Those of you who followed both the Wandering Blues and the Match Day Madness series know how utterly mad those six months were. As we struggled to figure out where we'd be living that summer, I blogged it all. I wrote about Gainesville. I wrote about Baltimore. I wrote about NYC. But I never wrote about Boston.
I don't think I knew how.
I didn't want to jinx it, maybe. I didn't know how to put Boston in words. So I shut my mouth -- and I hoped. And Derrick opened his Match Day envelope, and that envelope said Boston.
I will never forget how that felt.
We came to Boston in January -- Derrick had an interview, true, but our main reason for coming was to speed-date the city. Could we live here? Could he? Could I?
Boston got walloped with 16 inches of snow on the day before we were set to arrive, causing our flight to be cancelled. Twice. Once after we had already gotten up at 5 a.m. and driven to the airport (on the way home, our flight got cancelled and we had to spend the night in Philly. With a lobster. The airport gods were not looking favorably upon us that trip).
We navigated the subway system, got dinner at the second oldest restaurant in Boston (it was unimpressive), and we sampled every local microbrewery beer we could find.
I expected to find a smaller version of NYC -- high heels, sharp eyes, a ruthlessly fast pace. I didn't. People walk slower. They smile more. They're quick to give advice (whether you ask for it or not). They ask you what you're ordering at the Asian sandwich shop.
|My first banh mi sandwich... a THREE DOLLAR banh mi sandwich, I might add)|
We set out to do the Freedom Trail. All of it. It was freezing. A Boston baptism by fire, we figured -- if we can handle Boston at its harshest, in freezing temperatures and 16 inches of snow, we can handle Boston any time.
|Specialized hookers, please use the entrance on the other side of the building.|
|Yes. That's a sea captain snowman on that boat. And you wonder why I'm in love with this city?|
|You thought of Star Wars too, right? Right?!?|
|This is the part of the Freedom Trail that becomes less "quaint red brick line that winds through our historic treasure of a town" and becomes more "ghetto red line painted on concrete"|
|Follow the yellow brick -- er, red brick -- er, red painted line of a road|
|The light at the end of the tunnel is...CAMBRIDGE!|
|Cambridge likes to confuse itself with NYC, apparently|
|We did join them for brunch. And we did not regret it. Because...|
|...there were cocktails. Fan-freaking-tastic cocktails.|
I came into this post expecting to dive into a long, gushing manifesto about how I fell in love with this town -- but I realize now I don't need to. I'm realizing I can't. Sometimes even a writer can't tell a love story.
But that doesn't mean her camera can't.