By Rebecca Sirull, inside columnist
Boston was the first city I fell in love with. It took some time, just like any relationship. It wasn’t instantaneous and it wasn’t flawless. There were days, particularly those in mid-February when the temperature dipped below zero, where I questioned whether we should be together at all. But Boston always made up for its imperfections, always won me back.
Coming from a small suburban town in Massachusetts, the idea of living in a big city always seemed so adventurous and daring. In high school, we would load up our CharlieTickets and take the T out for a day of wandering around Newbury Street and the Public Garden – only after receiving parents’ permission and promising to text upon arrival. I was enthralled by the huge buildings, streets full of strangers and bright lights. Getting lost in the nonsensical maze of the city, I knew this was where I belonged – surrounded by people, surrounded by the unknown.
When it came time to leave for college, I was ready to say goodbye to weekend nights spent taking trips to McDonald’s or hopping from one friend’s basement to the next. I was sick of the one Bertucci’s restaurant being our claim to fame and even more sick of running into half of my classmates every time I went there. Suddenly, all the sights that had felt so familiar and comfortable for the past 17 years had begun to suffocate me. I needed out.
Moving to Boston was my next great adventure. I couldn’t wait to find my favorite Italian place in the North End, go for runs along the Esplanade and explore the galleries of the MFA. The city was my new home and I felt like it would never run out of things for me to discover.
Walking down Huntington at dusk, I would turn around to catch a glimpse of the Prudential Center shrouded in purple clouds and my face would involuntarily break into a smile. I didn’t want to seem like too much of a tourist, but sometimes I couldn’t resist a photo or five. If I didn’t have too much to do on a Saturday, I would spend the afternoon just walking through a different neighborhood, soaking in the red brick townhouses and shining skyscrapers.
When I came back after school breaks my heart would swell at the first glimpse of the Boston skyline. I was back in the place where exciting things happened, where important people rushed to meetings with other important people and where I felt like I was a part of it all. Every time I rounded that corner of the Massachusetts Turnpike, taking the exit off to Copley Square, I felt the same rush of exhilaration – that this beautiful, sparkling city was where I got to call home.
But as time elapsed between my first awestruck look at the city and the present, I began to feel that excitement less and less frequently. When I saw a blood orange sunset over the river, my heart still swelled, though not quite as much. I would look up at the Prudential Center, waiting for the familiar exhilaration to beat through my veins, and feel nothing. All the sights and sounds that once seemed so thrilling were becoming commonplace. I feared that I was falling out of love with the city.
Eventually, I realized that this wasn’t the end of our relationship, but rather a period of transition. I was moving out of the honeymoon phase; instead of feeling like an exciting new place, Boston began to take on the role that my tiny town had once served. Albeit larger in size, it now holds that same feeling of familiarity and safety. It’s a little sad to know that I’ll never feel the rush of adrenaline at the prospect of living in Boston – that feeling is now reserved for other cities with unfamiliar street names and undiscovered landmarks. But in its place I have something that isn’t easily acquired, something that takes a few different sets of apartment keys and worn-out shoe soles and some conversations with strangers to acquire. I have a whole city that I can call my own, a place that I can come back to when I need to remember who I really am. The rest of the world is out there for me to wander and get lost and immerse myself in, but Boston is home.
– Rebecca Sirull can be reached at [email protected].
Photo courtesy Boston à l’heure bleue, Creative Commons
