JUNE 25, 2026 – (Cont.) Our son Byron deserves special credit for having placed the John F. Kennedy Library and Museum on our expedition’s itinerary. It’s not a destination I would’ve included—though not because of any negative bias or lack of interest. Byron himself had never expressed a particular interest in JFK or his legacy, but he was thinking of his 10-year-old-niece, especially, and how she might benefit from exposure to the watershed times of our 35th president. Byron is to be commended for this, as is Illiana for having been receptive to it. I resisted the temptation to overwhelm her with emphases, as in “Illiana, look at this!” and “Illiana, look at that!” The better course, I think, is to provide means and access but then allow the child to discover on her own. At her age, what captures her attention and imagination in this way is likely to make a more lasting impression than my (relentless) enthusiasm—and blather.
As we ambled away from the museum, I pondered the contrast between Illiana’s perception of President Kennedy and my own. At the most elementary level, her chronological relationship to the hallmarks of his Administration and his assassination was as distant as my own relationship to the Spanish-American War and the assassination of President McKinley. As a 10-year old, how much had I known or heard of those events in American history[1]? Your guess is 100% correct.
On our way to meet Byron’s good friends Arthur and Amy again, this time for Dim Sum at Ming’s in Quincy, I relished the learning experience that he had afforded not only Illiana, but her French-born aunt and American grandparents as well.
Ming’s was one of three anchor establishments at a Quincy mall. Upon entering the place, I felt as if we’d stepped into an enormous kaleidoscope of Chinese food on countless tables, each surrounded by a dozen patrons. Locating Arthur and Amy was akin to playing a game of “Where’s Waldo?” We ultimately found them in an over-flow area that gave it an appearance of relative privacy.
“Ah ha!” I said. “I see that you command special respect. I feel privileged to be sharing in your V.I.P. treatment.”
Our friends laughed: “No, they simply ran out of room in the main dining area.” As I peered out at the “main dining area,” I saw a scale model of the South China Sea, filled with Chinese junks sporting tablecloth sails. Soon Amy was placing our table order based on preferences we called out to her from a giant, double-sided menu.
In due course the food arrived—in multiple bowls and on plates and platters beyond count. Enough to feed our group many times over, I thought. Quantity, however, didn’t diminish quality, and every morsel was to be savored for its flavorful ingredients and care in preparation. After the pace of our consumption had slowed, I rose to intercept our skilled and hard-working wait person to corner the bill.
“It’s already taken care of, sir,” she said. I’d been out-maneuvered by Arthur.
“Why thank you,” I told him and Amy. “But understand that friendship is fed by reciprocation, and you can count on our reciprocating.”
“Byron and Mylène already have,” said Arthur, “by hosting us in Connecticut.”
After finishing this remarkable meal, we all strolled down to the adjacent industrial-sized grocery store featuring Chinese food—and Korean pears, as Beth discovered. The only downside was the cool temperature, which discouraged browsing and encouraged removing myself outside to the warmth of the sunny parking lot. There I strolled, observing the inflow and outflow of Sunday shoppers, and thinking, America—what a great country we have!
By the time our expedition members emerged, still in the company of Arthur and Amy, the time had slipped to nearly 4:00. Dim Sum down the way was long over, and Ming’s was now under siege by a sound and light crew setting up for a Vietnamese wedding reception. Judging by the number of trucks and rolling equipment cases and size of the crew—as well as the enormity of the South China Sea—one could fairly assume that an extravaganza was in store for the guests. Again, I thought, America—what a great country!
After a hearty farewell, we waved good-bye to our friends and headed out of Boston for one more stop before turning southwest back to Connecticut. Byron wanted Illiana to see the beautiful sprawling grounds of his alma mater, Babson College. She was very much game to do so, and we enjoyed a pleasant stroll around the largely deserted campus. Byron—and Beth and I—were quite impressed by the building expansion that had occurred since his graduation in 2011.
At one point, the rest of the crew took a small detour, while I rested on a bench in front of the 28-foot-diameter/25-ton rotating globe at the center of campus. Before I was called away by the expedition, I found great pleasure in reviewing the names and locations of various islands and island groups in the South Atlantic and South Pacific.
We then loaded ourselves back into the caravan vehicles and wended our way back on to I95 and the drive home. May the record reflect that Illiana and I rode with Byron in what would be known as the “quiet car.” Beth, meanwhile, rode with Mylène and two young children who, as it turned out, decided for one reason or another, to cry for pretty much the entirety of the next two-and-a-half hours. But none of that noise could drown out the marvelous souvenirs of a wonderful trip in our continuing discovery of this highly unusual place we call . . . America.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Only much later in life would I learn that my grandmother had been at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, NY on September 6, 1901, the day McKinley was shot. He died of his wounds eight days later.
