Benny in Boston

Zoogle, it seems, is something of a skirt-chaser. At check-in he chats up a trio of flugelmarms, a droopy collection of forty-something gate ladies decked out faux-attractive, per industry standards, headscarves, droopy blouses, lipstick that could double as traffic control. "Leave the kid, drop the bags," they tell us, "we'll take care of everything." We smile our excuses, beat a hasty retreat to security, sigh in relief as we drop into our seats. But halfway to Boston Benny strikes again, weaving his lovenets around a thirty year old flaxen haired stewardess in heavy warpaint. "You are so fortunate" she exclaims, and though we agree, we have a hard time understanding why that luck should translate into one blue-slacked airservice professional imitating a red-tufted warbler everytime she happens to pass our aisle. "Hey, baby, want to come back to the hotel with me tonight?" she laughs. Oh yeah, baby, oh yeah. An hour later we beat another hasty retreat through another security, stuff little Casanova beneath our coats and hightail it for the monastery.

Actually, there are two monasteries in the plans. The first is a condominium owned by our friends Scott and Alison, two of the most brilliant, kind, always-game kind of people we know, who in spite of being knee deep in tenure track jobs at Tufts and MIT, respectively, have agree to put us up for a couple of nights and even babysit Benny, should the occasion arise. The second is a groovy Bohemian dive owned by our friends Kelly and Weston, equally brilliant, kind, and game, and who have not only agreed to put us up for two nights, but have sacrificed their bed in the process. Moving from one place to the other other creates certain logistical difficulties, but Catalina and I agree that it's better to deal with the hassle of moving than risk testing our friendship on four straight nights of wailing baby.

Technically, Catalina made the trip so she could enlighten some congress of literary luminaries on the latest creations of her lurid imagination, while I made the trip to change diapers. Perhaps Scott intuited that Conference Husband was not my favorite role, for he kindly extended an invitation to speak at the Tufts mathematics colloquium once he knew I was going to be in town, a charge that I, with my fragile ego, eagerly accepted, as I would have accepted any task that held forth the promise of disguising my true one. As it turns out, however, our various holdings forth, while satisfying, represented a relatively minor portion of our energies: we reconnected with old friends, ate at Punjabi Daba, broke Chinese lobster, molded modernista action figures, and reminded ourselves how nice it was to live in an ethnically diverse and culturally sophisticated city.

Benny was a hit, of course, ogled and coddled into a farthewell. He was so charming, in fact, that Catalina thinks he may have duped various (unnamed) cronies into believing that having kids is not such a catastrophe after all, and that maybe they should give it a whirl. Which would be perfectly lovely, of course (no one wants to be only couple in the crowd who can't stay out after 8) but which sweeps under the rug some of the thornier aspects of the process (the nuits blanches, the worry, the expense, etc.) Maybe we should warn these guys about Benny the Heart Breaker before they fall for his wiles and do something rash?