Erin returned after a month stay with his father in Idaho. we learned yesterday, because he saw that day the homeopath who has done so much for him, that he has type 2 diabetes. welcome home. needless to say a lot of worry on all our parts. the homeopath has done amazing things for Erin over the years. she helped my own less acute blood sugar problem. not to say we will proceed without Erin's regular doctor, but we do have faith in homeopathy. so we drove into Boston after 10:00, Erin's plane wouldn't arrive till 11:30. the Big Dig has been a boondoggle, a criminal conjunction of our sleazy pols and the unsavoury business ethics of Bechtel, but the concept of improving the arteries into Boston is sound. the Zakim Bridge is a pisser, especially at night. I love how cities are filled with these enormous, splendid, overwhelming structures that are indeed just ordinary facts of life. that's why Berenice Abbott's pictures are so compelling. we parked in Central Parking, even this late a maw of unmoving cars. step on the moving walkway (which--do you remember?--were always the definitive element of future life in the Disney/Jetson vision of perfection) and the voice of Mayor Tom Menino regales you with the wonders to be enjoyed within the borders of the Hub of the Universe. his accent must sound incomprehensible to you yokels, so you may not be as excited as you ought to be about the ahts and culcha to be discuvvud in Bawston. we made our way to the ticketing area, a cavern bereft at this time of all but a handful of people. a security person guarding the gate we wanted thwarted our initial attempts to enter. he pointed us to the one ticket person on duty. there was a weary couple ahead of us who were trying to resolve some problem, lost luggage perhaps. the ticket person appeared sympathetic and efficient, which is always nice. when it was our turn, he could allow only one of us to enter the gate. in 2001, Erin returned from Idaho in late august. both Beth and I remarked how chaotic and confused the whole place seemed. 2 weeks later, events beginning from the same Terminal changed the world. which sounds corny or made for television but I guess it's the truth. so I went down to wait at baggage claim while Beth went to greet Erin. it was an hour wait since we arrived betimes. the energy and tension of airports. people wandering around talking on their cellphoens (a feat I cannot manage, give me a well-anchored phone anyday, not that I talk much on the phone), or waiting bored, or greeting loved ones. I was impressed by a limo driver walking back and forth with a sign emblazoned with the name of his client. he was a stocky fellow in a brisk black suit that said limo driver in upscale upmarket terms. his sign was hand-written but encased neatly in plastic, professional all the way. he held the sign at sternum level and walked with a crisp focal stride. you can't manufacture that, you have to own it from the beginning. in contradistinction, there was a woman, no professional, standing before the doors of the restricted high security area from which certain passengers stepped. I don't even know the wherefore of that area (foreign dignitaries? rock stars?). her sign was for Herr German Guy, a hastily scribbled thing. obviously she got hooked into this chore of Virgil to incoming foreigner. she hadn't the confidence of the liveried fellow, was a mere and weary amateur. finally Beth and Erin came down the escalator. Erin was hyped by the plane ride and overwhelmed by the diagnosis of diabetes. some of the walkways, especially coming into Cental Parking, resemble Star Wars sets, the ones where Luke or whoever hangs above a vertiginous drop to comfort the discerning movie-goer's need for drama. a new system for paying your way out of your parking dilemma was instituted some time after we last were there (last month). you take your ticket to a machine and insert cash or credit card. the machine tells you in an anxious voice what to do, in case the written explanations aren't clear enough. take your ticket, take your receipt. this is no time saver, in case you were hoping, because you still have to stop at the ticket thingie and give your ticket to the gatekeeper. I guess this system keeps the cash out of their hands, and out of the hands of those who might rob them. a similar system should've been used to keep tax monies away from Bechtel and our sticky-fingered pols. homeward was a little more challenging because the efficient nearby entrance onto Route 93 was closed and the detour led into cramped, crowded (yet quaint!) North End, a bit hither and yon till you can finally find 93 again. it was 1:00 when we got home, and this and that, and the boy is home.