Boston, You're My Home
This past August my sister and I celebrated our fifth year moving to Boston. In September, Brent and I celebrated five years together. In my mind, 2010 was like, yesterday, but the fact is, it’s not. It’s five years ago. Five years of taking the train to work, to bars, to everywhere in between. Five years of street parking resulting in countless tickets for never really getting the hang of first and third Wednesday street cleaning. Five years of apartment and condo living, enjoying tiny pockets of outdoor space like parks across the street and little more than a Juliet balcony.
In June Brent and I closed on our house. We’re about 45 miles south of Boston, but you won’t make it in less than an hour with traffic. You can take the train, which is also about an hour. We’ve been taking the train to work for the past three and a half months. An hour commute doesn’t sound too bad, in theory. We’re the last stop on our line, so we always get a seat in the morning. We can sleep, listen to music, read…in theory.
In reality, I was doing a little sleeping and reading. I was also doing a lot of thinking. Thinking about how much more productive my days would be if I wasn’t spending nearly two and a half hours of my day commuting to and from work. About the extra time I would have to sleep, to prepare dinner, to watch garbage TV if I wasn’t schlepping to and from work for such a huge part of my day. It’s not like I’m curing cancer in my spare time; those 2.5 hours might consist of me lounging around the couch or bothering Binx. Heck, I might even find time to get back into blogging (probably not, though). The point is, those 2.5 hours would be mine again.
Friday was my last day at my old job. My last day working in Boston. I found a job about six miles from home, and this week I’ll start driving to work and my commute to and from combined should be less than thirty minutes.
When I was saying my goodbyes at the restaurant, one of the sous chefs commented on how it’s the end of an era. We’ve only worked together for about nine months, but we started right around the same time, so for both our tenure at the restaurant, the other had always been there. It was mostly a joke, but the comment got in my head and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It is the end of an era. It’s clichéd and obvious and what anyone could say when leaving a job, graduating school, watching the finale of their favorite longstanding show. But it’s the truth. For the past five years I’ve worked in Boston or Cambridge and taken the train to and from work every day. Starting this week I’ll be enjoying the shortest commute I’ve had since living in Massachusetts. I won’t be working in the city anymore. Maybe I’ll make it into Boston a few times a month if Brent and I have plans to see friends, catch a show, plan a fancy date night. More likely, I won’t make it in much at all. This city mouse has traded in her T pass for a third bedroom and a John Deere (I could take or leave the John Deere, but Brent sure seems to like it).
I’m incredibly excited about the shorter commute and the prospect of more time to
binge watch HGTV prepare healthy dinners, but I’d be lying if I said part of me isn’t incredibly sad about what this change means. It’s not even about going into Boston every day; the fact is that change is exceedingly hard for me. A part of me always gets sad and nostalgic, even if the change that is happening is a thousand percent improvement (like this new commute). I’m excited about the commute, and I’m also excited about the actual work I’ll be doing. It’s a new and exciting culinary adventure, and I’m glad to be getting in at the ground level. More on that later, though. This is my ode to city living and the last five years. It’s been one heck of a ride, Boston. Thanks for everything.