Every city has a moment when it’s set on fire. In Boston, it’s that moment on a hot summer evening when the sun’s mostly down, but every color intensifies brilliantly.
I used to call this time twilight, before that godawful franchise came along and started teaching teenage girls that abusive relationships are okay if he really, really loves you. But I digress.
Boston and I have a complicated relationship.
I’ve gone into that so many times before. How could the city where it makes the most sense for me to live be so mercilessly unlivable?
Let’s forget that for now. I don’t want to push Boston’s buttons when we’re getting along.
But on nights like these, I want to forget it all, forget fall in Europe, forget the cheap flights to Lanarca , forget ever getting on a plane again, and just wrap myself in this night.
And then it hits me — the three-foot snowstorms, the freezing cold, the five-month misery of winter, the shoveling. Oh, and the ridiculous housing prices, the early bar closings, the provincial attitude that dominates the landscape…
I can’t live here anymore.
But those fleeting moments of Boston at twilight put up a good argument.
