The Memories of Travel: Boston

A cold winter, that cold which creeps in silent as a ghost and chills your core. Warm streets. Downtown. Unoduego. Small Airbnb rooms with cozy heating. Whales. Tea parties. New York. Liberty. Yellow cabs. Cards against humanity. Broken heaters and bland foods for the Indian who craves spice. Boring conferences with stale donuts. Know a bit of everything and everything about a bit. Newbury comics. That sense of being absolutely free and the misery of that realization hitting, a second later. The warm, classy whiff of perfume in Macy’s which teases the residue of colonial insecurity genes in me. Bagels. Bon Mi. Harvard. MFA. Days and hours of glorious art. Degas. Monet. Manet. The new artists you discovered and the Art Deco movement you learned about. Eyeing the sunset time to plan the trip back home. Those cozy puffer coats in North Face. Endless, happy salads for lunch. Craving Avakaya. World Trade Center. Freedom Trail. Red Sox parade. Tremont Street. Milk street. Repay debts. Bee movie. The wistfulness of leaving and homesick at the same time. Loving the stay in an alien country but missing home. The need to be in two places at once. The desire to have the best of both worlds. The determination to get rich. A crushing sense of self, glaring and unapologetic. The confusion over what I need vs what I have. Jodha Akbar. Ragnarok. 1 long wharf. Connecticut. New Jersey. Philadelphia. Self-love and shoplifting. Being happy and remembering it.