back home.

I think those two days were the busiest I had since the end of my road trip. It rained like hell, it softly rained but the wet air healed my TB. Denver has such a dry weather, Chicago blows such a frozen wind, those two cities badly dried my lungs; I was starting to fear before Boston mild and wet atmosphere brought me back on my two feet.
I therefore leave healed, with a warm goodbye for my two apprentice artists, Daley and Austin, sweet, kind and generous enough to host me. I take the bus towards Philly this time, trying to understand how Boston moved me, why it almost left me indifferent. Glad to learn a piece of American history, the town’s streets were not enough fleshy, they missed daily life. It is not a place where I pictured I could live, I didn’t recognize Boston I heard about in movies. Maybe didn’t I go to the right places? Despite all that and thankfully, I met there some beautiful souls, making it a bit more real and human! They are the ones who make the mood of the place, Boston is not defined by the red string running throughout its streets, it is contained in its inhabitants’ heart and the way they share it with you…

In the end, Boston is way more than Freedom counted with my steps in a town which looks like England.