Boston, a goodbye

Dear Boston,

I leave you in very much the same way that I arrived: freaking out, surrounded by suitcases and having no idea what I'd just gotten myself into. You knew from the beginning that I didn't choose you, that I moved to start my job with EUSA, and I think you always resented that. In the beginning, I didn't have much time to spend getting to know you. I worked 15-hour days and when I wasn't working, I was traveling to other cities across America and Europe. You took your resentment and frustration out on me, however, and bullied me with your idiotic public transportation system (tokens? really?), your angry people that refused human connection of any kind when buying a coffee or asking for directions and the complete and total punishment of negative nine degree weather, only to be followed by mind oozing humidity.

I was a reluctant convert, but you didn't make it any easier either. There are things that I may never understand, such as people's strange affinity for ice-cream, lots of ice-cream, year-round; why the hell you call milkshakes "frappes;" why the entire New England population swears by convenience store quality coffee called Dunkin Donuts; why the green line is the little train that just effin couldn't; and why not one driver in Boston knows the definition of "do not block the box."

But now that I am leaving and saying goodbye to my home of Boston/Cambridge/Somerville, I can't help but look back on the good times. Despite our differences and struggles over the years, I want to let you know that you had me at "douche bag."

Like a grumpy little kid waking up from a nap, I can't help but want to pinch your angry little cheeks. You're angry, bitter and have a New York City sized chip on your shoulder, but you are a beautiful little city and it's hard to hate you when taking the #1 bus over the mass ave bridge. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world when the Red Sox are playing, or on St.Patty's Day and I wouldn't want to train for a marathon around any other river than the Charles.

To the city where where the Red Sox won the world series (twice!), where you can drink an iced-coffee any time of the year, where you can be Irish despite never having been to Ireland and where you can eat a wicked good lobster roll, thank you.

I wear my Red Sox hat with pride.

Until we meet again, I will count the days until I rock once again at Toad, get shitty at Cornwall's and run over the knee-snapping pavement near the Science Museum.

Love,
Sam