these boots are made for...oh, you know
First, Boston isn't as cold as I was bracing for.
The wind has filled my hair with mist and pinked my cheeks, but it hasn't gnawed down to bone and sent me screaming. I am pleased at this. We managed to get lost in the car and on foot, thoroughly breaking in my boots and muchly trying my patience somewhat (really - you live half an hour away from here, sweets), but I arrived to turndown service, my robe on the bed and a sweet note from the concierge. Replaced the smile immediately.
Dinner at Legal Seafoods was an orgasm built of broccoli and butternut squash and something called scrad. Or scrod. Or slod. Or something. But mmmmm.