Wednesday, September 3, 2008


"Hey sister!"
"Hey! What are you doing?"
"Oh I'm just on a bus right now, headed up to Boston for the weekend."
-Long pause-
"Um...are there any Asian men sitting near you?"
"Really, are there any Asian men sitting near you?"
-I look around-
"Uh, yeah. There's one sitting behind me."
"Don't fall asleep!"
"What?! You're so weird."
"No, really. Some Asian guy beheaded and ate a man on a bus in Canada a few weeks ago. Keep an eye on him."

Oh sisters. And so my vacation began.

After the mismatched shoe incident, I realized I needed to get the hell out of dodge. I finally stopped making excuses for not going to Boston, knowing that if I didn't do it soon, I probably never would. So I bought a bus ticket to go see my oh-so-dear and slightly deranged best friend, Emily. Oh can I count the ways I love her? She's perpetually late, likes to pick arguments, totally nuts...and all that makes her absolutely endearing. Despite the chaos that generally surrounds her, she brings peace to my weary soul and reminds me that I am still young.

One of the best things about living in New York is the plethora of public transportation. In addition to local MTA buses and subways, there's MetroNorth which goes...well, north, and there are a million buses that will take you to Philadelphia, DC, Toronto, Boston, even Atlanta (if I ever felt like sitting on a bus for 20 some odd hours). Boltbus offers $1/one way trips to most major cities (you have to book way in advance), the Fungwah (aka the Chinatown bus) offers $15/one way trips to Boston even if you book the minute you decide to leave. So Friday afternoon I hopped on a Fungwah and escaped to the way less hectic, way more Irish, neighborhood of Jamaica Plain.

Em is currently dating an Irishman who reminds me completely of a certain someone who I gallivanted around Europe with (perhaps it is simply the accent) and who has a lovely house right outside of Boston with a lovely deck, a lovely yard and a loving--though slightly obnoxious--Pomeranian. At this point, she has all but officially moved in with him (she still keeps most of her stuff at the apartment that her parents pay for).

I suppose you could say I've been a little more emo than usual (characterized in large part by my incessant listening to The Good Life) because as soon as I got off the bus and embraced my Emily I started crying like an exhausted toddler. The oppressive loneliness of New York was immediately lifted and Emily took me to the Irishman's house, put a beer in my hand and eventually tucked me into bed after the alcohol had coated me in its warmth.

I returned to New York on Sunday, feeling refreshed, renewed. I chatted with a fellow traveler all the way home about life, love, New York and through our conversations I came to realize that I am not the only one in New York attempting to make it work--whatever that "it" may be. My escape to Emily in Boston was cathartic. I survived my first 100 days in Manhattan. I think that means maybe I can start to call this place home.

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