Boston, chez moi

My family and friends have probably had more than enough of me complaining about how much I miss Paris, ranting about how great it is, and bemoaning the inferiority of America. I have yet to blog about my thoughts on the end of the Paris program and return to the USA (oh, it's coming, don't you worry), but I decided to take today to talk about somewhere quite near and dear to my heart: Boston.

Last night, I was going for a run, my latest attempt at a fitness routine. With my iPod set to the motivating beats of Lady Gaga and the Black Eyed Peas, I traversed the Harvard Bridge and followed the Charles toward Allston. As someone who is perenially out of shape, I was shocked at how well I was doing and how enjoyable I was finding the run itself. It was fast approaching twilight, and the dusky glow of post-sunset lingered in the sky and I relished in filling my lungs with the fresh, moist air of a New England summer's day past.

As I made the loop around the BU Bridge, however, I had to stop and take in the scene. Like the image on a postcard, the Boston skyline stretched before me, an identical city mirrored just below it in the river. The lights of the buildings burned gold, silver, and bronze, glittering on a backdrop of an indigo ombré sky and dancing in the blackness of the Charles. The Zakim, bright and spindly, shone like a jewel nestled amidst the humble Boston skyscrapers and, off to the right, a large patch of sky was illuminated, thanks, of course, to Granite City Electric, by the explosive lights of Fenway Park. The red and white glimmers of cars crawled across the Harvard Bridge in the distance, looking like a carnival parade in the colorful evening. Above all, in the shadow of the Prudential building, glowed the iconic neon beacon of Kenmore Square, the Citgo Sign. The taste, smell, and feel of summer permeated the atmosphere entirely, and I was suddenly consumed with one pulsing thought: I love Boston.

I once had a professor who, upon the first day of class, asked us to give him our personal definition of "home". He said that many of us have more than one home, or for some, "home" changes depending on where we are. "Home" is transient. "Home" is more than physical. And though I have always had pride for Boston as the representation of my state, of my New England, of my "homeland", I have never looked upon it with the reverance and love and awe that I did last night. My definition of home changes depending on my mood. Sometimes I miss my family and long for the home of my childhood - Dighton, Rehoboth, Swansea, Providence - the familiarity of Southeast Mass where I grew up. Other times, I romantically consider my home to be a city in which I lived for just a short time, but still holds my heart and surrounds me in my dreams - Paris. But sometimes, in the city where I live, in this place of transition and routine and humility and grandeur all at once, I feel that comforting inward sigh that simply breathes "I'm home". Boston, with all its flaws, with its horrible public transportation system and its obnoxious overflow of college students and its horrible drivers, is, at least for this summer, my home.

And I love that dirty water.