Another one of my panorama experiments. Two photos stitched together.
This is the view from the roof deck of my brother’s girlfriend’s apartment building, a four-story brownstone in the South End. Her parents own the building, actually, and she and my brother currently live on the top floor. They have been asking us for some time now to come in and spend the night. What they didn’t tell us was that the building is gorgeous, the roof deck is gorgeous and the view is spectacular.
This past weekend, we finally went in and stayed in the currently vacant first-floor unit (a two-story unit, actually, as the bedrooms and bathroom are on the main floor, and the kitchen and living room are on the basement level). The unit recently sold for a high six-figure sum, and was only going to be both vacant and furnished for just a few more days, so we figured it was time to pull the trigger.
Upon arrival, my brother, Wonder Woman and I had a beer while lounging on the roof deck. It was about 5:30 p.m., and the weather was spectacular: sunny, not a cloud in the sky, dry as a bone, light breeze, temperature in the mid-’70s, with a chance of scattered Coronas and limes. It was the first time I got to hang out on an honest-to-goodness residential Boston roof deck, and I was positively mesmerized by the discovery that there is a whole other world taking place atop the buildings in the city. There are plant-and-tree-strewn roof decks galore. It is like a secret society of the fortunate and privileged, and I felt like I was both of the above.
As if the free night away in a lovely, upscale apartment wasn’t good enough, the building is located just a block-and-a-half away from our favorite restaurant (Masa), which also happens to be our favorite tequila bar. Being able to walk home meant that there was no hesitation when, after having already consumed several tasty margaritas, Greg the bartender—whom we first met, like, six or seven years ago, and have seen semi-annually ever since—decided to pour us a round of complimentary tequila shooters (one shot glass of fresh-squeezed lime juice, one of top-shelf tequila, and one of some reddish concoction that turned out to by way more spicy than my sissy tastebuds were expecting).
Alas, we had to be up and out by 9 a.m. so that we could get home, relieve my mother, take Jayna to her swimming lesson, and Zan to his soccer game. Still, it’s amazing what 16 childless hours can do for a marriage. I highly recommend it.