I’ve been lucky enough to travel a lot in my life and to have seen a lot in the course of those travels.
I’ve been to New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Montreal, Cleveland, Atlanta, Chicago, St. Louis, Phoenix, and Albuquerque.
I’ve been to Paris, Nantes, Berlin, Amsterdam, Reykjavik, Dublin, Manchester, Newcastle, London, Glasgow, Edinburgh.
Some of these cities I love, some are just stops on the way to other places, some are no fun at all. All of these cities have one thing in common, though- they are not Boston.
Boston is where my grandmother’s family landed after leaving Scotland in 1931.
Boston is where my Arkansan grandfather saw the ocean for the first time.
Boston is where they met on the subway, both returning home after being “stood-up” by their respective dates for the evening. They were together for the next 55 years.
Boston is where my grandfather shipped out for North Africa in 1942, and the Pacific a year later. It’s where he worked for most of his life.
My parents were both born within 10 miles of Boston.
My mother worked there.
My father worked there too. He also went to musical school there until the call to teach became to strong to ignore.
Boston is where my grandfather took me to Fenway for my first Red Sox game. And Celtics game. And Bruins game.
Boston is the first place that I saw a “real” concert, at the Orpheum, when I was 16.
Boston is where I realized that I loved history.
Boston is where I met my first girlfriend. Her name was Krista and she worked at a Lauriat’s bookstore. She told me she liked my Public Image LTD t-shirt and that was that.
Boston is where the United States was born and in the centuries since then it has been our country in microcosm- flawed, infuriating, intractable, but at the same time noble, daring, progressive.
Another 36,000 reasons are starting their run right about…now.