A Sunday Morning Observation

The smell of steaming hot espresso, freshly baked gingerbread morning bun sits effortlessly among the calm feel of a late Sunday morning at Beacon Hill’s Tatte Bakery. Sitting at a old wooden communal table facing out the café window I sit among a variety of patrons. Some seem to be regulars, young looking mothers with their strollers weaving their way around the café, one hand on their latte, the other on the handle, a younger looking couple I suspect newlyweds in their mid-thirties, dressed in their cream colored sweaters leaning towards one another across the table to speak. 

My favorite patrons remind me of myself, three college aged kids who I can confirm only motivated themselves to venture out on a Sunday morning for an Instagram worthy brunch and a "café vibe" to get their work done, as recognized by their backpacks and concerned faces for an empty table. I look out the window and stare at the up the street I have always wanted to call home, the cobblestone streets, exposed brick brownstones, and decorative colored doors giving each home its own personality. The hills of each tree or nut named residential street seem to branch up from the street I now sit on, Charles Street, the central point for residents and patrons of Beacon Hill. I decide to give my seat to the eager students and take a stroll down Charles as I have done many times the past three years. 

As I walk along the frozen cobblestone, hoping not to slip, I walk past an older looking woman in a fur coat, nicely done hair, decked out in gold jewelry and her husband dressed just as well guiding her by arm, we exchange a smile. I continue and smile at the furry friend, a golden retriever, headed by why with his owner, a young woman about thirty, following behind. 

I walk passed the absurdly long line for the Boston's best breakfast at The Paramount; the inside decorated like an old diner, with Bin 26 a swanky wine enthusiast restaurant a few doors down. I continue to look at each modern day boutique encased in the classic red brick and it is around then I have solidified a thought: Beacon Hill is, in my opinion, the only place in Boston in which  old and new live in lucrative harmony.  

The juxtaposition of historic yet, modern, grandparent yet, young parent, and freezing temperatures yet, warm friendly faces of neighbors and visitors that interact along the sidewalks. For about five blocks I continue past the various family owned restaurants you can tell have been passed on through generations, the cafes with millennial snapping photos of their cappuccinos, salons with young professionals getting a Sunday pedicure, and modern boutiques full of upscale clothing and home decor. 

Yes. I contemplated (multiple times) walking in and asking how long each one has been there, just as I had when it came to asking the people I passed along the street how long their home has been in their family. According to the Boston Redevelopment Authority, most homes are old construction rooted in family tradition and passed down. Yet each time I tried I couldn't bare to interrupt anyone's Sunday. I couldn't let myself spoil what looked like the most peaceful day for each person, so instead I simply watched, and tried to to take in what its like to be a resident of Beacon Hill.

I continue all the way down. Standing at the end of Charles Street I sensed that simple feeling of the Beacon Hill morning fading as the sound of more cars increased. Instead the urban city feeling outside of Beacon Hill returned and I reached the neighborhood counterpart to my beat, the newly gentrified mystery that is the West End of Boston.