I move more than an overly caffeinated epileptic on roller skates. It’s as if I get off on the smell of a UHaul truck. Ah, yes, breathe it in. it smells of sofa farts and sweat, doesn’t it? That distinctive odor can only mean one thing: it’s September, that magical time of year when discarded furniture can be found on nearly every city block and oversized moving trucks can be found wedged under nearly every overpass on Storrow Drive.
So this Saturday night I’m going to explore my new neighborhood. Yes, I’ve moved again. This was my third move in 14 months. I’ve owned, I’ve rented, and I’ve even subletted this year. Actually, I’ve also squatted, but that really had nothing to do with my living situation, so let’s move on, shall we?
For the past six years, I’ve resided in South Boston. Even though I was never considered a townie, Southie was my home. I had a favorite pizza place, I was on a first-name basis with the good people at Miller’s Market, and I’d vandalized at least one vehicle for parking in my shoveled-out, post-snowstorm parking spot. (Oh, sure, judge me. It’s kill or be killed, folks. If I’ve gotta shank a guy to avoid being the neighborhood bitch, so be it.)
But this move is different from the others. This time I’m trading in the Irish for the Italians; the corned beef for prosciutto; the mob for ... well, the mob. I moved to the North End. I just needed a change. I want to find a new place to get my morning coffee; I want to develop a new neighborhood crush; and I want to listen to an out-of-tune marching band made up of Italian men in their late 40s march up and down my street every ... single ... Sunday ... night. Okay, that last one’s going to take some getting used to, but so far I really like my new neighborhood.
After a take-home dinner of red wine and pizza from Regina (my new favorite neighbor), I decide to put on my iPod and take a slightly buzzed, extremely stuffed walk through the streets. Two things immediately stand out: suburbanites are willing to trade a human life for a cannoli, and Italian men like to stand around on street corners talking loudly into their cell phones. I’m not exactly sure why they do this, but something tells me it has nothing to do with poor reception.
As I round the corner and start walking past another collection of cozy little restaurants, a cheesy love song I downloaded for a past girlfriend begins to play through my headphones. As cliché as it sounds, it made me realize what I like most about my new neighborhood: the North End has passion. The people here are passionate about their food, they’re passionate in the way they speak, and a hug — not a handshake — is the norm. Some of them are passionate about hair gel and cologne, others about dropping F-bombs. Hey, love comes in many forms, my friends, and the guy standing next to me right now, yelling into his cell phone, fucking loves to drop fucking F-bombs. Fuck!
On my way back to my apartment, I find myself questioning what it is I’m passionate about. What can I not live without? Well, chocolate-chip cookies, for one. I guess good conversation would be two, and number three would be the right person to share them both with. As I unlock the door to my new apartment, I notice an extremely attractive young woman walking into the building across from mine. She picks up her mail, smiles politely at me, and then slowly closes her door.
You know what? I think I’m going to love living in the North End.
