6.20.2007
ON HARVARD SQUARE
I took a walk in Harvard once. The day hung blue and lit the Cambridge streets in newness after the white winter, and the Charles River curled around like a long sleepy cat. The day juxtaposed time. It opened Spring. And that warm sun signaled too the end of the University year, young-faced wunderkinds carrying boxes just inside Johnson Gate, careful to avoid passing under it lest they break the honored and unspoken code among the Crimson, who only cross the threshold twice as students at the world’s most prestigious college.
They come in and they go out.
Those who know this area, Harvard Square, a loosely defined geography of streets near the University, know its spirit of intellect, zest, and opinion. The pharmacies carry rare perfumes. The lunch spots use allusion. Even the homeless sell copies of Shakespeare for two dollars in Harvard Square.
I met once the man they call the Chessmaster. His real name was Murray Turnbull. He had a wild red beard that was whitening. I watched him, early on a Sunday morning, birdsounds ricocheting and loud overhead, as he carried his black duffel bag to the tables under the shadetrees outside Au Bon Pain. He set down the bag by the table nearest Massachusetts, nearest Harvard Yard, where he was once one of those young-faced wunderkinds, for a year, but now was one of another sort. It was his twenty-fifth summer to play chess in the park. Two dollars a game, his sign said. Play the Chessmaster. Murray pulled out a plastic bag of cigars, a magazine of word games, and his pieces for the inlaid board on the stone table. He wiped down the table clean. He took a deep pull of coffee. And he slowly poured water into a pink plastic gun.
Keeps away the birds, he said.
Full travel essay about the Square coming later in the summer. The above image is Murray some years ago.
I took a walk in Harvard once. The day hung blue and lit the Cambridge streets in newness after the white winter, and the Charles River curled around like a long sleepy cat. The day juxtaposed time. It opened Spring. And that warm sun signaled too the end of the University year, young-faced wunderkinds carrying boxes just inside Johnson Gate, careful to avoid passing under it lest they break the honored and unspoken code among the Crimson, who only cross the threshold twice as students at the world’s most prestigious college.
They come in and they go out.
Those who know this area, Harvard Square, a loosely defined geography of streets near the University, know its spirit of intellect, zest, and opinion. The pharmacies carry rare perfumes. The lunch spots use allusion. Even the homeless sell copies of Shakespeare for two dollars in Harvard Square.
I met once the man they call the Chessmaster. His real name was Murray Turnbull. He had a wild red beard that was whitening. I watched him, early on a Sunday morning, birdsounds ricocheting and loud overhead, as he carried his black duffel bag to the tables under the shadetrees outside Au Bon Pain. He set down the bag by the table nearest Massachusetts, nearest Harvard Yard, where he was once one of those young-faced wunderkinds, for a year, but now was one of another sort. It was his twenty-fifth summer to play chess in the park. Two dollars a game, his sign said. Play the Chessmaster. Murray pulled out a plastic bag of cigars, a magazine of word games, and his pieces for the inlaid board on the stone table. He wiped down the table clean. He took a deep pull of coffee. And he slowly poured water into a pink plastic gun.
Keeps away the birds, he said.
Full travel essay about the Square coming later in the summer. The above image is Murray some years ago.
posted by TB at 16:07
