Derrick and I struck a deal one weekend this fall.
Saturday we'd live in Nickiland and go to the Boston Book Festival, where she could sit in rapt attention as real, live authors sat in front of her and waxed poetics on writing, on philosophy, and on apple recipes (of COURSE we went to the food writing seminar).
Sunday we'd take a detour deep into Derrickland and head to the Wellfleet Oyster Festival (pictures next week), an all-day oyster gorgefest on the Cape, where Derrick could wax poetics on the Love of his Life and the Most Glorious Thing in Existence: the raw Wellfleet oyster.
In other words, one of us was in a constant state of delirious rapture all weekend.
|Note the delirious rapture in my expression|
The Festival took place in Copley Square, home of the Boston Public Library, AKA One of the Prettiest Buildings in the World.
|The Edgar Allan Poe view|
|I think the New York Public Library is one of the prettiest buildings in existence, but believe me, the Boston Public Library gives it a real run for its money.|
|Now I can't be in an old library without hoping the Ghostbusters will swoop in unexpectedly|
I know I talk about it all the time, but I really do come from farm country. One-stoplight-town, cows and chickens for neighbors, playing in barns, riding horses, fishing, climbing trees, making mudpies barefoot in the creek.
I know I write wide-eyed love letters to Boston all the time. I know all the city kids are out there going "Yes, Nicki, we get it. You live in a city. You have public transit and awful traffic. Whattya want, a goddamn medal?"
But I'm still shocked that I live here. I still can't believe how comfortable I am living here. I can't believe that I moved within a crowd of 25,000 people like I belonged.
Because I don't belong. I shouldn't belong. I'm a one-horse-town, a one-trick-pony. I don't belong with streetlights and subway stations.
But I do.
It's like Kat wrote in a recent comment: "I hate cities. But I love Boston."
|Forgive the terrible photo quality, but I had to share this|
I sometimes feel like I should tone down my love letters. I've gotta be isolating my readers, right? I mean, why should my Australian readers care about Boston? For that matter, why should the Texan ones?
But under that logic, why should I write about anything? Why should I write about my fears, my memories, or my childhood unicorn fantasies? Under that logic, everything's off limits, because everything's irrelevant.
I never wanted to write grand sweeping pieces. Never wanted to write epic books, never wanted to write in-depth, hard-hitting news. I wanted to write this:
"The subjects I was drawn to were often completely ordinary, but I was confident that I could find something extraordinary in their ordinariness. I really believed that anything at all was worth writing about if you cared about it enough, and that the best and only necessary justification for writing any particular story was that I cared about it. The challenge was to write these stories in a way that got other people as interested in them as I was."
|Bahn Mi from Bon Me...sorry, kids, but nothing's going to beat my $3 banh mi spot in Chinatown|
So that's my challenge, I guess.
And it that doesn't work, I can always fall back on my backup plan: posting pictures of wood nymphs taunting babies.