It was over a decade ago when the traveling circus that pays my bills dispatched me up Boston, Massachusetts for a multi-year engagement. My troupe decided to set up camp on the North Shore, which meant that my daily commute took me through the quaint little town of Revere. And even though Revere is far from famous— known mainly for the Suffolk Downs race track, its annual sandcastle festival, and a single Target store— there’s absolutely no reason to look down on this small municipality. The town is a destination for food lovers, boasting a countless number of Dunkin Donuts cafes and Kelly’s Roast Beef and Seafood shops. For those of us in the know, however, Revere’s true claim to fame is its 40-foot-tall statue of the Virgin Mary.
If you’ve never been to Massachusetts, you should be aware that it’s a particularly religious state. The truly devout are easy to spot, those folks who self-identify through a practice of erecting small concrete statues of the Virgin Mary in their front yards, often beneath the cover of an upturned bathtub planter. Which is why it came as no surprise to me that one afternoon, stuck in traffic along Route 1A, that I glanced up and happened to notice a massive billboard announcing that I was just half a mile away from a 40-foot-tall Virgin Mary.
Naturally, I pulled off to find this roadside wonder.
After navigating the twisting, narrow roads, I eventually pulled up a steep slope which jutted improbably out over the Boston Harbor. And there across the sidewalk, living up to its billing, was a megalithic statue of Madonna, Queen of the Universe. Somewhat surprised at the ease with which I’d found this treasure, I felt compelled to explore further. Risking the wrath of every cranky meter maid in Suffolk County, I double parked next to a pristine Cadillac sedan, then meandered over to the shrine.
As I wandered about, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that I didn’t belong. Like I’d definitely stumbled onto the wrong side of the tracks— more so than anywhere else in Revere, I mean— and the old-school “Don Orione” retirement home next door only reinforced the fact that I was an outsider. I swear, if just a single portly Italian gentleman had walked past with his polo shirt tucked into a pair of jogging pants, it would’ve felt as if I’d been transported into some Boston Noir crime novel.
The shrine itself was mostly unremarkable— besides the fact that it was even there, I mean. A simple plateau with a cross paved in smooth concrete, with a couple of random benches for visitors to sit and reflect on the glory of The Blessed Virgin. I kicked myself for not having the foresight to grab a coffee, since this random shrine made for a perfect spot to just disappear and think. And beyond that vaunted statue, the panoramic view was incredible, making East Boston look better than it ever could from ground level. As I watched the planes queue up to take off from Logan Airport, I almost felt as if I could’ve hung out there all afternoon.
But after a while, I couldn’t help feeling like I might’ve overstayed my welcome, and I shuffled back off to my car feeling oddly fulfilled. I’d not only satisfied my curiosity, but also managed to score a few precious minutes of quiet peace in a crowded old city.
Thanks for that, Blessed Virgin…