No city does fireworks quite like Boston. Around 7 o’clock in the evening on July 4th, as the sun declines, the entire city makes its way to the banks of the Charles and clusters upon the grass to hear the Boston Pops over the PA, and once night falls like a magician’s handkerchief over the city, the Charles erupts in flame.
Boston fireworks are more ordinance than amusement: though they burst into gleaming fish that dart across the sky turning and dancing as if to evade a hidden pike, make no mistake, these are rockets. They have red glare, and like bombs they burst in air.
Of course, being a geek, mere aesthetics did not consume my attention. I spent a solid five minutes of the show estimating the height of the highest blooms of fire and thinking, “Oh, so that‘s what something bigger than a skyscraper looks like.”
Happy belated 4th of July, everyone. May your fireworks not have tentacles.