How I Ended Up in Boston

In the words of the poetic Dropkick Murphys, my husband and I were “shipping up to Boston” the other week for the Boston Marathon.

I grew up just outside the city and went to undergrad in Boston (Go Jumbos!), so I’ve clocked enough hours on the T, in Dunkin’ lines, and dodging aggressive geese on the Charles to call myself a real local. I say “wicked” unironically, have strong clam “chow-da” preferences, and give directions using landmarks that haven’t existed since the Clinton administration.

Which brings me to the first time I brought my acid-wash-Girbaud-jean-wearing, Bruce-Springsteen-loving New Jersey husband to my quaint hometown—a place so small it had exactly one traffic light. I gave him directions the only way a New Englander knows how: “You’ll pass Kimball’s Farm on your right, Carlson’s apple orchard on your left, and if you hit the General Store—you’ve gone too far.” He looked at me, deadpan, and said, “Settle down, Louisa May Alcott.”

The joke was solid. Also, fair. The movie, Little Women was filmed in my hometown, and honestly? Not much set design was required.

Every year, we go back for the Boston Marathon. My husband runs. I… spectate. Spiritually, emotionally, and with a coffee in hand. Or as I like to say, “I’m there for the fun, not the run.” (That’s right folks, follow me for more clever wordplay.)

Boston may be full of cobblestones, cranky drivers, and very firm opinions—but it’s also full of charm, resilience, and some of the best lobster rolls in the game. It’s home. And it always will be.

{gallery}

Four Seasons, Hotel Boston  - a Wicked Good Hotel

We’ve been staying at the Four Seasons across from Boston Common for years. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t scream at you with flash or sparkle—but quietly nods, holds the door, and remembers your coffee order by day two. Last year, they gave the lobby, restaurant, and common areas a refresh. It still feels like the hotel I know, just with better lighting, warmer tones, and furniture that looks like it went to Paris for a few months and came back more confident. Think subtle facelift, not full personality change.

I’ve also stayed at its glossier, high-rise sister over on One Dalton Street—and it’s a different kind of fabulous. Sleek, sculptural, and high above the city, it has the kind of energy where you expect to overhear someone name-dropping their art advisor at the bar. It’s glamorous, buzzy, and definitely built for a scene. The elevators are all mirrored, the lobby smells expensive, and the whole place seems to whisper: "You packed the good shoes, right?" If you’re in the mood for a skyline soak in a marble tub, or a martini that comes with both a view and a potential influencer sighting, One Dalton delivers.

But the Four Seasons on the Common? This one’s quieter. It’s all about understated charm. You might not get panoramic city views from every room, but you do get something distinctly Boston—windows that frame the Common like a postcard, complete with swan boats drifting by in season and joggers who look like they were born training for the marathon. And if you time it right, you might spot the Make Way for Ducklings squad waddling through, looking like they just came from a PR meeting. Very Boston. Very busy.

The vibe here is classic New England elegance: quiet, intentional, and never trying too hard. If One Dalton is a sequin dress and a rooftop martini, this one is a camel wool coat, a leather glove, and a very good Manhattan by the fire. And look—New Englanders don’t throw the word “favorite” around lightly. But this hotel? It’s the Ritz cracker and aged Vermont cheddar of Boston stays. Iconic, dependable, zero fuss, and always hits.

Now. Let’s talk amenities. Anyone who knows me knows I’m a sucker for early morning sauna access where I can do my hot yoga. So imagine my delight when I discovered the dreamy top-floor gym—complete with a beautiful lap pool, a sauna, and a steam room—all open at the extremely respectable hour of 6 a.m. That’s right. I like to start my day with a little downward dog and a lot of eucalyptus steam. I typically announce to my husband, “I’m heading down to my private yoga studio,” to which he lovingly reminds me, “Babe, it’s not your private yoga studio. It’s literally the hotel’s sauna.” Semantics.

And after your sunrise sweat session? Roll right into the hotel’s complimentary cappuccino bar. Yes, complimentary. Not your standard lobby coffee situation, but a legit espresso bar with real baristas, real lattes, and the cutest little muffins you’ve ever seen. It’s one of those quiet luxuries that makes you feel like you’re getting away with something.

Later in the day, once your robe has been swapped for jeans (skinny jeans to be exact, cause they’re apparently back “in” – thank you Alix Earle), it’s time to head down to the hotel’s bar. The space is cozy and elevated, with wallpaper that feels like a French bistro met a New England reading room. If your most stylish aunt owned a townhome in Paris and invited you over for cocktails, it would look like this. Many of the drinks are tea-infused—a cheeky nod to Boston’s most famous beverage moment, when patriots tossed their Earl Grey into the harbor and collectively said, “We’ll stick to Sam Adams.” These drinks are far more refined, garnished with citrus twists, tiny herbs, and just the right amount of confidence.

The FS Boston is the kind of place that nails the details, serves up comfort without trying too hard, and makes you feel like a local—even if you say “car” with all the R’s. Bottom line? It’s wicked good.

Prima: Where I Ate Like an Italian Nonna, Minus the Apron

Let me set the scene: my friend Jill told me I had to try Prima, an Italian steakhouse in Boston that she described as “everything you want and nothing you don’t.” Jill knows her stuff—and as usual, she didn’t disappoint.

Prima opened in 2023 in the North End, taking over the landmark spot that once housed the beloved Ida’s. It’s from the team behind Capo in South Boston—another place known for big flavors, big crowds, and that polished-but-playful energy. Prima has the vibe of a classic Italian-American steakhouse with a little North End swagger—like Sunday dinner met a night out and brought a DJ.

We rolled into Prima on a Friday at 6:30 p.m.—and it was already a full-blown party. The bar? Packed. Dining room? Humming. At least three birthday cakes were being paraded past us, and the energy was somewhere between high-end dinner and joyful chaos. Loud, fun, zero pretense. The staff was fast, sharp, and somehow smiling through the storm. Our server moved like a steakhouse ninja—offering great recs and gently guiding our food-induced indecision like a pro.

I was there with my son and his girlfriend, and things kicked off in dramatic (and delicious) fashion when they ordered a tiramisu espresso martini. It looked like dessert in a glass and tasted like pure genius. Someone please tell me how to make this at home—I’ll invest.

Now, onto the food—which was as over-the-top good as the scene around us. We ordered like people who skipped lunch on purpose. The house-made buffalo mozzarella? Creamy perfection. The arancini in truffle sauce? Little golden clouds of happiness. And the kale Caesar? I know kale’s had its moment, but this was actually good—crunchy, salty, lemony. Salad, but fun.

Midway through the meal, I snuck off to the restroom and walked right into a full costume crisis. In front of the mirror stood a group of middle-aged women dressed head-to-toe as Paul Revere. Capes. Boots. Hats. Buttons. They were unfazed. I was unfazed. I helped a few of them adjust their cloaks and secure their ruffles, because that’s the kind of support system we build in a ladies’ room.

Turns out Boston was celebrating the 250th anniversary of Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride with immersive events across the city. Prima happens to sit right across from City Square Park, where what I can only describe as a full-blown historical reenactment slash colonial block party was unfolding. It was very serious patriotism—with snacks.

Also worth noting: if you or someone you're dining with is gluten-free, Monday is your night. Every Monday, the entire restaurant goes fully gluten-free—kitchen, menu, everything. It’s like a secret club, but with GF pasta. The vibe is the same, the food still slaps, and nobody has to ask a million questions about substitutions. A dream.

In short: Prima was a hit. It’s theatrical, it’s loud, it’s Boston, and it’s delicious. You’ll want to eat everything. And maybe bring your own tricorn hat—just in case.

{gallery2}

Davio’s: Where I Ate Like a Marathoner, Minus the Running 

Last night took me to Davio’s—the kind of place that’s been around long enough to feel like a Boston institution but still manages to surprise you. Originally opened in 1985 in the Back Bay, Davio’s has grown into a small empire of steakhouses, but the flagship still hits differently. Think white tablecloths, high ceilings, and servers who somehow appear the moment you need something—without ever interrupting your story about getting stuck behind the Duck Boats during a Red Sox parade. You know, back when they were actually winning things (Settle down Yankees fans. You’re not doing so hot these day either). 

The steaks are what everyone talks about—and it’s totally deserved. They’re classic, perfectly cooked, and come with the kind of sides that make you feel like you might be training for the marathon… if carbo-loading at a white tablecloth steakhouse somehow counted as a training plan. (Spoiler: it doesn’t. But if you're here for the carbs, go for the hand-rolled gnocchi or the tagliatelle Bolognese and consider your evening an emotional victory.)

But Davio’s also quietly gets it when it comes to dietary restrictions and trying to eat like an adult. They’ve got a full gluten-free menu that goes well beyond just not bringing you bread. And if you’re in your Clean Eating Era—or just attempting to neutralize last night’s damage—the Healthy Awaken180° Menu is kind of a dream. It’s clean, clear, and refreshingly no-BS: six to eight ounces of protein, two full cups of vegetables, everything grilled, steamed, or kissed with olive oil. Even the vinaigrettes have their act together. You don’t have to decode “lightly tossed” or ask for five adjustments. It’s already handled.

I ordered from that menu last night. Not because I’m turning over a new leaf. I was just trying to earn dessert. I went with the spicy cauliflower rice, which—no joke—was a solid move. And before you get any ideas: this isn’t me going full-on healthy. It was a one-night stand, not a relationship.

Because let’s be real: dessert was non-negotiable. The hazelnut baked Alaska was everything it needed to be—warm, cold, crunchy, creamy. Dramatic in all the right ways, but not trying to get its own Bravo spinoff. A proper end to the night. Zero regrets on the cauliflower. Zero regrets, period.