Back at the hotel I had a shower to wash off the dust and sweat from the day's wanderings, then attended to my poor feet. I'd picked up a package of moleskin at a local drug store, and, with a borrowed pair of scissors, I set to work applying soft patches to the various ouchies.

Feeling refreshed, dressed in my most fashionable slacker clothes, and with much happier feet, I once again strolled out of the hotel in search of adventure. Or, at least, somewhere interesting to eat dinner.

It was about 8 pm by this time, and the last wisps of dusk were stealing out of the city. The air was deliciously warm and humid, and a steady breeze was blowing -- the first tentative fingers of an approaching, though far off, hurricane. I'd never been in any kind of serious storm before (northwest coast weather is so boring) and I found the prospect of being caught in a hurricane very exciting.

I walked east through the darkening streets, trying my best not to look like a tourist with no idea where I was headed. Not looking like a tourist is very important to me -- mostly because I want to be considered a traveler, not a tourist, although I'm not quite sure I could tell you the difference. A wise person once said, "A traveler doesn't know where he's going; a tourist doesn't know where he's been." Sounds good to me. Also, many of the seedier locals at your destination will equate "tourist" with "target", or, perhaps, "easy target with lots of cash and an expensive camera".

One of the most important things to learn upon arriving in a new city (if you don't want to look like a tourist) is how to jaywalk like a local. I can't stress enough how important this is. Nothing will peg you as a tourist like patiently waiting at a deserted intersection at midnight. At the other extreme, stepping in front of a speeding taxi cab at the wrong time will not only peg you as a tourist, but also as a complete idiot. Also, not only do you have to know the proper situations in which to jaywalk, but you have to do it with the right attitude. A certain aggressive nonchalance usually seems appropriate.

Boston is a jaywalker's dream city. If it weren't for the fact that jaywalking didn't exist when the streets were lay down, you'd almost think that Boston was built with the professional jaywalker in mind. The streets are narrow and almost all of them are one way. Traffic is, for the most part, slow and predictable. The locals have adapted well to their native environment and no one ever, ever waits for the light to turn green. I cleverly picked up on this and blended in seamlessly.

Once again, I found myself walking through the Boston Public Garden. I wasn't sure if it was such a safe place in the deepening darkness, so I kept to the outskirts. Eventually the path led me to a baseball diamond where a league slow-pitch game was being played under the lights. For some reason which I can't explain I've developed an affinity towards amateur baseball, so I sat in the dusty bleachers and watched the pitcher try to hit home plate.

The loneliness I had felt on the steps of the public library continued to haunt me as the inning ended and I moved on, heading out of the park. Somewhere, I thought, there must be people like me, basically independent people who are sometimes a little too independent for our own good. All I really need is for someone else to make the first move, to come up and talk to me. If I could get that tiny miracle to happen, I could take it from there.

"Excuse me?"

The voice came from behind me so I turned around and there, standing in front of me, were two gorgeous women. One miracle requested, one granted.

"Do you know where all the clubs and bars are?" one of the women asked.

The most useful part of my brain was off doing a celebratory jig, but somehow I managed to muster up a response. "You guys are tourists, right?" They responded affirmatively. "So am I!" I said, and our friendship was cemented. We exchange the vital traveler's information (where are you from, how long will you be here) and then walked together in search of dinner.

Susan (or perhaps Suzanne -- she didn't have a preferency) and Christy (or maybe Chrissy -- it was hard to hear clearly) are from Buffalo, where they have really good chicken wings. They felt it was important to point out that only in Buffalo can you find real buffalo wings.

The two ladies work for a candle company and spend a lot of their time working the gift shop trade show circuit. They travel all over the US (but not to Seattle, unfortunately) and they've even been to Toronto! Susan's favorite city on the circuit was Las Vegas -- "but only for a few days". I agreed: more than 24 hours in Vegas is too much for me. The trade shows aren't open to the public but they thought they could probably sneak me in. Unfortunately, the show was being held somewhere out in the suburbs so I told them I'd pass.

After a short walk we found ourselves at Brew Moon. My companions were big beer fans and this combo microbrewery/restaurant seemed to be a good place to start the evening. The decor on the inside was pretty interesting -- kind of nouveaux-post-modern-art-deco, I guess -- but we sat outside on the patio and enjoyed the warm evening. We each had a beer with our dinner, and the beer was much better than the food. They tried to be creative with their menu and it seems they just plain missed the target. I had some sort of fancy fried chicken with spicy sauce that fell well short of its intentions.

After dinner we went in search of a good bar. After wandering around for a while we settled on Bishop's Pub, one of several clubs clustered in a short stretch known as Boylston Alley.

Bishop's is a small place with a nice, cozy atmosphere -- a lot more laidback than the other bars in the alley. We found a comfortable place at the bar and began the task of drinking the night away.

Bishop's has a very small stage where a good acoustic rock musician was playing. I can't remember his name, but he had a Darius Rucker-ish rasp to his voice so we'll just call him "Hootie", for convenience. Hootie played a pretty diverse set, and even sang a Barenaked Ladies song. That prompted me to proclaim to my companions that I would love to be up there singing with him, and that, in fact, my voice sounded just like a combination of the lead singers from Counting Crows and the Barenaked Ladies. They didn't seem all that impressed.

Several tequilas, beers, and other miscellaneous drinks later, Christy went up to Hootie and made a request. A few minutes later he played her song: American Pie. However, before he dove into the verses he asked if anyone in the audience would like to come up and sing.

Woo hoo! Like a grade schooler with the right answer I started hopping up and down on my bar stool with my hand in the air. Hootie invited me up and we got down to business. However, there were two problems: first, I didn't know the words very well. Even more problematic, though, was that through a combination of loud bar talking and large tequila shots, I had completely lost my voice.

I launched into the verses with great enthusiasm but my vocal chords clearly were not up to the task. An offtune imitation of Bryan Adams emerged. I made it through a verse and several choruses before returning the microphone to its rightful owner. Back on my bar stool I did my best to convince my companions that yes, indeed, I really can sing. They pulled the smile- and-nod routine and the night continued on.

We had a great time at Bishop's, which didn't get too busy. Jeff, the bartender, was very friendly and very generous with the drinks. Around 1 am we rolled out of there and across the street to the Alley Cat to get jiggy wit it.

The Alley Cat was packed, hot, and sweaty. Just perfect. We danced until closing at 2 am, then rolled outside into the pouring rain. Both girls had to work tomorrow so they were pretty keen to head home. Before I knew it they had hopped into a cab and were speeding away. Fortunately I had given them the name of my hotel and my business card, hoping we could hook up the next day.

The half-mile walk back to the hotel was great. The streets were deserted, except for the odd drunken gaggle of girls. It was raining but the air was warm and the rain felt good. Mostly, I was happy -- my first night as a traveler had been a great success. Things were looking good.

Back at the hotel I grabbed my camera and returned to the slick streets to record my impressions of late-night Boston. I finally went to bed around 3.