I remember the first time someone introduced me as “from Boston.” It was the summer before E and I started our senior year at Tufts. We took a road trip down to Asheville, North Carolina to visit his sister, Far, and while hiking we struck up a conversation with some people on the trail. They asked where we were from and Far ended up answering, “they’re from Boston.”
I made a note of it because it was also the first time we were introduced as a unit. I’m from Rhode Island and E is from New Hampshire, but we are from Boston. Our relationship is from Tufts University on the Medford/Somerville line.
The truth is, I’m not Boston’s biggest fan. It feels like an accident that I’ve been here so long, that I have so many friends in this city, and that I feel so settled here. The traffic is awful, the cost of living is preposterous, it’s too hot in the summer, and too cold in the winter, but I’m grudgingly starting to feel like this is home. Boston is a part of my history, my relationship, and who I am on a daily basis. It may not be ideal, but it’s comfortable, and I’m trying to make the most of it.
