I have never been to Boston before. When I found myself in Shannon Airport in Ireland on Monday morning unable to book a flight to California I decided to go to Boston. I relied on Booking.com to find affordable lodging and chose a place called The Farrington Inn. In the photos it looked like a nice house that had been converted to lodging. It was near a T stop, which meant I could get there. The booking mentioned a shared bathroom and I pictured a bathroom between a couple of rooms, accessible from either.

I am learning that not having a smart phone is a significant deficit. Even cities with a lot of tourism have largely abandoned paper maps for their transit systems, neighborhoods and local attractions. There were subway maps inside the stations, but I didn’t see a single map I could take away with me. I did find a red-shirted transit worker whose shirt said “Ask me a question.”

“Is it really alright to ask you a question?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. When I asked him what T stop I needed for the Farrington Inn he pulled out his smart phone to answer the question. He mentioned getting on the purple line, but I had been staring at a map that indicated that Green Line B might be the right direction. “Or you could take the Red Line to Park and transfer to the Green Line B. Get off at Harvard Ave.”

“Green Line B to Harvard,” I repeated.

I took a Red Line train going toward Alewife (great name!) and got off at Park. Someone told me how to cross through the train by entering it from one platform and exiting through the opposite door onto the other in order to get the elevator to the ticket machines.

With some trouble I bought a “Charlie card,” a 7-day transit pass named for the unfortunate man who was short a nickel and could not get off the MTA. Another red-shirted transit worker helped me get through the fare gate and I was off on a crowded Green Line B train (A tall woman kindly stood and gave me her seat: I squished in my soft-sided travel backpack and held my day pack on my lap, watching the display and listening for station stops).

We traveled underground for awhile and then came above ground to see buildings, trees, sky. We passed Boston University, not to be confused with Boston College, the end of the line. I could see that there was a transit legend further down the car, but I could not read it from where I was sitting. After many stops I heard “Harvard” and staggered off the train, having no idea where I was going. The street was filled with ubiquitous American chains, including McDonald’s and 7-11.

I tried McDonald’s first, but could not figure out how to talk to a human there, so I crossed the street and asked in 7-11 if they had a street map. “We don’t have street maps,” the clerk said. “CVS has street maps.”

Back out I went and scanned the horizon for CVS. I saw it. I crossed the street again twice and asked a CVS clerk if they had street maps. She went off to look, but came back.

“We don’t have street maps,” she said.

Adjacent to CVS was Dunkin’ Donuts, Boston’s iconic coffee chain. I popped in, studied the menu, ordered a lemonade and took it to a small table. I unpacked my laptop to take advantage of free WiFi and looked up directions to the Farrington Inn. It said to turn right onto Harvard Ave, cross three intersections and turn right onto Farrington Ave.

I struggled to identify Harvard Ave: the street signs were confusing. The T called its stop Harvard Ave, but had really stopped on Commonwealth near Harvard. Turns out Harvard Ave was the first corner I had come to, anchored by the McDonald’s and the 7-11.

I trudged down the street, noting a bakery for future reference and a mailbox. I crossed what I thought were three intersections, but still had not come to Farrington Avenue. All along the way I stopped people and asked directions. No one knew anything until I asked a young man “Do you live in this neighborhood?”

“I used to,” he said.

“Do you know Farrington Avenue?”

“Are you looking for The Farrington Inn?”

It was one intersection further. I turned right and looked for number 23 with its double red doors. They were up a steep flight of steps. The first step was a doozy, twice as high as the others. I had to haul myself up by the newel post and the railing, setting my day pack down on each next step. An elderly gentleman watched from the porch and offered me help.

A red door opened and a man asked if I were a guest.

“I have a reservation for six nights,” I said.

“Let me get this gentleman settled. Wait for me in the room on the right.”

I sank onto a sofa with my big pack.

When he came back, he asked if I would prefer a room on the ground floor or a room near the bathroom. which might be on the third floor.

“You seem to have trouble walking,” he said.

“I don’t have trouble walking when I haven’t been carrying a heavy pack. I walked here from the T.”

“You walked here from the T? Wow. Let me look at my inventory.”

He showed me to a ground floor room. The first door led to a kitchen: sink, cupboards, small refrigerator, table and five chairs. No stove, oven, hot plate or microwave. From there, another door led to a bedroom: bed, desk, chair, bureau, small “bedside table” at the foot of the bed. T.V. on the wall, air conditioner fitted into one of four tall narrow windows.

He switched the air conditioner on.

“Do you want to see the bathroom?”

He led me down another corridor and said “It’s the white-painted door.”

“Do you mind if I look?” I asked.

I opened the door. There was a marblesque counter, a scarred sink, and a tiled shower over a bathtub, the kind with doors in a metal track. Sigh. No claw foot bathtub.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No,” I chirped, eager to rest.

Five minutes later, I realized there were no towels in my room.

I went back to reception. “Do you supply towels?”

“Aren’t there any in your room?”

He handed me a folded white bath towel. No hand towel. No bath mat. No face cloth. “Don’t be too greedy,” he said. “They only let us have three of them.”

I didn’t even try to figure that out.