Some years ago, when I was in my early twenties, my recently retired parents spent a month in New England (we are from regular England) and invited me to fly out and spend a week with them.
One day, my mother and I take a train to Boston to spend the day looking around the city. My mother is quite short (around 4’11”, but she insists she’s 5’2″ because she poofs her hair up) and has habitually worn the highest heels she can get, including while at work as a teacher. She makes running around after thirty six-year-olds on three-inch stilettos look easy! On this particular day, she has on ankle boots with a two-inch heel, which is what she considers a comfy walking shoe. I am wearing actual walking boots.
As we leave one tourist attraction, we realise we don’t know how to get to the next one we want to visit, though we know it’s some way across the city centre. (This was before smartphones were commonplace.) Fortunately, we soon spot a small, freestanding information kiosk — the little shack sort where the worker inside speaks to you through a window — and go over to ask for directions.
There is a young man in the kiosk yelling greetings to people who pass by and seemingly trying to attract interest, yet our walking up to his counter seems to really surprise him.
Worker: “Whoa! There you are!”
Me: “Hi. Can you tell us how to get to Faneuil Hall, please?”
Worker: “Uhhhh… from here?”
I have it in me to say something sarcastic but rein it in.
Me: “Yes.”
He begins to give directions, but it quickly becomes very confusing, as he is referring to everything as “that place, you know”, and “that street where the thing is”. I try and stop him to ask for street names, but he suddenly leans out of the window and looks at my mother’s feet.
Worker: “Whoa! Were you going to walk there?”
Us: “Yes.”
Worker: “You can’t walk there in those shoes, lady; something’ll happen.”
Mum: “What do you mean? What’ll happen?”
Worker: “You’ll fall off them and die or something. I dunno, but you can’t walk that far in those heels. It won’t work.”
Mum: “I’ve been walking around in these all day.”
Worker: “No way! You just got out of your car.”
My mum and I glance at each other wondering what to do. We’re not sure where else we can get directions from, as it’s early on a weekday afternoon and the streets are pretty quiet apart from other tourists. We haven’t been near a car since my dad dropped us off at the train station, so I’m not sure why the guy thought we’d just got out of one.
Me: “Look, can you just let us know how far away it is and we’ll decide if we can walk it?”
Worker: “You can’t walk it. Nobody can walk it. It’s too far. Where are you even from that you think you can walk that far?”
Mum: *Flustered* “We’re from England.”
A look of dawning delight crosses the man’s face.
Worker: “Where the Moomins are from?!”
I know that the Moomins are definitely not from England, but it seems like I might get somewhere if I agree, so I say yes.
Worker: “Okay, then, I’ll let you walk there. Maybe you won’t fall off. Here.”
He then produces a leaflet with a little map of the city centre and a pen, circles where we are and where Faneuil Hall is, and draws a line suggesting the best route. It takes him about twenty seconds, and though he doesn’t say any directions to us, it is pretty clear from the map where we need to go. We thank him.
As we walk away, my mother turns to me looking very serious.
Mum: “[My Name], do you know what weed smells like?”
Me: “Yes, like that guy.”
Mum: “Just promise me that if you ever do it, you won’t do it at work.”
I promised, and we had a nice time at Faneuil Hall.
