Richard Hogan: A trip to beautiful Boston, just don't tell them you're Irish

It may be viewed as an Irish-American city, but Boston has some elements that are alien to visitors from the Auld Sod

'Boston is a beautiful city, particularly this time of year. It is a city I have always loved.'

I have just returned from Boston. I was invited by Irish/American parents to give a talk on “Parenting the Screen-ager”.

Raising children in the age of technology and social media is a global phenomenon.

Boston has always been a place I have loved. My own grandmother was born in Portland, Maine. She came back to Ireland in 1920, a couple of years after the First World War.

She used to tell me stories of watching the men heading off to war, waving her American flag, and singing, “over there, over there, the Yanks are coming, and they won’t be back until it’s over, over there”.

Her own mother died from the Spanish flu. So, they left American shores and travelled by boat back to Ireland. I used to sit for hours, as a kid, and listen to those stories about how her favourite cap blew off on the boat and was lost into the mist of the Atlantic.

I have always loved America, the dream that is America. The place where the native Americans roamed for centuries untouched.

The place of American Graffiti and Elvis Presley. Diners with jukeboxes, rollerblades, and milkshakes. The streets where ET roamed at Halloween. It has always been an image of hope in my mind.

Ever since that fateful day on those gaudy golden elevators back in June, 2015, when Donald Trump announced his candidacy for president, things have been difficult to watch. But America is a dream, and it will never be extinguished — certainly not by a con man.

I have studied far too many Shakespearean plays to believe evil triumphs. It is powerful, and it metastasises rapidly, but it never wins. Goodness is a force far more predictable and sustaining.

Chaos eventually feeds on itself. I think we are all watching the first few bites.

Boston is a beautiful city, particularly this time of year. Snow piled on the sidewalks, the air dry and crisp, and Boston Common in an aureole of brilliant sunshine, with squirrels clambering away while traffic stampedes and heeds inanimate instruction.

As I was crossing over to Newbury Street, the guy next to me shouted: ‘I’m walkin’ heah.”

Magic! I kept saying it to myself for the rest of the day.

The only aspect of America that I find difficult is going into shops.

Richard Hogan: 'At times like this, you miss the cynical eye roll of Irish shop assistants.'

You almost have to take a breath and brace yourself for the tsunami of overly-zealous shop assistants waiting to envelope you as you enter.

“Welcome to Sephora, how can I assist you today?”

“Just having a look, thanks”, doesn’t really do it like it does in Ireland.

“My name is Candice, just let me know if you need any help with anything and I’ll assist you today.”

“Thank you, Candice.”

You would think that would be the end of it, but oh no, Candice is unstoppable.

“You guys from Boston?”

It’s a little disingenuous, the big red noses and heavy Irish brogues, and sense of confusion with all the chatter gives us away.

“No, we’re not.”

But young Candice is having none of it.

“Where you guys in from?”

“We’re just in from… Ireland.”

“Oh, my God, you’re Irish?”

I should have said Bolivia or somewhere. Why did I have to say that? Idiot.

“Yeah, we are,” I say in a tone attempting to convey disinterest.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a chat like anyone else, but this was about the 10th shop I had entered.

And, I can see where this is going. It’s at times like this you’d miss the old cynical eye roll of Irish shop assistants.

Candice continues: “That’s awesome, my mother’s family are from Co Sligo, do you know Sligo?”

“I do.”

“I have always wanted to go.”

“You should, it’s lovely.”

I have the balm I’m after. I’m like some tourist attempting to stick his flag on the summit of Everest. Now I have to get down, and Candice is in my way.

It’s like breaking up with a very anxious girlfriend, wanting to leave a shop in America.

“It’s not you, I think your shop is fab, I just want to check out what the other shops are like too, if you don’t mind. I promise I’ll come back.”

Candice can see I’m making moves to leave.

“Have you thought about summer Fridays? Do you want to see a selection today?”

“Ah, I’m fine, Candice. My wife is looking for me, please can I leave?”

“You’re all set.”

“I am.” Jesus.

“Have a good one.” I will.

Now into JP Licks. I enter.

“Hi, my name is Roderigo how can I help you today?’

This seems easier: “Can I just get a strawberry milkshake?”

“Sure, you from Boston or passing through?”

“I’m from here.”