In the Land of the Red Sox
Driving into Boston was like driving into a contact high. Holy cow! Lights! Bridges! Skyscrapers! More Lights!
There’s no Milky Way to speak of here – just twinkling red squares on bumpers, shimmering purple beams streaming from bridge wires, yellow fluorescents filling office windows.
Greens. Reds. Yellows. A primary and secondary buffet of lights.
And someone said we were close to the water, but a pile of bricks and glass and metal obstructed my view.
Mazes of one way streets. Now I remember why I hate driving in Boston.
But wait! There are no stop signs. I LOVE driving in Boston!
My friends took me up to their roof top and we looked out over the city night.
This city is like if San Francisco and Brooklyn had a baby together, and then abused that baby until it was jaded and cynical.
The landscape rolls with subtly elegant topography layered with adorable townhouse fronts lining maple laden streets. Bridges crisscross views of towering skyscrapers.
People holler obscenities to fellow drivers and F-bombs fall around me like there’s a war on.
I’ll be lucky to get out of here alive…