It’s the sound of Boston…the busses and trains and the accents that make me laugh.
It’s the brick buildings and the smell of Spring, still cold, winter holding on tightly with windy fingers, the breeze cutting through my California sweater. The coffee I hold in this endearing coffee shop is warm and reminds me of drinking hot chocolate on December days. I savor it, sip it smoothly and listen to friendly conversations that sound like collections of buzzes.
It’s the pretty girl I have shared my days with, the way she laughs infectious, like the giggle fits that will never leave, the way she walks and lives her determined life make me want to hold her hand and walk with her though it. The way she wakes in the morning quietly fantastic, fumbling for her glasses near the bedside and soft footsteps down the hall to keep her sleeping roommates happy. She talks about things I enjoy; her voice the familiar sound she wore in college, when she lived above me, when our lives were simple and decorated in parties and nights spent remembering how to chug a beer while holding on to the beer pong table to keep us from falling over.
It’s Fenway Park. This ballpark a dream for my baseball eyes, the way the park breathes intimacy in its small structure and has an old, historic feel Los Angeles can only wish for. The beer I drink on the Big Green Monster more perfect than anything I could write of, and when the home run ball flew over our heads, we laughed, and said wow, and gave high fives to people around us while the stadium cheered and the Red Sox won the game in dramatic fashion. Then the dancing afterwards, some historic pub with a cover band singing us into a vibrant mood…what’s that song, yes, Living on a Prayer, and we dance to it and sing the lyrics like we really mean them while the bar drinks itself alive with insanity and neon lights meant to inspire the sudsy kind.
It’s the Sam Adams brewery on a Saturday, all the hops and barley and taste testing in an old cellar with Lucy next to me, pouring herself seconds of the Summer Ale while smiling and saying she loves it. Then the next stop, to 131-year-old Doyle’s Cafe in Jamaica Plains, taken there in a party bus by a guy who insists on giving a fist pump every time he says the name Doyle’s; this is mandatory, he says, and Lucy and I imitate him for the rest of the day and laugh every time. I order a simple sandwich and enjoy my time with Lucy, by now we are drunk and loving it. Moving onwards, drinking at The Brahmin that evening with Lucy and Ashley and dancing into the night while sipping on beer and whiskey and the type of drinks that produce hangovers and hazy memories. Somehow we make it home by taking a cab, how wonderful, crawling into Boston sheets with a nice buzz slumbering us to sleep.
It’s watching an angry bus driver disdainfully help a paraplegic on to the bus, the driver making me mad, having no compassion for the man who has wheels for legs, who would gladly trade in his wheelchair for the ability to walk again, to run again in the Boston sunlight that cuts in between apartment buildings and fights the shade with beams of yellow and gold. They are always rude, Lucy tells me, speaking of the bus drivers. I give the driver a dirty scowl as I exit the bus but forget him as Lucy and I walk past diners and laundry mats and streetlights swaying in the wind on our way home from the movie.
Then it comes time to leave this city. I wake in the morning and feel sorry I have to leave Boston behind. I stay in bed a few hours and think about my time here, then will myself into the shower then down the street to enjoy food at a small café called Flour, where I order a breakfast sandwich before walking to the very café I am writing in now. Only a few more hours before my flight to London, and my nerves are starting to perk up, like they understand I am about to go so very far from home.
But I am thankful for Lucy’s hospitality, and for giving me the bright side of Boston with drinks and baseball and dancing and late night movies and early morning laughs. Everything here in Boston has lined my whole experience in a perfect cloud I can float on.
So on to the next adventure, and the busses and planes that will take me there.
London so very calling….