To Boston and beyond...as long as there is air conditioning, limited walking, lots of snacks, and not too much history (Part 1)

 Poor Savannah.

She definitely got stuck with the wrong travelling companions. 

If there is a peak...Savannah will want to summit it.

If there is a bridge...Savannah will want to cross it.

If there is a river...Savannah will strap on her floaties and start swimming.

For Savannah, there exist no obstacles to impede her journey...only challenges for her to overcome.

She should have known she was in trouble when the only way she could wrestle Lisa and I into the line for "The Freedom Trail" tour was to buy us large lemonades and shift us strategically from shady spot to shady spot. She ignored Lisa repeatedly calling this excursion "The Oregon Trail" and distracted me by pointing out the thousands of squirrels cavorting about the Boston Commons. "How long is this tour?" Lisa and I wondered, wilting in the heat and thinking wistfully of our Duck Tour from the day before. "Forty-five minutes," Savannah said gently, thinking this would reassure us. She missed the look of alarm that passed between Lisa and me. 

We made it as far as Paul Revere's grave (I searched frantically for a shovel, "Move over, buddy.") before Lisa had renamed "The Freedom Trail," "The Trail of Tears." "We have literally walked two blocks," Savannah hissed as the tour guy, dressed in period clothes MADE OUT OF WOOL, droned on about a bunch of historical nonsense. Pausing to ask if there were any questions, someone (I swear, NOT ME) inquired about the remaining length of the tour. "About two more hours," he said, not comprehending the bomb he had just dropped on Boston. Savannah, fearing a mutiny, admitted immediate defeat and we withdrew subtly from our party and retreated. The battle was lost. Savannah surrendered. 

We headed over to fulfill my wish to ride Boston's famed Swan Boats. Delightful. A shockingly low $4.75 ticket price. I was getting sick of paying fifteen dollars for each site only to see a plaque bragging that so-and-so  had slept there. I would like to suggest an alternative option where I would happily relinquish my fifteen dollars to sleep there myself for the duration of the ten minute tour. Throw in a specialized guest book that you could sign under the heading "________ slept in Paul Revere's House" and you have a recipe to rack in those rates on a ninety degree day. I had already (inadvertently) begun the tradition of visiting the restroom facilities of historic and notable places. Sleeping isn't that much more of a stretch on my list of life's goals.

While Lisa and I were intent on wheedling our way to lunch, Savannah was still busy pointing out the thousands of other historical sites we could go visit. "Could we go to a museum?" I asked, ignoring Lisa's glare as I knew there would at least be air conditioning and a snack bar there. Savannah brightened and checked out the options on her phone. "Were you thinking science, history, or art?" I winked at Lisa. "Art," I said decisively before whispering to my tired and hungry friend, "We can take the Monet and run."