Literally, from the moment I entered the taxicab and was hurtling through neon lights in the tunnel at midnight, I loved this city. One a.m. and the streets are alive, people joyous and drunk, my room walls shaking from the excitement of the Bruins making it to the finals in hockey. I remember the feeling of a sports town, and I’m now in one of the biggest.
After a few hours of sleep, I down my usual two cups of Joe and slip on my backpack, ready for the unknown. I end up walking along the river, next to rundown buildings and empty piers. What a glorious morning.
My first monument, nestled in between ancient brownstone buildings, has the following engraved in stone “American soldiers killed June 17th 1775”. Two hundred and thirty six years ago. I stand on hallowed ground.
I make it to Bunker’s Hill, say hello to a nice family, help them take a photo. I wish I had been here when I was young. At least I’m seeing things now.
As I walk, I feel the importance of Memorial Day here, latching itself to my back, weighing me down with thought and pondering. I become overcome with emotion thinking about my father and his service. I need to tell him how proud I am of that more often.
I find myself haphazardly walking the streets, without direction or purpose. I find a corner street performer, a young man claiming that his talent is to raise money for college. He is entertaining, and deserves money, if you are able. I was even involved in his comedy act.