Destination: South End

"Oh, you go to school in Boston. How exciting! What a wonderful place to go to college!"

I guess I, along with everyone else in my extended family, figured that a decent part of my Harvard experience would involve jaunts into the big city. Quincy Market, the North End, Fenway Park--I was ready for it all. Unfortunately, something came up, and then another thing, and then, well, then it was March. Six months, and I still didn't know the blue line from the green line, the number 5 bus from the number 7 bus, or Porter Square from Davis.

Ironically, after a burst of motivation and a couple of informal trips into the city, I am now Harvard's ambassador to the metropolis across the river. My new job, it seems, will be getting on and off of a bus once a week, and seeing who and what is out there.

Last Saturday afternoon, I boarded bus number one. It seemed the logical place to start.

The number one bus stops outside of Holyoke Gate shortly past 3 p.m. Stroller-pushing parents, busy tourists and bag-laden local shoppers quickly fill all seats, including the aisle--but no other students board. After circling the Yard, the bus begins heading southeast on Mass Ave.

The morning was originally clear, but as the bus rumbles across the Charles on Harvard Bridge, fog obscures the downtown skyline. The clouds look dry, like a blanket, which may explain why there's no rain in this haze. Most of the passengers get off at Newbury Street and more depart at the Symphony and Orange Line stops. A few blocks after the last Orange Line sign, the doors open and since each corner appears a little more run-down than the last, my survival instinct prompts me to get off before the bus goes any further. The sign by the bus stop says Mass Ave. and Tremont St.

At first things don't look too promising. Perhaps getting off here wasn't the best idea. The corner is home to several nail salons, a couple of seedy looking rent-to own agencies, a Spanish-American food store and a check-cashing operation. Nearby are a few small restaurants, one of which is aptly named "South End House of Pizza." The menu resembles Tommy's, and the place smells the same, but Nick behind the counter says no, they don't deliver to Harvard Square. Nick doesn't have any advice on what to see in the South End, much less any information about this particular intersection. In defense, he admits, "I've only worked two weeks here."

One block east on Tremont Street, a stone church tower pierces the fog. The doors of New Hope Baptist Church open and several well-dressed black ladies descend its well-worn concrete steps. An aging but lively woman says a deaconess meeting has just adjourned, and, like a good deaconess, she smiles and adds, "Come back tomorrow, and then you'll really have a story. We have a great service--you should bring your friends."

Across Concord Street from the church is the Boston Fire Department's Engine Number 22. The metal garage door rolls up to reveal a vast space, empty except for a single bright red fire engine and an ambulance parked nearby. Inside the Fire Department office, a group of firemen's voices are drowned out by the loud whirring noise of a saw working somewhere in the back of the building. Apparently it's been a slow day--there've been no calls so far.

Taking turns vacuuming their cars, the men give directions to the Harriet Tubman House, on Columbus Street, and also recommend a stop at a local watering hole--a jazz bar called Wally's Bar. The firemen apologize for being so boring, and the large door closes, sealing them back inside their noisy station.

Back on Mass Ave., the Harriet Tubman House turns out to be an immigrant settlement, one of the United South End Settlements Houses. Two college students behind the counter in the lobby say the settlement house system was founded at the turn of the century to organize language classes, job files and job training for recent immigrants. "As you can see by the architecture, this lovely building was built in the late sixties," the woman working the desk says in her best tour guide voice. The second student continues, "We still have language classes, but now there's a lot more emphasis on technology and exhibits and computer classes for kids." Oddly, there are no kids around. Actually, no one is around, and the volunteers' goodbyes echo across the empty foyer.

Wally's is a bit harder to find. The bar hides on the opposite corner below a small white sign that reads "Bud," and, underneath, "Wally's Cafe." Bud is printed many times larger than the actual name of the establishment and gives no hint about the emphasis of the business. A blue poster behind plastic lists the musical line-up for 1995. Like a billboard for defunct business, the curling paper brags about "some of the biggest names in the jazz business," and warns the wary patron "not to be surprised when you see famous people in Wally's."

A lady wearing a blond wig and looking something like Joan Rivers comes out of a door next to Wally's holding a corkscrew. She opens the bar door and then turns around. "What are you waiting for, baby?" she asks. "You can go in there. They like white people in there." She smiles, as if she just told a good joke. Seeing a blank face, she presses harder. "Don't you know Wally's? It's famous. Everybody knows Wally's. Why, just yesterday we had Branford Marseilles come in here to drink a glass of wine and play. The trumpet player coming tonight is reviewed in the Arts section of today's Boston Globe. Yeah, Wally's is a great place."

It turns out that Wally is a real person and in fact he's still alive. Wally is 102 and his grandson, Michael Penn, manages the bar for him. The evening of my visit, Mike is busy setting up for an AIDS benefit. Old black men and young white college students fill the barstools. On the wall are collections of "Best of Boston" and "Best of On the Cheap" awards. Wally's even has T-shirts for sale at $15 dollars apiece.

Mike says his cafe is the sole surviving memento of Boston's days as a Jazz center in the 40's and 50's. Billie Holiday and Branford Marseilles have played here, and Wally's is known locally for its diversity and its low-key atmosphere. It's clearly a treasure of this modest intersection.

Back outside, a block down Tremont, the Chickering Piano Factory looms above everything else in the neighborhood. When constructed in 1853, the Chickering was second in size only to the US capitol building in Washington. Jonas Chickering's factory stopped crafting pianos in 1929 and more recently, the building was converted into low-rent apartments for struggling artists.

In many of the building's windows signs reading "No Greed" are displayed. A passerby explains, "When the owners paid off their lease from the state, they decided to raise the rents up to market levels, causing a lot of controversy. They're just trying to upscale the area." Another South End dweller tells a similar version of the "No Greed" story. "They're snootifying the area," he says. "They want to make it too nice for us, so they can kick us out and get rid of us."

It's 5 p.m. now, and getting darker. More fog has settled in the intersection, blowing between buildings on either side of the street, as if the roofs are supporting the edges of a luminous cloud. A drunken man stumbles by, singing in a foreign language. Again, instinct says it's time to head back to the Square. Old number one pulls up a few minutes later and in minutes I'm back at Holyoke Gate where the journey began.