Time for Tea? No, a Revolution.

I'm back from Boston! As of Sunday I was back in the Lone Star state and already missing Bean Town. It's weird though, because I sincerely missed the Texas sunshine while fighting the 60 mph winds, trying to get to the T. I think my fond memories of Boston were mostly derived from the wonderful people I travelled with and how every wind storm, wrong turn, and crazy taxi ride became an adventure and ended in laughter.

The city itself was incredible. The fact that you could see modern architecture, all silver and gleaming, situated right next to a brick and beam building that housed some of our nation's first historical moments was absolutely breathtaking. I spent all day Saturday walking in every direction a compass could point and covered pretty much the entire city.

My group of friends and I saw everything we could possibly hope to see and so much more. Half the time, we would end up lost and stumble upon something hidden behind a building or off another street. We, of course, did not carry a map and only relied on the collective directional senses of the group. And Charley. He's a history major so there was an added bonus of historical anecdotes about this building or that field.

There were times that I was sure my sides would simply bust from laughter. We quite literally laughed until we cried when our close-to-midnight trip on the T ended with an impromptu dance off between our friend and another Subway patron. It became those moments, the unchoreographed and unplanned excursions, that I enjoyed the most.

We walked the hallowed halls of Harvard, met Mama Spagnolo in Little Italy (where Mike's Pastry offered us the most delectable cannollis), stood silent in Old North Church where a Revolution began by the light of a Lantern, sat on a stoop on Commonwealth Ave, sized up the Green Monster from the press box, took in the Harbor where tea was once had and a massacre ensued, sat alongside the stools of Norm and Fraiser at a small bar Where Everyone Knows Your Name, stood tall next to Paul Revere's statue, learned to decipher the Bahstahn dialect (mostly), discovered our favorite restaurant (courtesy of the nice door man at the Plaza) called Skip Jack's (home of the best bread ever), and walked east and west of everything in between.

In short, it was an experience, a memory, and a journey. Cheers, dear Boston, until we meet again.

4:55pm