Tourist Season on Beacon Hill

Tourist season is in full swing! Tour groups, busses, families, couples holding hands, studying maps, looking at guide books, standing massed under street signs, quacking from Duck Boats. They’re here until after Columbus Day. For those of us who live or work on Beacon Hill, the tourist invasion from May through October is as predictable as magnolias in the spring, spectacular leaves in the fall, and piles of grey, gritty snow in the winter.

For the most part, we and the tourists share the sidewalks, oblivious to each other. They don’t see us, and we don’t see them, except for when they block our path, and we have to say, “Excuse me,” fifteen times to get where we’re going. I was once decked by a teenager running to catch up to his family while I was crossing Beacon Street. Literally, he didn’t see me, and I wasn’t aware of him either.

Asking for directions is another way that tourists interact with locals. I like being asked for directions. I’m proud of Boston, and I like to prove we aren’t all cold, unfriendly Yankees. Besides, Boston isn’t always easy to find your way around. Only a block from my office, Cambridge Street morphs into Tremont Street at the same intersection where Beacon Street morphs into School Street. Of course, tourists get confused here.

Over the years, about 40% of the requests for directions that have come my way have been for directions to Cheers. It’s still true, Cheers has been off the TV for ages. Half of the tourists are too young to have seen the show except in reruns.

Maybe it's because my office is a block from the statue of General Hooker, but from time to time I'm asked who he is. I've told the story of how hookers got their name, to tourists from Australia, England, Canada, and Italy as well as to other Americans. Only Americans seem shocked. Being an occasional tour guide is one of the pleasures of working on Beacon Hill.

But my best tourist story happened where Court Street turns into State Street. My colleague John and I were coming back from a meeting. We saw what appeared to be a Japanese family- mother, father, and teenaged girl - staring at the green Court Street sign, then looking down at a map in their book, and looking back up at the sign again. We hesitated a little walking along to see if they needed help, but they were so absorbed in their discussion, we didn’t intrude. As we passed them I saw the travel guide they were using. It was bright red with big white Japanese letters on it. The title was in Japanese. It must have read, “Guide Book” or something like that. But after the Japanese words, in big block English letters, the cover said NEW YORK.

“John,” I said, “We’ve got to tell them they’re in Boston. They’re looking at a map of the wrong city.“

John was emphatic. “We can’t do that. It will ruin the best story from their entire trip!”