When you’re an old, home-loving stick-in the mud like me, moving is tough. Change is tough. The last few weeks have taught me that lesson in new and horrible ways. I realized how much I’ve been whining about it when Samantha joked that my blog has cured her of wanting to live in Boston. Stories about bad things often make more amusing blogging, and who knows why? The full truth is that Boston is starting to sink into my skin, and it’s not so bad.
First, you’ve got the bus. Yes, it’s a smelly, rattling, sardine tin of a high-speed death trap that always drives past thirty seconds before you can get to the bus stop. I won’t deny it. The but? It can get you anywhere in the greater Boston area without having to walk in the rain. It runs frequently. And it’s finally given me a place to finish The Satanic Verses. That may sound strange, but I could never bring myself to work all the way through such a mad dance of doubt and exile when I was so safely at home. On the bus, Rushdie suddenly makes sense.
Then there’s immigrant&student-rich dream of the thing. Boston is bursting at the seams with people dreaming about something a little bit better. The dreams are mixed in with a lot of hardship and hassle, but added all together, they’re big enough to move the world. You can’t knock Boston for its dreamers.
And the cherry on top: John found a little park when he got lost on his way home from a job interview the other day. It’s a very short walk from our apartment and surrounded by lovely, costly old homes with overflowing gardens. Perfect for a lazy Saturday picnic, and not as dangerous as walking to anything by the Charles.
Yeah, Sam, Boston has its faults. But it’s not so bad.