Boston
Boston is a different vibe from anywhere else I’ve been.
Something exists in the air here I can’t quite pinpoint, but it calls to me, like a siren’s song. The humming of sweet, melodic music. Overlapping voices, the sounds of stoplights and traffic and motion. The scent of exotic foods and burning wood and car exhaust, like perfume-laced war letters, signals that remind one of home and belonging.
There’s so much history here…so much to see, do, smell, taste, and hear. I wanted to see it all, feel it all, but realized it will take me decades to do it…
And I’m so here for it.
The city’s heartbeat is steady, heard in the footsteps of millions occupying that same history where soldiers once lay in heaps, fighting and dying and vying for a greater, more peaceful nation. I thought often if my footsteps mirrored those of a continental soldier long ago…if I was walking the same path they had as they ran to reinforce the ranks, staving off redcoats in a hail of musket and cannon fire. The acrid smoke of spent powder filling the air on a cold day like the one I walked as we took our first trip into the city that would be our new home.
I was walking within memory. It made me appreciate that I exist…
I’m home.
The trip was meant for me to gain my bearings before I start work at the hospital, learning the subway system and how to get from A to B without looking like a lost kitten in a concrete labyrinth. Within minutes of starting our adventure, I’d abandoned that goal and decided that we needed to explore, even if it was only a surface level inspection.
Marrying a Boston native comes with the perks of such scenic and touristy opportunities: Jessie could walk these streets blindfolded and still find her way to the Green Line. So, she took on the mantle of tour guide and led a wide-eyed boy through Boston Commons and ended it with a trip to Cheers. By the time my feet managed to find my doorway again, I was hooked.
I was home.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk from my door to the train station, and many would believe that walking in a frigid northeast winter would be torture. Far from it, in fact if you know how to layer appropriately and keep moving. I’ll certainly say I wore the wrong shoes (Classic Vans offer little insulation and my toes were more than a little pissed at me until the walk warmed them) but there’s so much to see and do that the sharp bite of blood shunting itself to my core didn’t bother me.
My eyes pored over everything. The small shops in Newton Center. Local eateries emanating the scents of basil and fresh garlic and spices that made my mouth water at ten in the morning. Car horns gently urging those in front of them to get a move on, that the city waits for no man and a state of flow must endure.
A multitude of sights, scents, and sounds…a haven of activity.
I bought my first ever ticket to board a train that day (outside an airport tram, but I don’t wholly feel like those count) and I was glad it was Saturday, because I looked like a newborn foal finding its feet for the first time. Luckily, my tour guide, who also happens to be the love of my life, took over and got us the tickets we needed to board the train. Within minutes, we were aboard, and I was treated to another of my favorite pastimes: People-Watching.
I love watching humans interact in their natural environment. How they talk to one another, or how they keep to themselves, jotting thoughts down in small notebooks on the state of the world or the state of their world.
Sonder was the word of the day: the knowledge that these people were living vivid, complex lives and I was at the looking glass, getting a brief chance to watch them live it. It’s an intimate thing, to be given the opportunity to live momentarily alongside a stranger, and it’s one of the more beautiful gifts we’ve been given on this earth…
But I digress.
The trip took a little over half an hour to get from our place in Newton to the heart of Boston, with one connecting trip from the Green Line to the Red Line, which I ruined in my over-confidence…we went the wrong direction and had to stop. Jessie told me it’s the natural part of being a Bostonian…that you must lose yourself sometimes to find yourself… which is poetic, if you think about it.
Minutes later, we had course corrected and emerged near Mass General Hospital. I’d completed my self-appointed task of locating my future worksite, marveling at the sheer size of Massachusetts General Hospital, and had the option to turn back and head home…
But who in their right mind arrives to the goldmine and decides to turn back? To not drown oneself in glittering treasures?
It was cold in the city, but the buildings did much to cut the wind to a manageable level. My hands and feet were unamused with our adventure, but my eyes, ears and nose were a hum of activity. I was drowning in sensation, and I hoped to suffocate on these streets and die a happy man. Sounds overlapping. Scents multitudinous. The world around me a pallet of color. It was heaven.
We followed Cambridge Road until we could hook upward towards the Commons: the park at the heart of the city. I almost got annihilated by a delivery driver on a vespa and learned that red lights and crosswalks mean nothing to some folks here. I cursed him good-naturedly (he’s just a dude trying to get food to someone who needs it, it wasn’t an assassination attempt) and we went on our way, passing Irish pubs and sushi bars until we found ourselves near the capitol building. There’s a firefighter’s memorial there I’ll be digging deeper into the next time we’re in the area, because it was moving, even from a distance.
We arrived in the Commons, and my favorite pastime began anew. There were so many people there, and it was overwhelming to watch them exist in the same space that I was. Parents teaching their children how to ice skate in the small rink right at the center of it. The frozen pond, where couples walked gingerly, hand in hand, keeping each other upright with giggles and supporting, loving hands. A busker played the accordion for a little girl, which emanated a rendition of Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star that could have made grown men weep.
And the statues…the monuments…the artwork.
This is a city after my own soul.
We warmed ourselves by heading over to Cheers, where our bartender and server—whose name is Lisa and was awesome and made us feel welcome—served us up some pints of ice-cold Sam Adams and a warm bowl of chili. The music was on point, playing the songs of the early 2000’s…the songs of my people. We learned about trivia nights and listened to locals and tourists alike laugh and carry on with each other in a place that made me feel warm both inside and out. This bar is a tourist destination, but I firmly believe that everyone is a tourist their first month living in a new place, and I didn’t mind being a Greek among the Romans. By the time we left, I had a full belly and an invigoration to explore more…
But there would be more time to see it all, and home, our home, called to us.
Because this place—this living, breathing city—is now our home…and I will see it all, even if it takes me my whole life.
Yes…
Yes, I am home.