Avoiding Christmas, Part 2
Alright, I admit defeat. I’ve been ambushed once too often to be able to say that I successfully avoided Christmas. What did it was Boston. Yep, good old Boston. The first booby trap was the ladies’ room at the airport. At first, I wasn’t going to count it, because I wasn’t going to count hearing one bar of a song (the length of time it takes to hit the mute button on the remote), and what was playing in the ladies’ room was a medley of the first bars of many Christmas tunes, all crammed together and played at a frenetic pace, an octave too high.
But then, I got into the shared van, and whatever radio station the [probably Middle Eastern] taxi driver had on had a Christmas portion. And then the hotel lobby ... and in Walgreen’s ... and then, no escaping it, the restaurant I wandered into (Vox Populi, the one with the sweet ex-Torontonian gay guy who took such good care to seat me where I could read my book) which unfortunately had lots of loud Christmas music playing.