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Friday, April 26th, 2013 12:44 am
So my life has been kind of a mess for the past few months and I haven't really felt like writing pretty much anything. But more on that on some other post, because I still don't feel like getting too much into it.


Like so many others, I was shocked by  what happened last week in Boston. I have an aunt who lives there with his husband and it took some time last Tuesday before we could be sure that everything was okay with them. I've never been so scared in my life to be watching the news. I just can't say just how much I feel for all the people affected by what happened.



I visited Boston for the summer in 2007, living with said aunt, and just fell in love with it instanly. From the first day there, I've never felt so at home anywhere else, as I did there. If possible, I'd move there for good in an instant, still. And i't also the very last place I would've thought something like this would ever happen in..


I wrote sometime ago about how my old computer broke down and I lost all the files on it. Turns out some of it was salvagable after all. Today as I was going through the stuff I did recover from it, I ran into a short story I've written sometime in the fall of -08, a year after my stay in Boston, for a creative writing class I was taking at the time. I don't remember the exact assigment, but I guess you could call it an extremely condensed travel diary. I thought I'd translate it and post it here, because it reminds me of the beautiful city I want to remember.

Fair warning to anyone about to read this; I was much more inclined to unnessisery sentimentality five years ago than I am today.


My Boston
 
My Boston is a torturesly long flight over the Atlantic. Nowhere does human selfisness show quite the same way it does as in an aeroplane. You can be sure that the person in front of you doesn't give a damn about you having to sit with your knees in your face, simply so they can lower their seat down. Those of better fortunes sit in the Business class of course. With no little bitterness you'll note that they'd have enough room for a ball, as you finally exit the plane.

My Boston is a runway, going all the way to the ocean. It's the first time I see Atlantic up close, there on the tarmac. Not really the same as the homely Baltic Sea. My Boston is customs formalities that drag on for hours. Frustrating forms and people who don't care that I haven't slept in close to 24 hours.

It's customs officials with handsguns - the kind I've only seen in movies before now - at their hips. My Boston is one of them looking at my passport. Asking me if I ever smile. I just feel so tired I could weep. Smile, baby! You're in America now!

My Boston is a subway cart, making it's way to the Longfellow Brigde as the sun sinks in to the Charles River. And my Boston is Cambridge,  the river between and the bridges that connect the two. My first look at Boston is from the window of a subway cart.

On the one side of the river, the grand buildings that make up one of the most famous schools in the world, MIT. And on the other, an esplanade, lined by trees. I'm looking at one of the richest areas of Boston, Back Bay and it's skyscrapers. There are little boats with white sails on the rivers. As the train rides on, I hardly even remember being tired.

My Boston is the Ivy League school, Harvard. There is always a school somewhere on Harvard Yard, by which I can spend hours and hours reading, getting bothered by none. I'd have to be a student to get inside the giant Widener Libary, but the sun always shines on where I sit on the steps. Trying to save my food from being stolen by the squirrels.

My Boston is squares. Central Squares, Harvard Squares, Copley, Davis. Harvard Square is bookstores everywhere, a true geek heaven. When the last Potter comes out, there's a party going all night long and every shop has customers a plenty. Central is a the subway station for home. And heavenly ice cream. They say even Dalai Lama has been there. Copley and Davis are slowly cooling nights with other youth. They are the places of one last summer of Young Rebellion. Of chainsmoking and underage drinking.

My Boston is also museums and history. I see lighting and get to play around in the Museum of Science and in the Fine Arts Museum I skip Edward Hopper. It takes a whole sunday to walk the Freedom Trail, and I don't even go it from start to finish. The red line painted on the road takes me though the Revolutionary War. My trip ends with a church, belltower and the English coming. I don't make it to the teaparty.

And most of all, my Boston is the sea. The trip to the Revere Beach takes half an hour at best of times and need to change subways to times, and yet I go there as often as I can. In the smothering heat, it'd be worth it just for the breeze alone. My first time going, I'm told to get down on the ground if I hear shots fired. I try to laugh, but get told that it's no joke. I never hear any.

My Boston is contentment.