A Face Only A Tourist Could Love.

They got me 3 times this morning during my merry jaunt to work. The first was at the end of Salem Street - "Hi, how do you get to Haymarket from here?" she asked. "Easy... follow me." I'm not sure if she did, because I walk at a pretty fierce clip and her short little self likely had to break into a trot to keep up. I hope she didn't scuff her walker in the process.

The second inquisitor got me as I was crossing Government Center Plaza. "Helloooo..." the bearded-wonder said in a strange, sing-songy voice. "Do you have the time?" I rolled up my sleeve "It's 10 past 10." I told him. "THANK you." he said, and then looked at his female counterpart in such a satisfied kind of way that she must have tried to warn him not to approach me for fear of a beating or a bum rape or something. I refrained from asking him if was true Al-Zarqawi had been wounded, and if there was an address to which I could send a bouquet/Patriot missle battery. As I was late for work.

But she'd be the exception to the rule. Because every summer, as the tourists descend, I may as well have an "Information" sign strapped around my neck. As I've said before, I kind of enjoy it. Because the inquiring mind's level of politeness dictates whether I send them to their intended destination, or whether I send them into the Combat Zone. It's fun for so many reasons. Especially if they have small children with them.

"Excuse me sir, can you tell us if the information booth is around here somewhere?" two little old ladies asked me as I was walking through the common. And I was quickly reminded of another reason I probably shouldn't be representing Boston in the face of tourism. "Yeah... see that little building with the turquoise trim? Between those fucking pine trees there?" Their eyes widened, and I actually felt bad. I swear profusely until I've had my first coffee.