At the end of a whirlwind trip that still hadn’t quite sunk in, I wanted a long, solo walk to clear my head before my flight home. So I got on the 8:57 Downeaster from Dovah …

(wishing there was time to stop in beloved Haverhill on the way)

… to Beantown. With only four hours to spend in town, and a muggy heat index of 100, I stuck to a small radius of old haunts.

After first gaping in stunned shock at the neatly-landscaped evidence that the Big Dig was finally finished,

I took a stroll through my favorite neighborhood, the North End.

Listen, my children, and you shul heeya
Uh the midnight ride of Pawl Reveeya,
Awn the eighteenth of Aprul, in Seventy-Five;
Hahdly a may’n is now alive
Who remembas that famous day un’ yeeya

I tipped my imaginary hat to my Yankee heritage,

and went in search of lunch at a place I knew of nearby that makes a mean lobsta roll.

Connecticut-style, with clarified butta (even if it is a bit of a faux pas this close to Maine), natch.

Then I headed downtown to take up my well-trodden loop.

First I stopped in to visit some old friends,

including Mista Reveeya himself.

Then I trudged past the Statehouse …

… to Beacon Hill, where it was entirely too hot to draw.

(Though you can see where the inspiration for doodles past comes from.)

Next on my circuit was the Public Gahden, where the willows wept,

and both swans and non-swans took to the water to cool off.

By then there was just enough time to walk through the Common to the T,

and then it was back on the train again, off to catch my flight. I love the Blue Line because it doesn’t stop at “AIRPORT,” and because it’s my favorite metaphor for Boston. I don’t mind the traffic, or the grime, or the expense, or the often-lousy weather—because at the end of all of that is Wonderland.