It is a foreign land, I know it. When I enter the walk-in closet, complete with toilet and sink, my sinuses contract and air escapes only in robust sneezes that clear all rational thought from my brain. I was forced to locate the local drugstore and buy allergy medications. Give thanks to the pharmaceutical gods! After dining on clam chowda for lunch and fresh fruits and vegetables from the Haymarket for dinner, I was devastated to find my bowels in utter spasms. I ventured out once again to the drugstore for Pepto-Bismol. Praise be to the gods of the pink tablets now in cherry flavor! The odd thing about this foreign country, called Boston, is that so many people speak English. I am surprised to hear my native tongue spill out of so many mouths. And they sound and look so Americanish. It is a strange land—the future is here.
Seriously our new digs are too good to be true. We are a block from Newbury Street and the sheer number of restaurants, salons, and boutiques gives me the shivers. The people on the street range from average Joe to diva fashionista. Even on Labor Day weekend there are people on the streets at all hours and music thumps from bars with brawny door guards who are ready to wave you in or toss you out.
Yet our spacious, high-ceilinged apartment is deadly silent. Few cars use our little thoroughfare. The cicadas and the frogs and the birds of Indiana are missed at night. Luckily the sunshine still greets us at dawn.