Thoughts on My (Brief) Return to Boston

I went back to Boston this week, only for a short trip (it was too short), but it was absolutely wonderful.  Even in February, which is objectively the worst time one could possibly be in New England, it was like being in heaven.  A beautiful heaven full of old buildings and rich history and delicious food and evocative smells and wonderful friends.  When I first got back I was nervous that the whole thing about not being able to "go home again" would turn out to be true, that everyone around me would have moved on or been indifferent to my return.  Gladly, this was not the case.  Sure, there were no rose-garden ceremonies or slayings of fatted calves, but the welcome I received was so warm.  I had forgotten what that felt like.  This is not to say that it wasn't a little weird being back.  There were moments when I felt that I had just woken up and Hawaii was all a dream (if only).  Then there were moments when I felt that being in Boston was a dream.  But what a good dream it was.

Some highlights of my trip:  I ate at UBurger (the best of all burger places), slept on the comfiest couch in my old apartment in Charlestown, had some delicious Indian food, walked around Harvard Square (and went into Colonial Drug solely to sniff a perfume that my grandmother wore), shopped at Anthropologie, re-joined the rest of America and ran on Dunkin', went window-shopping and cupcake-eating with a girl-friend, walked through the South End, rekindled my romance with the MBTA (so, so, SO much better than public transportation in Hawaii), went to church at the Longfellow Park building (best church day in over eight months)*, exercised nearly all exemptions to my no-hugging rule, and visited an old professor at BU.  While I was doing this last thing (or, waiting in the lobby of the medical building before my appointment with her, rather), I had the following thought:

I've lived in three places that are not my parents' home:  Utah, Boston, and Hawaii.  Living in Utah was like living in a hole I had burrowed in the sand:  it fit comfortably, but once I left, the hole filled itself back in again.  Living in Hawaii is like trying to burrow a hole in a thick sheet of titanium:  all you can do is sit on the surface; it's impossible to make the slightest mark or indentation.  Boston was completely different.  Living in Boston is burrowing a hole in somebody's heart and having that hole still be there for you even after you've been gone for a long time.

I loved every minute of my stay until the minute when I remembered I had to go back to Hawaii, and then I started sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of a dodgeball game.  Under this attack of nostalgia I retreated to my old chapel and, too reasonable to resort to actual prayer, begged some imaginary force to not make me go back there.  I didn't remember the feeling of leaving being that terrible the first time, but then again, I didn't know what was in store for me in Hawaii the first time.  I thought that Hawaii would be a new adventure with new friends and new happy experiences.  I didn't know that even after eight months, I'd still feel alone, unwelcome, uninvited, and deeply miserable.  My only consolation is that it has been over eight months, which means there are just under four months remaining.

As I said before, the trip was too short.  There is far too much in Boston to absorb in only three days (especially when one of those days is a Sabbath).  That is why I am most grateful that, even though I don't know what the autumn holds for me, I am definitely returning to Boston for the summer.  But summer had better come quickly, because I am starting to get oh, so trunky.


*I posted this very fact on Facebook and a counselor from my Honolulu Branch Presidency "liked" it.  I strongly suspect that he thought I was talking about church in Honolulu, meaning that he didn't even realize that I was gone.