"The Best Kept Secret in Beantown"

As much as I love shopping at Whole Foods, it's a pretty expensive habit. I don't even want to tell you how many times I go in there a week. Somehow, even when I don't particularly need anything, I find myself stopping in "for just a few things" on my way home at night. Or, I'll go in to grab a yogurt or a Larabar when I don't have anything on hand for breakfast before work. I try to forget that I'm paying excessively inflated prices for products that come from humanely raised animals or items that don't use artificial sweeteners, but my bank account certainly doesn't. Simply put, I keep going back because the place has a great atmosphere--I just feel healthier as I browse the aisles full of organic items. A year ago, I never would have tried soy ice cream. These days, I find it hard not to buy a pint every time I'm in the store. Seriously, you should try it--it's delicious! Best of all is sample day, which occurs every Saturday afternoon at 4pm. When you're in there often enough, as I am, you figure out this sort of thing. I like to take my time as I do my shopping, and here and there I'll enjoy a few bites of things I can't afford, like scallops and almond butter for $13 a jar (Not together! What an unappetizing combination that would be. Last weekend I enjoyed my scallop in a soy glaze and my almond butter with an organic Fuji apple slice).

This brings me to my point. Everyone knows about Whole Foods--you don't need me to tell you about it. What I can tell you about, however, is the best kept secret in Beantown. It is not, contrary to the opinion of The Honest Bro, this blog (though if that isn't a coveted title, I don't know what is). What IS the best kept secret, in my opinion, is Haymarket. OK, maybe it's not the best kept secret, but I've been looking for a way to work Haymarket into my blog for a while now. Every Friday and Saturday, vendors at this open air market cram their little booths with all sorts of (non-organic) produce into an environment that is suspiciously reminiscent of a third world country. Actually, I haven't ever been to a third world country, so maybe I'm being unfairly judgemental. Sure, the whole place is crowded and dirty. Sure, someone is likely to step on your feet and chastise you for being in their way in Spanish. Sure, some of the vendors will yell at you if you try to select your own produce. What's not to love about this place?

I've found that as long as you navigate Haymarket properly, it is totally worth the dismal shopping experience. First of all, it is key to go either very early or very late to avoid the heaviest crowds. I'd say the general vicinity should be off limits around noon on a Saturday. If you go early, you get the first pick of fruits and vegetables. If you go late, you get better deals, since they just want to sell everything before it goes bad. Either way, you can get enough food to feed a small army. There are also some vendors that sell meats, fish, cheese, breads, and spices, but I haven't tried those, so I will focus on the produce portion of the market. Also, the raw fish doesn't look that appealing to be honest, and I'd be worried about getting food poisoning since it is sitting out all day.


One of the main guidelines I have for shopping at Haymarket is that you should always buy from vendors that let you choose your produce. If not, they will typically display the ripest fruit in front, and then have a box in the back full of bruised or otherwise undesirable produce that they will use for their customers. If you try to take from the display, prepare to be cursed at by the vendor. I wasn't kidding when I said it wasn't a friendly place to shop. Second, it is wise to walk past all the booths once before buying anything, since chances are, the vendor two spots down is selling 4 apples for a dollar, while the place you are considering now is only selling 2 for the same price. Even though it is so cheap, I always feel kind of stupid when I could have paid half price if I had just walked ten more steps. Those extra quarters always come in handy at the laundromat, especially because the machine that converts dollar bills at the place I go to has been out of order recently, and the convenience store across the street refuses to make change. But I digress. Speaking of money though, it is a good idea to check your change at Haymarket, since the vendors aren't always so great at basic math. I have a few vendors that I go back to every week, where I know I'm getting a good deal. This one guy will give me six sweet potatoes for a dollar. That's huge! In general, I can get everything I need for the week for only $6 or so. That will buy me 8 apples, 6 bananas, 6 sweet potatoes, a couple heads of lettuce, 3 or 4 tomatoes, and a quart of strawberries. At Whole Foods, you can expect to pay at least $30 for all of that--probably more. Haymarket is even open in the winter. They put up tarps over the stands and add space heaters to make the cold a little more bearable. Fewer people go, so the crowds aren't as bad. Honestly, it's amazing! If you haven't been there yet, you're really missing out. I would advise that you make a trip this weekend. While I will always enjoy shopping at Whole Foods, I wouldn't miss my weekly trip to Haymarket.

What Not to Say

Last weekend, I took an impromptu trip home to visit my parents. It was very productive: I filed my taxes, did my laundry, and visited my grandmother. The only difficult part was finding a bus ride back to Boston. I have gotten in the habit of taking the Bolt Bus, because it conveniently drops me off at Penn Station in New York City. The hassle of trekking to Penn from the Port Authority is eliminated. I would pay more for this luxury, but Bolt Bus also happens to be pretty cheap. Since I'm not the only one who has figured out this little secret, getting tickets on popular travel days can be a challenge. For trips home at Thanksgiving, for example, I book my tickets about a month in advance. However, I figured, how many people would be traveling to New York in early March? As it turns out: plenty. Apparently it is spring break for many of the fine institutions of higher learning that are nestled in this great city. Now, I never went home on Spring Break, so it didn't occur to me until it was too late. Fortunately, I was able to find a bus home that wasn't completely booked early Sunday morning, so I acted quickly and purchased my ticket.

Upon boarding the bus, I noticed that it was already pretty crowded. Resorting to my keen profiling abilities, I chose to sit next to a relatively young blond kid in a North Face jacket who was reading a paperback. How dangerous could this fellow be? Not very, I assumed. Probably a freshman in college. A few moments later, I was comfortably seated, and had opened up "The World According to Garp" to page 254. All of a sudden, my concentration was broken by a cell phone that was blaring "Everytime We Touch." The embarrassment on my neighbor's face was a dead giveaway that the phone belonged to him. He answered as soon as he could, but it was too late. "Hi Mom," he said in a hushed voice. "I can't talk right now, I'm on the bus." Luckily, for him, the driver then asked for everyone's attention. We were told that there would be some rules on this bus that were non-negotiable. First of all, there was to be no smoking on the vehicle. Duh. Then, there were some rules that were negotiable, like drinking. What? Did I get on a party bus by accident? It was 10am on a Sunday! I looked around to gauge how others were reacting to the driver's joke. Some people were laughing, but my neighbor did not appear to be amused. This was a bit surprising because he looked like the kind of freshmen who went to college and discovered beer. Yep, it was going to be a long ride. At about the two hour mark, we pulled off the highway at a rest stop. I was hoping to get a cup of coffee, but sadly, the only choices were Sbarro and Arby's. I settled for the yogurt I had in my bag, and worked on finishing the crossword I had started that morning. Then, it happened. My neighbor tried to strike up a conversation. Before the words came out of his mouth, I knew what he was going to say "So, uh, do you go to college in Boston?" This wasn't the first time I had heard this line on the Bolt Bus. Last fall, a similar young boy had asked me the same thing, and had then continued talking to me, sharing relatively personal details about his life for an hour while we were stuck in traffic in New York City in the rain. Needless to say, it wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat, even with this new freshman. "No," I replied (with a smile) "I work here." I hoped that would do the trick and it did; my response was met with a blank stare, as if it meant we had nothing in common. Then again, it was probably true--I'd be willing to bet that he was born in the 1990s. So as not to be rude, I pointed out that I worked with a guy who went to his college, and that my co-worker was 28. It was a shame, they probably didn’t know each other. I went back to reading Garp and before I knew it we were back in Boston.

I realize that these incidents on the Bolt Bus aren’t particularly exciting, and when I take a step back to assess the situation, I’m sure these kids were just being friendly. But, when you consider my experience, I’m pretty wary of lines that guys have used on me. Now, I’m not implying that this is a regular occurrence, in fact, the opposite is true. But that further reinforces where I am coming from, since I have a couple fairly odd stories that have shaped my views.

So, I’ll explain myself with an anecdote. It all started innocently enough. I had been in Harvard Square to get coffee with a friend, and was taking the T back home. As I waited for the inbound train at the station, standing next to one of those large T maps, a guy approaches me and asks if the train will take him downtown. Yes! He was in luck—the train would indeed take him to his destination (as the giant map confirmed). I felt good about myself, for helping this lost stranger. Who knows where he might have ended up had I not helped him? But then our interaction quickly took a turn for the worse (for me). As soon as we boarded the crowded T, I found myself in very close proximity to this gentleman.

T-Guy: So, what do you do in Boston?
Me (not wanting to share the truth): I work at a consulting firm.
T-Guy: Do you work out?
Me (kind of surprised by the question): I like to run, and sometimes I play tennis. What do you do?
T-Guy: I help people sculpt the bodies of their dreams.

TIME OUT. WHAT? I have to admit, I started laughing. Then I realized that he was serious, and felt bad for mocking his chosen career path. I have no problem with personal trainers. But who really says something like that? I quickly regained composure—I didn’t want to offend him!

Me: How did you get into that?
T-Guy: Well, I just like to help my clients see results, and it lets me work out a lot. Let me ask you, how many pull ups do you think I could do?
Me: I’m sorry, I really have no idea.
T-Guy: I’ll tell you. On a typical day, I’d say 20. But if you were cheering me on, I’d say I could do 30.

Help! Where was my stop! I couldn’t wait to get out of the T. I was hoping he didn’t decide to get out at the same stop I did. Again, who says things like this? It all started out with his simple plea for directions. And THAT is why I am skeptical of strangers I meet when taking public transportation.

Watch out, people. It’s a dangerous world out there.

The Future of Tennis

I recently came across a rather exciting headline while I was perusing People.com on my lunch break at work. Apparently, Roger Federer's girlfriend Mirka is pregnant, and she is due this summer. I was shocked that I hadn’t heard this earlier, and that it wasn’t a more highly publicized news story. I even checked out Roger’s official website to make sure it was true that he and Mirka were expecting. Does anyone else find this as exciting as I do?

Once the story was confirmed, I started thinking how others would react to the news. If this had been public knowledge during the Australian Open, we may have been fortunate enough to get John McEnroe’s take on it during one of his match commentaries. I can hear it now: “Mirka is pregnant? You cannot be serious!” I don’t even want to think how Mary Carillo would react. In fact, I couldn’t even guess what she would say, because when she is commentating I typically put my TV on mute so that I don’t have to listen to her. I knew my former teammate Polly Spot would be devastated at the news, as her adoration for Roger was made apparent by the life size poster she kept of him in our locker room. Personally, I’m happy for them. Roger’s had a rough year, so he deserves this bright spot. Now, if only he could beat Nadal in a Grand Slam final, everything would be right with the world.

Roger and Mirka’s child certainly has a bright future in store. With two professional tennis players for parents (and arguably the greatest player of all time for a father), this kid will be a gifted athlete. Should she (I’m assuming it’s a she, and don’t want to continue this post using solely gender-neutral pronouns) develop an interest in tennis, I can’t think of anyone who might stand in her way to becoming the best player in the world…fifteen years down the line.

Or, can I?

It just so happens that two other famous tennis players (fairly) recently tied the knot and had two kids. That’s right—I’m referring to Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf. Their daughter, Jaz Elle, will be six this year. What if these genetically gifted kids BOTH decided to follow in their parents’ footsteps? Who would win if they played each other? This question has been tickling my brain for a few days now, and I’ve been playing a few scenarios out in my mind.

Here’s what I think would happen. First of all, Jaz Elle (I don’t even know what to say about this name…Jaz? Really?) would be 21 when Ms. Mirka-Federer would be 15. On the women’s circuit, if you’re 21, you’re basically past your prime. I think one of the reasons I feel so old now is because I am so used to hearing that girls just over half my age have already accomplished more in tennis than I ever did in the twelve years I played competitively. For this reason, I’d say Jaz is already at a disadvantage. However, we can consider her a wily veteran. On the other hand, I’m sure any child of Federer’s would have a ridiculous one-hand topspin backhand. I automatically have to give her some points for that shot alone, since it is by far the prettiest stroke in the game.

Bearing this in mind, let’s picture a match between these two players. Say, a showdown in the third round at Wimbledon, on Court #2, the "Graveyard of Champions." (Just wanted to make this a little more dramatic. Also, in this scenario, Roger is playing at the same time on Centre Court, still trying to win his fourteenth Grand Slam. Mirka doesn’t know who to watch. Oh, the decisions…) The young Mirka-Federer quickly takes the first set off of Jaz Elle Agassi (Graf-Agassi? I’m not sure). However, Jaz’s sick return game gets the best of her opponent in the second set, since her dad taught her a thing or two about that. In the third and final set, the two battle it out to a tiebreaker. And who wins, you ask? If I were a betting woman (and I’m not), I think I’m going with Jaz. Steffi was way better at tennis than Mirka ever was, and Andre was able to win all four Grand Slams, something that I doubt Federer will ever do unless Nadal gets seriously injured. Besides, Jaz needs this one more, since her career is practically over, and Federer’s daughter is just getting started. She’ll have plenty of time to win majors in a couple of years.

And yes, it was intentional that I excluded Pete Sampras and Bridgette Wilson’s sons from this analysis. If Mirka and Roger have a boy, he would be so much better than Sampras’s son, hands down. It doesn’t even warrant any commentary.

New Season, New Blog

Hello, world! Welcome to Dropshots, my new blog on basically anything I care enough to write about. I have to admit, reading the blogs of my friends over at "I'm Really Not Jewish and Other Thoughts" and "An Honest Bro Makes his Own Friends" has inspired me to take the plunge and share my own thoughts with all of you. Right now, "all of you" probably just means Maggie (hey DW!), but perhaps my readership will grow and I'll be able to make more money than Steinberg on AdSense, or get more hits than he does. That's not a challenge, by the way, at least for now, but we'll see where this goes.

In deciding what my pivotal First Post would address, I had my first bout with writer's block in quite some time. These days, I don't write nearly as many papers as I did in college. A year ago, I could have given you a 10- or 15-pager on interesting topics like Japanese religion and the body or the Masculine Mystique in no time. Not anymore, though. Instead, I spend my days crunching numbers in a very nice cubicle, and I typically have between 15 and 20 excel pivot tables open at any given time. More on that later.

Fortunately for you, I was able to come up with a topic as I was running along the Charles this afternoon. It was my first real outdoor run of the spring, since I can't really count my lame attempt at jogging last weekend with DW as a "run." I was in rather poor form due to a certain event on Saturday evening, hosted by two sophisticated gentlemen I know. Needless to say, I didn't make the best running partner, and today I decided I needed to venture out on my own since the weather was too nice to pass up. For me, it is officially spring when I can consistently run outside by the river, and I'm hoping that we have reached that point this year! I was definitely optimistic about my jaunt this afternoon: I was well rested, the sun was shining, and it was *just* warm enough to wear shorts. Things started out well enough, although a few oblivious dog-walkers made my trek on the footbridge over Storrow Drive more difficult than it needed to be. Once I had cleared that hurdle, I was on my way, listening to "Skipping Stones" on my iPod. This was so much better than running on the treadmill after a day in the office, watching the Cash Cab and reading an old issue of Us Weekly. After I spent a couple more songs enjoying the sun, I felt myself fall into the same mentality I had last fall while running the route out to the BU Bridge. First of all, I'll admit that I'm a competitive person. Jogging isn't inherently competitive, but that doesn't mean that I can't make it a rule to myself that I won't let another girl pass me. Men in short shorts, middle-aged women on bikes in bright purple spandex, even roller bladers--they can all pass me and I don't mind, but if a girl passes me I have to admit that I'm not ok with that. I have found that there are usually faster runners at 6:30am than there are on Sunday afternoons, so I was safe for today.

Beyond that, there is so much more to "running on the Charles" than simply getting your recommended 30-60 minutes of exercise in for the day. No, dear reader, this is a complicated setting to navigate, akin to First Floor Berry or FoCo. First of all, let's be honest--it's all about face time. Everyone running out there is checking everyone else out. Shamelessly. At least you're both running in opposite directions so if you do make that awkward eye contact, you can quickly put some distance between yourself and the fit twenty-something guy in the Ivy League t-shirt. In the big scheme of things, though, this doesn't really bother me. If you don't want to be seen when you run, it probably isn't wise to pick one of the most popular running routes in Boston. Besides, it makes things more interesting. What does bother me, though, are the people who take it to the next level. I'm talking about the girls who wear nothing but sports bras and tiny shorts in weather like we had today, and the guys who decided that they were just too sexy for their shirts (I promise you, they were not). I was in a long sleeve t-shirt and probably would have been better off in cropped pants. To each his own, I suppose, but it's just not my style.