4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs

Rosa Jurjevics in Boston

Dispatch from Beantown

I don't like Boston. I don't like this crummy pickle I got at the convenience store downstairs, and I don't like this town. It has taken me four years, but I have decided: Boston is not for me. And I want out. Being from New York City, I'm supposed to hate Boston, but I've never been one for convention. When the Red Sox took the series last year, I boogied down with the best of them, parading through the marauders and rabble rousers, fire-setters and impromptu music makers. I watched the Patriots' parade and took pictures of a smiling Tom Brady, sticking my hands in the air to cheer him. I've sunbathed in the Common, caught a free show at the Hatchshell, and picked through the dollar-a-pound mountain of clothes at the Garment District. The hockey strike was the only thing that kept me from seeing a Bruins game.

But I've never put both feet in. I've never tried to swim the Charles, as many wacky Bostonians do -- a coworker warned me of this before I left. "Don't do it," he said, "though many will try, few will succeed...at anything other than contracting hepatitis." I heeded his warning and many others, including pleas from my nearest and dearest not to pick up a Boston accent, and, thus far, I've dodged that particular bullet. I don't say "smahht" or "cahhh" or "pissahh." I have said "wicked," but we don't talk about that.

I arrived here four years ago as a starry-eyed college freshman with pigtail braids down to my butt, a misfit graduate from a high school of oddballs. I dyed the ends of my hair red and wore a hideously stupid "bone" necklace with a yin-yang symbol in the middle that I'd bought off of a Tibetan street vendor on Houston street -- it's in my ID picture -- and didn't know the city of Boston from Adam. This did not deter me, and, partially to escape my evil first-year roommate, I proceeded to get blissfully lost anywhere I could. My two fast friends, a duo of older girls named Lindsey and Esther, took me to magical, ethereal music/poetry/video events in far-flung warehouses, to punk-rock parties with grape Jell-O shots and couches for crashing on, and on adventures shopping for hats and shoes, bikes and books. I hid a lizard in my room, illegally, for half a term, and traveled an hour by bus to a roadside amphibian supply store to buy him mealworms in a little pot of bran flakes. I was, for a time, in love. In love with the idea of being in a new place, of everything being new and...clean.

But the honeymoon is over. Esther left town that year and Lindsey transferred schools the following semester. After that, I felt a distinct change. Perhaps it was me, for I'm not the same girl who first stepped off the train and into the wind tunnel that is the intersection of Boylston and Tremont Streets -- and thank god for that. I've since chopped off the braids, ditched that silly necklace, and left the dorms for good, taking up residence atop historic Beacon Hill in a four-flight walkup. Boston sits below me and, from my roof, I see not its beauty but its annoyances: the lack of public transportation after 11 p.m., the ancient law that forbids most convenience stores from selling beer, the poor quality of the deli pickles. No matter how many good bands may play here, it will never be New York City. It will never be my home.

That said, I must grudgingly admit that good things have happened to me during my time in Massachusetts, which is just four months from being over. Some things are little -- the stupid rites of passage that earn me the Brownie badges of personhood: I had my first kiss here; I had my first legal (and illegal) drink here. Others are of more consequence. Under the tutelage of my favorite Emerson professors, a wacky ex-punk intellectual, and a sharp-eyed multimedia editor, I found a love for the brain-puzzles of film and digital animation. It was on an Emerson film that I tried my hand at gaffing and was driven out to the suburbs at 11 in the evening to light a location set, rerouting wires into the wee hours of the morning. Through the Boston craigslist, I landed a magazine job and, while the feeling was short-lived, began to entertain the notion that I had potential in a real-person job. All this in a place I cannot wait to leave.

I suppose it's time to get on with it. And, as I stand on the roof in the cold, eating a pickle that, to my Jewish half, borders on blasphemy, I see the Boston skyline in the dark blue of night. It glitters in a small-city way, little buildings hunkered down in their winding rows, the glass of the massive general hospital across the way reflecting the lights from the bridge to Kenmore Square, and my harsh feelings soften. The Medevac helicopter chugs into view, landing lopsidedly on the helipad, spotlight cutting a beam through the sky to light its way; Boston is moving all around me, a smaller version of the metaphorical heartbeat I know in New York. And maybe, just maybe, it's not so bad.

But this pickle sure is.

pianogoesbackwards.negimaki.com

Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all

Previous article

Starfish Filipino Eatery brings something new to O.B.

Simple, satisfying, and fitting for that beachy vibe
Next Article

The glorious old trolley, Pt. Loma begonia gardens, drunk Frozen Chosin vet

Abalone's last stand, Vietnamese violin prodigy, surfers fight Oceanside Harbor

Dispatch from Beantown

I don't like Boston. I don't like this crummy pickle I got at the convenience store downstairs, and I don't like this town. It has taken me four years, but I have decided: Boston is not for me. And I want out. Being from New York City, I'm supposed to hate Boston, but I've never been one for convention. When the Red Sox took the series last year, I boogied down with the best of them, parading through the marauders and rabble rousers, fire-setters and impromptu music makers. I watched the Patriots' parade and took pictures of a smiling Tom Brady, sticking my hands in the air to cheer him. I've sunbathed in the Common, caught a free show at the Hatchshell, and picked through the dollar-a-pound mountain of clothes at the Garment District. The hockey strike was the only thing that kept me from seeing a Bruins game.

But I've never put both feet in. I've never tried to swim the Charles, as many wacky Bostonians do -- a coworker warned me of this before I left. "Don't do it," he said, "though many will try, few will succeed...at anything other than contracting hepatitis." I heeded his warning and many others, including pleas from my nearest and dearest not to pick up a Boston accent, and, thus far, I've dodged that particular bullet. I don't say "smahht" or "cahhh" or "pissahh." I have said "wicked," but we don't talk about that.

I arrived here four years ago as a starry-eyed college freshman with pigtail braids down to my butt, a misfit graduate from a high school of oddballs. I dyed the ends of my hair red and wore a hideously stupid "bone" necklace with a yin-yang symbol in the middle that I'd bought off of a Tibetan street vendor on Houston street -- it's in my ID picture -- and didn't know the city of Boston from Adam. This did not deter me, and, partially to escape my evil first-year roommate, I proceeded to get blissfully lost anywhere I could. My two fast friends, a duo of older girls named Lindsey and Esther, took me to magical, ethereal music/poetry/video events in far-flung warehouses, to punk-rock parties with grape Jell-O shots and couches for crashing on, and on adventures shopping for hats and shoes, bikes and books. I hid a lizard in my room, illegally, for half a term, and traveled an hour by bus to a roadside amphibian supply store to buy him mealworms in a little pot of bran flakes. I was, for a time, in love. In love with the idea of being in a new place, of everything being new and...clean.

But the honeymoon is over. Esther left town that year and Lindsey transferred schools the following semester. After that, I felt a distinct change. Perhaps it was me, for I'm not the same girl who first stepped off the train and into the wind tunnel that is the intersection of Boylston and Tremont Streets -- and thank god for that. I've since chopped off the braids, ditched that silly necklace, and left the dorms for good, taking up residence atop historic Beacon Hill in a four-flight walkup. Boston sits below me and, from my roof, I see not its beauty but its annoyances: the lack of public transportation after 11 p.m., the ancient law that forbids most convenience stores from selling beer, the poor quality of the deli pickles. No matter how many good bands may play here, it will never be New York City. It will never be my home.

That said, I must grudgingly admit that good things have happened to me during my time in Massachusetts, which is just four months from being over. Some things are little -- the stupid rites of passage that earn me the Brownie badges of personhood: I had my first kiss here; I had my first legal (and illegal) drink here. Others are of more consequence. Under the tutelage of my favorite Emerson professors, a wacky ex-punk intellectual, and a sharp-eyed multimedia editor, I found a love for the brain-puzzles of film and digital animation. It was on an Emerson film that I tried my hand at gaffing and was driven out to the suburbs at 11 in the evening to light a location set, rerouting wires into the wee hours of the morning. Through the Boston craigslist, I landed a magazine job and, while the feeling was short-lived, began to entertain the notion that I had potential in a real-person job. All this in a place I cannot wait to leave.

I suppose it's time to get on with it. And, as I stand on the roof in the cold, eating a pickle that, to my Jewish half, borders on blasphemy, I see the Boston skyline in the dark blue of night. It glitters in a small-city way, little buildings hunkered down in their winding rows, the glass of the massive general hospital across the way reflecting the lights from the bridge to Kenmore Square, and my harsh feelings soften. The Medevac helicopter chugs into view, landing lopsidedly on the helipad, spotlight cutting a beam through the sky to light its way; Boston is moving all around me, a smaller version of the metaphorical heartbeat I know in New York. And maybe, just maybe, it's not so bad.

But this pickle sure is.

pianogoesbackwards.negimaki.com

Sponsored
Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

Will The Real Salome Please Stand Up?, The Ecological Diversity of San Diego

Events April 13-April 14, 2021
Next Article

Hops On The Harbor: Pizza Port Brewing Company, Morning Glory Brunch Frog Race

Events April 16-April 21, 2021
Comments
0

Be the first to leave a comment.

Sign in to comment

Sign in

Art Reviews — W.S. Di Piero's eye on exhibits Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed Best Buys — San Diego shopping Big Screen — Movie commentary Blurt — Music's inside track Booze News — San Diego spirits City Lights — News and politics Classical Music — Immortal beauty Classifieds — Free and easy Cover Stories — Front-page features Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts Famous Former Neighbors — Next-door celebs Feast! — Food & drink reviews Feature Stories — Local news & stories From the Archives — Spotlight on the past Golden Dreams — Talk of the town Here's the Deal — Chad Deal's watering holes Just Announced — The scoop on shows Letters — Our inbox [email protected] — Local movie buffs share favorites Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news News Ticker — News & politics Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated Of Note — Concert picks Out & About — What's Happening Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated Poetry — The old and the new Pour Over — Grab a cup Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers Reading — The hunt for intellectuals Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds SD on the QT — Almost factual news Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes Sheep and Goats — Places of worship Special Issues — The best of Sports — Athletics without gush Street Style — San Diego streets have style Suit Up — Fashion tips for dudes Theater Reviews — Local productions Theater antireviews — Narrow your search Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads Waterfront — All things ocean Your Week — Daily event picks
4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs
Close