I’m moving again!

If you want a very short synopsis of how Boston differs from Dallas, you can just skip to the red flag.


Prologue: I’ve noticed that I’m such a gifted author that some of my loyal readers might want me to share with them my Valuable Nuggets of Wisdom (VNW), or “insider tips,” if you will, on how to become such a fabulous writer. I will include these pointers intermittently throughout the post, cleverly coded with the acronym VNW.

Boston has been very hard for me. Not hard in a good way (insert TWSS joke here, or don’t, since I’m pouring my heart out and the last thing I need is your bawdy jokes, you heartless sea urchin)*.  It has been hard in a comically bad way.

*VNW: Always lead with a rambling parenthetical, preferably in your very first sentence. Bonus points if you can aggressively insult your audience with a witty jibe that is hilarious to you but alienating and just weird to 99% of the population, in response to what you imagine they were thinking but probably weren’t.

Hard in a good way is totally fine for me. Moving to France was hard in a good way: setting up things like a new electric account, getting a new cell phone, and making friends in a new place… not usually our most comfortable moments in life, but invigorating and validating nonetheless, especially when getting along in your 2^nd (or, cough, 3^rd)* language.

*VNW: Always show off, people love that.

So how could the new experiences in Boston be so bad? When you balance the positive with the negative, don’t you always come out on top? I have asked myself these very questions (out loud, sitting on a park bench, feeding a squirrel that I will name Iggy*), and feel that I need to justify my uncharacteristically negative view of my experiences here with a short list.

*Before we spiral into this list, I will give you some news about the squirrels. When I was visiting Boston, they were amazing and friendly, filling my heart with endless wonder. Exhibit A:

Straight out of Disney, right?

But when I lived in Boston, they morphed into monsters. Exhibit B: My lovely mom came to visit and I suggested that we feed the squirrels, because, who wouldn't want a lovely experience like the one in exhibit A? And do you know what happened? My mom tried to feed a squirrel and, on her very first try, IT BIT HER HAND. And drew blood. And she had to get a rabies shot when she went back to Dallas. I told you it was comically bad! How does that even... I just can't.

I should have heeded the clear message in the mercurial change of disposition in the squirrels, an obvious warning. I did not. So, the list.

1.  It was extremely difficult to get a job here. I waltzed in with my Masters degree as a well-traveled, sought-after language teacher. I quickly realized that in the land of Harvard and MIT, Masters degrees in the hands of well-traveled teachers are like beanie babies: carefully cultivated through years of effort, but pretty worthless, and eventually it’s expected that you move on and grow up and get exactly one million PhD degrees. Upon earning your one millionth PhD, you are eligible to apply for a TA position. I was lucky to get several adjunct jobs. On the plus side, I did manage to get a few Zumba classes to teach, which is always good for my soul.
   1. 
      VNW: lists like this will be depressing, so end the 1^st complaint on a positive note. Then, BAM! Hit them with #5.
2. The weather. Oh my god. The winter here… just… seriously. How do people do it? Month after month of bone-chilling ice and slush. The few Bostonians I got along with enough to conduct research upon have given me the impression that those born north of a certain latitudinal line are blessed with an extra gene whose sole purpose is to deal with this awful weather. They go about their day in it. They make light of it. 

   

   Actual footage of native Bostonians

3. The weather and job situation had me a bit down, so I started trying out some meditation techniques while I walked from job to job. I would breathe in positive thoughts and exhale negative ones. All joking aside, I love this technique. Inhale: compassion, peace. Exhale: stress, anxiety. Like that, basically. It’s lovely, and (according to Oprah) it’s supposed to channel good things from their place in the galaxy directly to your front door. Sure enough, I got results right away! Except that my results were in the form of a homeless person stealing my purse from me while I sat and worked in a Starbucks on a snow day (you see? The weather here SUCKS, I should have been at work!). Inside were my phone, credit cards, and MY PASSPORT. My beloved passport with its pages full of exotic stamps and holographic visas and lovely memories and a halfway decent picture, which by far is the most hard to replicate of all. Also of value was the purse itself; ironically, it was a purse built to outsmart pickpockets whilst traveling, with reinforced materials to prevent slash&grabs, etc… measures that fell a bit flat when the entire thing was taken out from under me. My credit cards were used to buy things from a pipe store (perhaps contributing to #4?) and SEVENTY DOLLARS WORTH OF MCDONALDS FOOD. Can you imagine how much food that is? 
   
4. Our apartment. I love living with Boyfriend, he is the only reason I am still alive. But our apartment situation is pitiful. There is a very long story behind this one, I’ll give you the abridged version. We had to find a place and sign a lease within less than 24 hours. We rushed into our unit, which has very low ceilings and a spectacular view of a parking lot. “Lots of apartments have views of parking lots, Amanda, don’t be a drama queen,” you say. First of all, stop interrupting, I’m not done.* Second of all, this parking lot is special. It is enclosed by 4 buildings, with only small alleyways betraying its existence to passersby. This has cemented its status as Number One Place to Buy and Do Drugs in Boston. At any time of day (yes, including 8am as you optimistically get ready for work), you can see people smoking crack from my window. In case that isn’t depressing enough, after the people smoke, OTHER people come and CRAWL on the dirty, peed-on pavement, desperately looking for what I assume are dropped crack particles on the ground. That is what they are reduced to. Don’t do drugs, kids. Now, what about at night? Draw the curtain, close your eyes, you could be anywhere in the world, Drug Central shouldn’t bother you. Right? No. Because then the dealers come out to do their rough business that they can’t do during the day: threatening, screaming, fighting, stabbing people who didn’t pay for their drugs. I’m on the 2^nd floor and hear these threats as clearly as if I were standing next to them. Please imagine the last thing you hear before falling asleep being “I WILL F$*#ing KILL YOU, GIVE ME MY 5 DOLLARS YOU *$(#@* *$#(@*$ ($#)@!_)#@” followed by muffled hits and grunts. Oh! Almost forgot. One of the 4 buildings surrounding the parking lot is under construction! And since, according to the city website, it’s super-delayed, the construction company decided to be normal continue the work, which is apparently comprised exclusively of running jackhammers through various levels of concrete, continuously 24/7. **
• *See first VNW.
• ** That’s not an exaggeration; it’s literally 3:39am as I write this blog post. I couldn’t sleep because of the jackhammer noise.
• OH DID I MENTION THE RENT FOR THIS APARTMENT IS $2,000 PER MONTH???
5. After turning down 2 of my regular Zumba classes so I could accept an extended schedule at a 3^rd location, I have this conversation via text with the manager of that 3^rd location:

Him: Don’t come tomorrow.

Me: What do you mean? Like the class is canceled?

[12 hours go by]

Him: Yeah.

Me: Ok, well I’ll see you for the Weds class then, thanks!

(On Weds)

Me: Just making sure everything’s good for this afternoon, I’m on my way!

[1 hour before the class usually starts]

Him: We need to cut back, no more Weds.

Me: I’m sorry, can you be more clear?

Him: WE NEED TO MAKE CUTS. Get ur last check when u can.

Yeah. The last vestige of my effort to make friends with Boston disintegrated.

~~~Wondering if you belong in Boston? Take this short quiz, featuring situations that actually happened.~~~

1. You are walking down the street when a car full of girls whooshes by. One is hanging out the window, cute, happy, innocent, decked out in a tiara and sash, screaming, "It's my birthday!!". You:

A: scream back, "Happy birthday!"
B: scream back, "SHUT THE F*#( up!"

Mostly A's: you are probably from Texas, or the south, or anywhere not full of mean jerks.
Mostly B's: you are from Boston, and were walking directly behind me that day.
(Update: My New York friend Jaimie has said she would also pick B).

2. A native Bostonian (a friend of a friend) is chatting with you in a bar. You are discussing slurs that are used against people from your region, in my case words like "hick" and "redneck." When she, the native Bostonian, can't think of any for her own region, you mention that she might be known as a "Damn Yankee." She responds:

A: "Actually, one must be at least a third generation New Englander to be considered a Yankee. I wouldn't qualify, since my grandparents weren't from here."
B: I forgot this was supposed to be in quiz format, but can you believe that?!?! They are so elitist that even to receive an insult, you have to have a multi-generational pedigree.

The good news is, now that it could not possibly get worse, I’ve indeed started seeing positive things about Boston. This happens mostly when my friends visit or I hang out with other transplants (shout out to Mei, Carolina, Suad, Jaime, Hannah, Julianne, and the Meetup Girls).

So! All of that to say, I’ve accepted a job teaching AP English (no surprise, with writing skills like these) in Cancún, Mexico. Can you tell I was aiming to have a change of scene? I know you will all want to visit, so I’ll see you there!

No more this.

Lots of this.

Factual updates:

Yes, Boyfriend and I are still together and will remain so. His stint in Boston was much more successful than mine.

Also, I'm writing a novel!
I will leave you with this non-writing-related VNW gleaned from my Azeri friend. She and I were both trying in vain to finish the last bits of our lunch, and searching for motivation to do so. I thought she was about to say something along the lines of "Children in Africa are starving, you know." What she actually said was much more harrowing and galvanizing: "You know, in Azerbaijan, they say when you don't finish your food... you get an ugly husband."
Hahahaha! We all finished after that!