Thinking of hideous Red Sox fans. Enter a maze of tunnels. Pass Big Dig mess. Grab a quick cigarette and look for taxi. Five minutes after finding a taxi, arrive at Ritz.
Air travel is romantic.
People who fly are doing something urgent, something important, something cooler than most of the population, who, even if they are in motion, are merely driving or being driven. So, you see, I won. Even if it took 15 minutes more to fly than to drive to Boston, I won, because I flew. But mostly, I feel like the hare. My fellow travelers have beat me, but I don't care.