In 1964, when I was 18 and looking for new adventures, I traveled to Boston for the first time. I planned to get my four years in as a coed, return to NY and live the rest of my life as a Manhattanite, but that was not how it played out.
My yellow-brick road into Boston was Storrow Drive. As our family drove along the banks of the Charles, I got my first glimpse of the future. The dorm where I was billeted on Bay State Road provided, among other things, a base for exploring my new city. On weekends and whenever I could steal away, I ventured into Brighton, Allston and the Back Bay, but was most intrigued by Harvard Square. The edginess and the grunge of the Greenwich Village scene I missed was there, but dressed in more somber tones. Every few weeks, I’d grab a pair of ruby slippers and follow another brick road to Cambridge. Boarding the trolley, careening into the central Park St. T station, and heading out across the river on the Red Line I'd let myself into Oz.
When I emerged from my underground ride, I headed directly into Harvard Yard. The ivied brick buildings, dripping with history and pretension dominated the Square. I walked through the Yard, yearning to be part of the mostly male, very WASP-y, intellectual landscape. Drunk with freedom from parents and classes, I would step outside the walls of the College to investigate the small shops of Harvard Square. Wandering around, I explored a world that deviated dramatically from my own urban industrial no nonsense campus experience across the river.
In the thick of it all was Harvard’s shopping center, the Co-op. “It’s pronounced ‘coop’, you know. One syllable,” a clerk informed me. Cowed by my faux pas, I slinked out and around the corner, leading to the back streets, I discovered a piece of heaven. A dozen or more independent bookstores peppered the alleys of the square. Pangloss, The Raven, Grolier’s, and Mandrake Books were treasure troves where I was lured in and tempted to spend my hard-earned work/study wages. The Paperback Booksmith was my dream store. I wanted to move in and live with the books. Locating a quiet corner, I’d hunker down and spend a few hours discovering new authors, time-tested classics and the alternative press
Up and down the street were other small shops – tobacconists, men’s and women’s clothiers, Brine’s Sports Shop, Woolworth’s, restaurants, cafes and newsstands. Cardullo’s carried exotic foods from all around the world and the Wursthaus Restaurant served bad German cuisine, which, if you ordered correctly, could stand in for NY deli. Hayes-Bickford was one of several cafeterias that were cheap – an important consideration - and stayed open for after-hours munchies.
Some of the smaller venues were more mysterious. magnetically drawing me close to check out their windows, and hope that I had enough cash to buy something. Kitty Haas offered funky clothes and jewelry that screamed “hippie”. A leather shop smelled of handcrafted sandals and boots that I promised myself I would own someday. A few shadowy places displayed ephemera and paraphernalia aimed toward the druggies’ desire for rolling papers and bongs. Not quite my cup of tea - yet.
Along with the coffee houses, which intimidated me a little, The Brattle Theater provided an evening’s entertainment for a wanna-be intellectual. A couple of bucks would let me in to watch a bleak Bergman movie, an edgy Godard or the latest Fassbinder flick. Afterwards, there was coffee at the Blue Parrot, and a chance to hang out with the cool crowd.
When I was lucky enough to have a date that was not “Dutch”, there were a few options for dinner. Big, important evenings would get me a French dinner at Ferdinand’s where I first encountered garlicky snails and Duck Montmorency, which I learned, meant “with cherries”. At the other end of the foodie experience, a great roast beef sandwich could be scarfed down at Elsie’s, and burgers were always at the ready in Mr. Bartley’s.
Design Research – an edgy, museum-like emporium of Scandinavian home-goods opened in a old imposing Victorian on Brattle St. Customers, mesmerized by the cleverness and beauty of things very un-Cambridge, wandered through displays of glass, wood and fabrics, a far cry from anything they had seen before in frumpy New England. “Would you like to see this Alvar Aalto vase?” a clerk would ask. I had no idea who or what Alvar Aalto was, but I whispered yes. I was as impressed with the employees and the clientele, as I was with the merchandise.
Somewhere, during the 1980’s, a decade which will be remembered for its commitment to bad taste, the Square began to change. Bookstores closed, restaurants came and disappeared before I sampled their fare, and chain stores, like the Gap took over the old spaces on Mass Ave., Brattle and Mt. Auburn St. Design Research built a glass house for itself across from its old home. Harvard and greedy real estate developers gobbled up chunks of the Square, renting it out to high-end, fashion conscious shops. The magic began to disappear. More and more, Harvard Square resembled a suburban mall. Students who in my days were often strapped for cash were replaced by a new generation of well-heeled young people. Shopkeepers, sniffing out larger sales, complied by offering more high-end goods and sleeker, polished boutique type experiences.
Today, Harvard Square is the territory of banks, coffee shops and trendy clothing stores. Only a half dozen or so small, independent bookstores remain, the rest having been absorbed by large corporations. A few old friends - Leavitt & Peirce, Charlie's Kitchen and Bob Slate are still in residence. Fine new restaurants abound. There are, and I imagine, will always be, hordes of visitors in Harvard Square. A bit of magic still hovers, though dimly, in the corners of some of the old buildings, recalling a different world.
My daughter knows Harvard Square as just another place she can hang out – not so different than Davis Square or Arlington Center. The mythology of what it was in the past is only anecdotal. She and her peers have shifted the magic to places as exotic to me as Harvard Square was to my parents. The difference is that her world is much larger, powered by microchips and connected through ether and mine was about 10 square blocks of concrete and bricks.
