In the bleak midwinter, we sat around the kitchen table and talked about Claudia's upcoming birthday. Michael and I strove to outdo one another in sheer absurdity ("Let's have a reading in the library" or "Do you think we could cover the pond with a plastic sheeting so people can dance on it?"). I can't remember if there was snow on the ground when we were having this conversation, but will imagine there was for the appropriate amount of dramatism. Weeks ago we started to carve out these plans and then, almost suddenly, it was time to actually do the thing. And we did. We went full-Gatsby.
One of life's great pleasures is sharing a meal with friends. There's something to be said about a bowl of salad or a plate of fish that reminds me that people have been sitting around and breaking bread since humanity got started. Eating is a great equalizer and, in a house like this one, it is essential to the maintaining of friendships.
When I was in college, I imagined that I would form friendships with a huge group of people, relationships I would effortlessly maintain for years to come. I imagined we would stay up late and complain over comically huge glasses of wine. I imagined we would have dance parties and laugh for hours. I imagined my younger years would be a lot more Sex and the City and a lot less me writing in a library for 9 hours straight and only seeing my three wonderful roommates if it was Plath-related.
I've been in Boston a few months now. I've survived my first real blizzard (I'm talking drifts up to my knees). I've made a slew of new friends and unexpected connections. I continue to fool everyone into thinking that I am young professional with her life together. Things are going great. Oh, and I moved into a house found on Craigslist with an alarming lack of investigation.
The end of the year is upon us (thank God), and I must admit that it has been the strangest 12 months of my life. I mean, outside of the current political fiasco/hellish nightmare that is our country right now, 2017 was a changeable creature. To go from a pile of dust to a kick-ass, globe trotting, career gal in such a small amount of time is astounding. I'm proud of myself. For the first time in my life I can say, without a doubt, that I am proud of who I am.
Coming into my third week of full-time Boston living, I must admit that I've learned a lot. Between coming to terms with the fact that the weather is a merciless, changeable bitch and telling myself it's okay to layer 6 sweaters and look like Violet Beauregard, I feel as though I'm becoming a real Bostonian. And since so many of you have been kind enough to ask after my well being and what it's like living up in a frozen tundra, I'm ready to share some of the things I've learned on public transportation.
On my last day in Boston, it rained like the whole state of Massachusetts was sad to see me go. There were great bolts of lightening, overflowing drains, and mini flash floods. It didn't stop until I left. Now, I know weather patterns are in no way influenced by a a human being coming or going from a specific geographical location, but just let me have this one.
It's been a few days since I have written about anything, really. It's not my fault. I'm depressed, even more so since I left Boston. Everything about the trip was perfect, but few days will hold a candle to my trip into the city. Seriously, Boston, keep it up.
Like most great adventures, 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.
Boston is on fire. I mean, not in the literal sense, but in that "holy-shit-is-this-an-oven" sort of way. Before I got here, Harriet warned me that it might be a little cool. Foolishly, I packed a sweater. I did not need a sweater.