Boston is Romantic

“Romance is not limited to relationships!” She said, with gusto. Though she claims it was spoken with a cool aloofness.

We were sojourning at the cemetery on a Sunday, after a delicious home cooked brunch in our formerly shared kitchen. Needless to say we were in good spirits, quite literally. 

I had wanted to come to mt. auburn cemetery while cherry blossom trees are still in bloom, but as my adventures with Anitah typically go, we wound our way there unintentionally. The short lived nature of things and people has always been difficult for me to grasp.  But when Anitah shared that she thinks some people are only meant to be in our lives for one season, I felt her words sinking in like hues of green on freshly rained grass. 

We were seated at a bench facing a cascading tree and vibrant shrubbery. It felt akin to the spot where Robin Williams humbled Will on a park bench in Goodwill Hunting.

Talk about a good headspace for conversing. (And close proximity to where the movie was actually filmed).

Anitah and I both love to walk. To the point where we get carried away and miss return buses in foreign countries. But this was one of two spaces in the cemetery that we parked ourselves to chat in. 

The first was at the foot of a gothic-style grave. Dearhearted Anitah felt compelled to look up the name on the stone, out of respect and deference to sit there. An action that I daresay is romantic, on the topic. Though we’re also both scared of ghosts, and of being haunted by one.

Thanks Charles!

Whether we were seated on a grave or a bench, wandering through flower coded paths, or stopping to photograph a chapel, conversation came easily. We talked about everything under the sun, from land reform in South Africa to how we’d partition chapters in our lives. Anitah said hers would be split by the places she’s lived; I said mine would be parted by years. What we claimed to be our favorites is one secret I’ll never tell. Though maybe you can guess some of mine based on my other blogs.

We were grounded, and thus our minds were free. Hence why nature and philosophizing is one of my favorite combos. 

Nature is healing. As I type these very words the wind murmurs in agreement. I smile; it’s continuing to pick up. I am currently leaning against a tree on the path leading to Harvard square, and to home. 

My back is to the cemetery as I reflect on Anitah’s spellbinding point. 

“Handholding and partners aren’t all of romance!” 

I immediately took heed of her articulate words, especially coming from an established married woman who is living her best life. “Cities,” she said, “can be romantic.” 

We both agreed that Boston, what with Walden Pond, various arboretums, historic architecture and red brick paths, is a writer’s dream location. I think of it as Dorothy’s alternate reality, witches and all. Anitah is no stranger to the magic. She had followed that red brick road all the way from Tennessee.

So fear not, family and friends. My love life very well may be in full bloom. Perhaps it is with Boston, massholes and all (psst word on the street is that they've gotten friendlier. Anitah and I got called “young and trendy” and were approached many times while we were out and about. In the span of a single morning).

Through reuniting with Anitah, and another prior housemate of mine (who is now a dad!) in the house and neighborhood we lived in together, forgotten tales got unearthed. Anitah and I continued to tug at this string in the Cemetery, jostling further memories loose. 

Hi-ya!

Now, walking home alone (unless you count all my newly formed tree friends), it dawns on me that Boston, like a soulmate, has been here all along. I just didn’t see. It has been the backbone to various milestones in my life, including my first year breaking free of everything I knew.

Cambridge was the town of my first customer service job ( Vegan O2 cafe!). Charlestown was the first place I lived with each of my sisters outside of our hometown. Somerville led me to so many great people, many that I continue to carve out time for (shoutout to Duncan and Daria)! And Anitah, who I plan international meetups with on the reg. 

This city truly is a hub. It’s magical. It unlocked me, made me feel free. It’s just like Amsterdam, only here I don’t need to speak Dutch and/or acquire citizenship. Which is good ‘cause just getting a temporary visa to that city was a project. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve debated following the masses that move to Europe, or even to my closer neighbor, NYC. I LOVE visiting New York City, and feel incomplete if I haven’t been there for awhile. But Boston feels like home. Always has. Even before it was my home I was calling it that. 

My cheeks go red thinking of a moment my family didn’t let me live down, many years ago. We were on a foodie tour of Burlington, Vermont and were all asked to share where we were from. Down the line it went. Connecticut, Connecticut, Connecticut. “Bolivia,” my brother in law said, breaking the monotony. I too wanted to stand out. When it got to me I said, “Boston.” This was back when I still lived with my parents in Connecticut.  I’m such a rebel. Okay maybe a poser. 

But hey, Boston is poetic. And I’m a poet. Just look at at my bedroom walls. Though my favorite thing about my walls isn’t my poetry, or even my 7th grade art. It’s my window. To the beloved city of Boston. To historic Massachusetts.

Okay, technically to the roof of the next door house on a side street off Cambridge, but you get the idea.