Alea III

Alea III

I left the 150 Massachusetts Avenue building of Berklee College of Music, and embarked on my journey to Boston University. My friend, Jessica, attends school there. She was going to meet me at the Alea III concert. It was six o'clock, so I had two hours to find the theater. The outside of the 150 building smelled of stale cigarette smoke, which emanated from the large crowd of students and from the glowing paper sticks that hung from their mouths. In front of me walked a blind girl in a milky-white sweater, charcoal corduroy pants and ebony Vans' sneakers. Her chocolate brown hair brought out the plum color of her Berklee book bag. She was being guided by another woman who seemed extremely patient.

As I approached the Tower Records building, I spotted a large party of businessmen with well-matched and seemingly expensive suits. They appeared to be enjoying themselves. Their jovial laughs and conversations floated above the sounds of traffic. They boarded the bus for Harvard. Boston was beginning to cool down and I was unprepared without my jacket. As I walked further down I noticed a small soreness beginning to creep into my throat.

I crossed the street to Commonwealth Avenue. It seemed to be a completely different experience than what I had seen so far. The structures on this street were more colonial in nature than the business-like formality of the Mass Ave. buildings. Here, attractive, colorful flowers lined the sidewalk. This gave the street a rural, personal touch. Unfotunately, I could not smell the flowers, because the odor of the sewers and the pollution overwhelmed their scent. The wind began to pick up, gently rustling my short hair.

I stopped briefly to look at the bridge on the corner of Comm. Ave. and Charles Gate. A shrill siren stood out from the consistent hiss of traffic. I ran my finger along the rough, gritty concrete bridge and noticed that the water was a murky green color. Little spots of trash flecked the green with white. The trash glided along the surface, serenely, as if it was taking a leisurely stroll.

Kenmore Square came into view. I noticed the massive Citgo sign, looming over the street. It seemed a tribute to America, with its bright red triangle, white lines and the word "Citgo" in a dark blue shade. It was breathtaking, reminiscent of the splendor of Times Square.

I beheld the scenery of various shops. Signs littered the street. In garish red neon, they said, "Zen, hair salon and palm readings." This side of the street contrasted harshly with the colonial, older buildings on the opposite side. Day slowly faded, and classic-style street lamps lit the road.

When I reached Kenmore Square, I noticed a small group of friends, laughing together. They all wore similar clothes: casual, loose fitting attire. Looking at the books they carried, I assumed they attended B.U.

The wind began to die down, but the temperature began to drop. As I wandered farthere from Kenmore Square, people became more sparse, and I started feeling isolated. The street grew shadowy and dim. I peered up towards the sky and saw a black, starless void. It appeared as if tonight, a black canvas replaced the sky, and buildings were superimposed on it. I almost thought I walked inside a giant sound studio, where fake buildings and cars represented a real city, and a plain black ceiling took the place of an elaborate starry one. But the scent of gasoline and sewers soon snapped me back to reality. The "T" rumbled past me and squealed to a stop. I could now see the large, formal red-bricked buildings that marked Boston University. A sizable piece of metallic artwork set them well in the background. It looked like several bundled sticks pointing outward in different directions, symbolic of the education we receive and spread to the world.

I finally sighted the Tsai Performance Center. The architecture made it appear as a cathedral. Beautiful emerald ivy blanketed the surface of the wall. However, the classic illusion created by these things was shattered by the many air conditioners peeking out the windows.

I hiked up the steps, and pulled open the grand, iron double-doors. A familiar, sing-song voice greeted my ears, "I hope the directions were okay. It wasn't all that far, was it?" Jessie walked towards me; her long, wavy blond hair swaying back and forth. She wore a cherry red sweater, which stood out from her pale white skin. Dark brown jeans and black leather loafers completed her "college student look." She appeared very intellectual but hip. Jessie was just as I remembered her. She pulled me by the arm into the auditorium and said, "I have a lot of things to tell you. We have some catching up to do! But I guess we should pay attention to the concert." She turned her head toward the stage as the performance began.

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