i wax nostalgic
So here I am, about to leave Boston, to head off on my greatest adventure yet.
This week I have -- by accident -- spent time in every neighborhood in Boston that I grew to know during my five years here. I have lived in six apartments, worked at three long jobs and about twenty shorter ones, and walked the length of this small city.
I came here five years ago nervous, excited, with only the vaguest of ideas of what would happen once I arrived. Now, this is my home, and I head back with the same feeling of anticipation.
I remember sitting on the stoop next to Ankara Cafe in Kenmore, a week or two into college, wearing new corduroy pants, eating ice cream, laughing with new friends -- the satifying, thunderclap realization that this was my new life.
Red light soaking the length of Comm Ave at sunset; waiting for the B line with frozen fingers; pizza at Campo dei Fiori; walking past midnight, alone, two miles from Allston to south campus; listening to my ipod on the commuter rail; singing my heart into Symphony Hall; fluffy flakes of snow slowly blanketing my fire escape; stolen kisses on docks, bridges, street corners.
I am the same person, but I am not. The things that happened to me here, choices I made, the friends I leave, each changed me in their own irrevocable way.
Not everything I did here was the right thing, but this is exactly where I wanted to end up, even if I didn't know it.
I may be from Rockville, but Boston is where I grew up.
This week I have -- by accident -- spent time in every neighborhood in Boston that I grew to know during my five years here. I have lived in six apartments, worked at three long jobs and about twenty shorter ones, and walked the length of this small city.
I came here five years ago nervous, excited, with only the vaguest of ideas of what would happen once I arrived. Now, this is my home, and I head back with the same feeling of anticipation.
I remember sitting on the stoop next to Ankara Cafe in Kenmore, a week or two into college, wearing new corduroy pants, eating ice cream, laughing with new friends -- the satifying, thunderclap realization that this was my new life.
Red light soaking the length of Comm Ave at sunset; waiting for the B line with frozen fingers; pizza at Campo dei Fiori; walking past midnight, alone, two miles from Allston to south campus; listening to my ipod on the commuter rail; singing my heart into Symphony Hall; fluffy flakes of snow slowly blanketing my fire escape; stolen kisses on docks, bridges, street corners.
I am the same person, but I am not. The things that happened to me here, choices I made, the friends I leave, each changed me in their own irrevocable way.
Not everything I did here was the right thing, but this is exactly where I wanted to end up, even if I didn't know it.
I may be from Rockville, but Boston is where I grew up.