In July, I will be leaving my hometown of Boston and going to New York City. I am excited for the move for many reasons: living with my best friend Bridget, bagels and bottomless brunches. However, springtime in Boston has begun and it has started to pull at my heart strings — and for one reason in particular. I am going to miss Fenway Park.
There’s no way to adequately describe the pure bliss of sipping a Cuban coffee. You’ve just got to try it. My first sip was at this little mom and pop shop just around the corner from Enrique’s place. The sweet, old couple that ran it stood behind the counter catching up with Enrique in Spanish. The old man handed Enrique a styrofoam cup of liquid and four tiny, empty cups for sharing. Enrique thanked him, calling him “Campeón” as he walked to meet us at the table that my parents and I had grabbed in the corner.
Walking into the flower shop was like walking through a tunnel in a dystopian novel. Not because there was anything haunting about it, but because it was dark, cavernous, humid and at the end of a long hallway was a little room with a check-out desk and skylight.
A long, long time ago in a castle far away — okay, four years ago in Warren Towers — a very scared Lili moved in. And then, there they were: Sarah, Izabella, Sara, Jessica and Jennifer.
I don’t know why I love this story so much, or why Auggie has stayed with me. Maybe it’s just because I think Auggie was such a cool little dude. Maybe it’s because I’ve tried to channel his untouchable energy ever since — not by physically wearing a bow tie and suspenders, but wearing them emotionally.
Until I was about 16, I went to Supercuts — the OG that gets the job done. But, when you’re a 16-year-old sophomore in high school and your mom says “maybe you should start going to Marcia,” you think: You know what, maybe I should start going to Marcia.
If Past Me saw Present Me I think she’d think I’m pretty cool. I think it would make her write in her little journal something similar to this piece, about the college version of herself that she is looking forward to becoming. But she’d definitely think the reading thing is crazy. She wasn’t much of a reader. But she did like to write. “She” being me. I liked to write. And I still do. I wonder if the old lady in the little coffee shop likes to write
There’s this guy who is a stranger, but maybe less of a stranger than strangers usually are. He is an acquaintance. A friend of a friend, if you will. And maybe that is closer than stranger territory, but the fact that I don’t know him very well counts for something.
At the end of the day Rat City is not Atlantis. It has its woes. Come to think of it, Atlantis probably has its issues — that patriarchal leadership and all. While I was away, I forgot about the trials and tribulations of taking my three reusable bags full of groceries — that really should have been four — onto the crowded bus.
