Like most great adventures, the days start to blur together. Wednesday was one of those sleepy days that all vacations have. It’s the middle of the trip and you’re trying to decide if you can take one more step or if you’re going to dime for the personal driver you’ve always wanted and deserved. The pesky business of money is all that stops you.
I was grateful for the energy to walk with Harriet to work, hanging out in the blissful A/C of one of the nicest Starbucks I’ve ever been to. Are their better coffee shops around? For sure. But do they also have free WiFi? I don’t think so. I had the chance to work on my thesis and people watch (one of my favorite things to do) before being collected for lunch like a kid at daycare.
For lunch, we checked out this fancy pizza place where they have fresh ingredients like bean sprouts and radishes. Harriet has a gluten allergy, so she sweetly asks if we can go that route instead. Being a devout pizza lover, I hate the idea of the gluten being annexed from my experience, but I agree because Harriet means more than a slice.
Thank god we did. While I’m chowing down on some delicious mushrooms and tomatoes, I look up at the wall and see that they put an extra ingredient into their pizza, one that I’m sure most people love: avocado oil. Now, dear reader, you don’t know this, but I’m allergic to the super food in a way that would border on comical if I wasn’t actually dying.
After neatly dodging death another day, we return home for Harriet’s roommate’s birthday. It was so nice to be a part of that sweet moment. I miss living with a group of people who care about me so much. I’ll admit that it was yet another selling point for Boston. To celebrate, we went to a place for puzzles and obstacle courses, Boda Borg. There aren’t many in the States, but I’d recommend you’d take a few hours to play if the option is open to you. When do you get the chance to crawl around tubes, hang off chains, and exercise your brain?
To round off the evening, Harriet and I ventured down Mass. Ave to hear a friend and the rest of the band play in a bar. They specialize in Congolese music from the ’60s, which is oddly and endearingly specific. They kicked so much ass. The drums were killing it. Meanwhile, I drank too much, danced with Harriet, and flirted with strangers. I felt my youth in a way I never have, even after coming to terms with the fact that I was probably going to be sick the next day (I was). Staying until the bar closed and riding home with Ben, friends, and a couple of drums, I felt my life start again.