Between appointments and seminars in Boston, I had time to kill so I decided to visit Paul Revere’s house, which is pinpointed on the city’s tourist maps but isn’t all that easy to find.

Like most cities founded in 17th century America, Boston looks as if it was planned by a drunk. For the most part, the streets are merely glorified cow paths that meander without logic. Unless you live there, or visit often, you will invariably get lost and confused for an hour trying to locate an address that only a gifted clairvoyant could find in less time.

Of course, I never ask directions.

The map I consulted helped, but only a little bit. The best method for success I figured was to check the position of the sun, then stumble off on foot while effecting the mien and manner of a drunk, meandering cow. It worked!
After walking up and down Hanover Street a few times and mooing all the way, I finally saw a tiny sign that was nailed to a wall that said, “Paul Revere’s House, first right, first left.”

Technically speaking, the first right was actually a dark alley that led to nowhere. But I persevered. Aided further by the distant sound of a fife and drum, I quickly came upon the great patriot’s house squeezed between buildings on the gentle slope of a narrow lane.

No matter the size of a town, I always make a point of visiting historic sites or local history musuems—the more obscure and eccentric they are, the better. I particularly enjoy the exhibits that might include miscelleneous artifacts of note such as a dinosaur bone, a rusty cannon ball from a forgotten battle and a photograph of the “coldest winter in memory” from the year 18-something. I also love the palaver of the crazy docents who dress up in “period” garb and tell you about the ghosts they see at night when the tourists aren’t around.

Paul Revere’s House fits that bill. Revere, as every school kid knows was the silversmith who was made famous by Longfellow’s 1860 poem about the midnght ride warning that the British were on their way, either by land or by sea. Longfellow was a poet, not a historian, and so he neglected some things, like the fact that there were two other guys who rode through the streets of Boston that night and did their patriotic bit that night just like Revere did.

There names didn’t rhyme too well. Historic truth is hard to rhyme.

Anyway, back to the house. For three bucks, there isn’t all that much to see. Inside the four rooms, are the requisite wood beams, hearths, ancient bedsteads and other Spartan furnishings. Vacationing families in single file stared blankly at the stuff for a few minutes and left, no doubt puzzled by the absence of anything resembling a laser-light show.

Most, therefore missed my favorite item among a meager collection of things on display. It was an essential household item from olden times—a chmaber pot.

This was dedication in the extreme. Somebody had actually taken the time and trouble to fit together and Super Glue the shards of a dead person’s crapper. The best part was that it didn’t even belong to Paul Revere.

A notecard said it was used during a later period.

I was awestruck. And it reminded me that nature was calling. I needed to relieve myself, but, yes, you guessed it, there was public restroom. Briefly, I cosnidered the chamber pot, which was safe behind protective glass.

Contemplatng my dilemma, I realized something else about cities that are founded in the 17th century: There’s plenty to see but nowhere, um, to go.