You can't go home again (without feeling more than a little lost)

46 days. It had been 46 days since I last stood in the city of Boston. Not a great amount of time, but long enough for me to miss the place. Long enough that going back would probably feel a little uncomfortable. Long enough that I wondered if going there would be, as many in the web-speak world would say, "too soon." There was only one way to find out.

The Professor (a.k.a my wife) and I, along with a few friends, made our way back to the city on Saturday, braving the fierce rains dropped by our dear friend Hanna along the way. We were headed to an oft-delayed wrap party for a film I had worked on before moving (called Circuit, you can see a trailer here). The party was at a hall in Jamaica Plain, a section of Boston in the city's south side. However, for those reading, it is more important to note that Jamaica Plain is also a section of Boston not more than three miles from the apartment the Professor and I spent the last 6 years calling home.

The ride on the Pike was pretty enjoyable. We passed the time joking about Jimmy Buffett (some of us, at least, others were defending Mr. Buffett) and catching up with each other. The five of us had decided to meet in Sturbridge and ride in one car to avoid the hassle of parking multiple vehicles in the city. I was grateful to just be able to sit back and watch the water pelt the windows, and to avoid getting the feeling that I was driving home, driving the same path I had travelled for many years, to a house that no longer contained any of my belongings.

  

The first hurdle came as we approached our old neighborhood. The Professor got teary-eyed as we passed Putterham Circle and the Mandarin Gourmet, one of our old haunts. I must admit, I got a little glum passing it by, as well. Trying to think fast, I suggested turning off our route a bit earlier than planned, if only for the fact that this would make us avoid our old road, and our old house, completely. If a Chinese restaurant had such an effect on us, I thought, seeing our actual former home would have made the inside of the car as wet with tears as the roof and windshield were with rain. No one tends to enjoy welcoming a person in tears to their party, and no one likes to arrive that way, either. 

Now, I should say that, during the 12 years I lived in Boston, I had 5 different homes. From dorms to crummy student apartments to more mature dwellings, I can almost paint the path of my adulthood in the quality of my housing. But, driving near our old apartment, I realized the amount of personal history that the walls there contained far outweighed anything I could imagine. This was where my wife and I bought our first real furniture. This was where my wife got her PhD. This was where we got engaged. This was where we got married. This was where we got our cat. This was where we decided to make the leap to Connecticut. This was where more things than I could recall passed through our story-line. This place was more than just a chapter, it was a novel, and driving near it was like getting too close to the sun. It was melting our wings, and we still had more flying to do.

Thankfully, my route alteration worked and we cut off before we got too close to the source and headed off to Jamaica Plain. We parked and, after stopping off for a quick drink (for a bit of confidence), made our way into the party. Before long, I was surrounded by people that, before moving, I would often see nearly every single day. It was more than surreal. It felt like I hadn't left the city at all. For moments, it was as if I was finishing conversations that had begun only the day before. Then the inevitable question about Connecticut would come up and I'd drop back into reality. Oh yeah, I'm not from here anymore, I'd remember. What was worse was hoping the question of employment wouldn't come up. Being a New Englander, admitting to not having a job is nearly on par with admitting to murder. 

But the people I got to see! It was great. Lots of warm feelings emerged as I circled the room. I came to see how much I missed some friends, how I didn't realize this until they were standing in front of me, 46 days removed from our last encounter. Flesh and bone, not just lines of an email. Their actual voices instead of my voice reading their words. It was really wonderful.

And our wet friend Hanna actually helped us out, in a way. Leaving the party that night, after my many conversations, I was almost overjoyed at the fact that a tropical storm was drenching us from overhead. It became our excuse for an early exit. Without it, I would have stayed until the party ended, then felt horrible about having to leave my comfort zone to head back to my "some day" comfort zone. Thanks to Hanna, the world was even a bit more difficult to make out from the inside of the car. On a clear night, I would have stared out the window at everything I'd come to memorize and felt my stomach drop as I watched it fade off in my rearview mirror. Without the rain, I would have ended up feeling that the trip was "too soon." But, because of Hanna, I didn't have time for this to happen. We stayed a bit longer than planned, but the wet weather kept us on course, and it got me out of my old stomping grounds in one piece, a little blue, but optimistic for what awaited me back across the border. We had survived round one. This can be okay, I thought as we dove from our friend's car back into our own, getting soaked along the way. We can make this work, as long as we make it through this rain.