It’s the height of tourist season in Boston, and the streets are crowded with comfortably-dressed and sensibly-shod sightseers, every last one of them toting a camera with which to digitally preserve the thrills, the excitement, the experience… of Boston!
“Excuse us, can you take our picture?” asks a burly man in a T-shirt and jean shorts, motioning to a thick-backed woman fussing over a baby carriage while two sub-10 year old boys swing around their gangly limbs nearby.
“Of course,” I say, taking the proffered bulky camera. Picture-taking has recently supplanted direction-giving as my #1 Random Tourist Demand, with “Do you know where any Red Sox players live” being a distant #3.
We happen to be standing in front of the Boston Federal Reserve, a very distinctive, immense 33-story building. “Do you want the building in the picture?” I ask, as the family huddles together, the father barking at his sons to stand still.
“Sure,” the father calls, and I step backward to get the Federal Reserve as a backdrop. The parents smile widely while the two boys stare grimly and the toddler in the carriage begins to cry. Snap.
“I think that looks good,” I say as I walk over to hand back the camera.
“Thanks,” he says. His wife tends to the child while the two boys, evidently annoyed by being immobile for ten seconds, begin hitting each other. I’m about to walk away when he asks, “Say, what building is this?”
“That’s the Boston branch of the Federal Reserve,” I say, injecting a hint of mock-reverance in my voice.
“Oh, wow” he says. “They’re the guys who manage the oil, right?”
I pretend not to hear, smile, half-wave, walk away.
