Impressions of Boston, vol. 1

Dorchester: Home of Leonard Nimoy, Mark Wahlberg (nee Marky Mark), Donnie Wahlberg (of the New Kids on the Block), Dropkick Murphys, Martin Luther King Jr., Donna Summer, and me.  I don't know if I'll be putting out any Billboard chart toppers, traveling at lightspeed, or starting the revolution, but life can be strange enough without making a name for yourself.

If you want to be specific, I'm currently residing in Savin Hill. Originally the summer home for the Neponset tribe of Native Americans, the Puritans disembarked from the "Mary and John" and eventually kicked out the natives. Joseph Tuttle, an aspiring innkeeper, decided the area (then known as "Old Hill") needed a tourism boost and renamed the neighborhood surrounding his new hotel Savin Hill, after the red Savin juniper trees that I've got in my front yard.  I arrived at my triple-decker (a symbol of the neighborhood and reportedly a 1905 vintage) with nothing to do but sit outside until my future roommate arrived.  I figured I might as well make myself at home, so I settled into an Adirondack chair in the front yard and waited. It wasn't long before the sound of an unhealthy vehicle caught my ear and I looked in the general direction of the noise. Apparently the driver was tired of people staring at his wreck and he flipped me off immediately. Welcome to the neighborhood, Greg.

It has been too hot for this West Coaster and we stay up late every night out on the second floor balcony having endless pointless conversations, whether debating the family heritage of the deceased Hawaiian superstar Iz or arguing the possible outcomes of animal battles (bear vs shark, cheetah vs bear, etc).

In good ol' me fashion, I venture out into the city without a map. I don't know if it's an unspoken rule I have for myself.  If I have a starting point in mind, I might reference it online before I embark. Otherwise, I wander by following the sun's position, following the border between land and water, and, if I feel like finding myself, checking out a directory should I happen upon one. That's how my camera and I discover. Eight and a half miles the other day, when the only idea I had at the start was, "I think it's cool enough to go outside and take some pictures." As it turned out, it wasn't so cool, but I kept walking anyway. Lots of pictures resulted.

At some point mid-afternoon, the heat was wearing on me and I felt like heading back to my hood. However, though I knew which way was home, it was quicker to find the nearest T-station.  Being one who doesn't carry maps, I have no problem asking for directions or tips. I happened upon a couple of young entrepreneurs selling bottled water on the sidewalk. Though they were no older than 10 years old, I trusted their local knowledge and paid my juvenile informants good money ($1) for a water and directions to the local station.

And off I went.