Last week, I went to visit my old stomping grounds where Mother Goose lies six feet under and the Green Monster eats hard balls. That's right: Boston, home of the original Tea Party minus those insufferable bags.
As I sat on the plane flying across country, I wondered if my East Coast nostalgia would mushroom into full-fledged heart pangs. After all, I'd spent eight years of my life--nearly all of my twenties--roaming the narrow, one-way streets, eating my weight in J.P. Licks, and hanging out in Coolidge Corner.
Turns out I was happy to be back in Beantown once again, especially since I was able to see many New England friends. But Boston no longer felt like home sweet home. I even got lost twice, like an honest-to-goodness tourist. Sure it was nice to indulge in walks down memory lane, but by the end of my jam-packed week, I was ready to click my heels three times and head back to San Diego.
Luckily, I got home just in time for SoCal's outbreak of swine flu. Nothing like a little pandemic to ruin calm reflection.
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