Scary New World

 

To settle into the city, the first weekend after we moved in, Ashlyn and I decided to go to a Red Sox game.  I was very excited for my first experience at Fenway Park and for getting to spend more time with my new roommate.

We took the green line to Fenway, both astounded at the heavy congestion in the train.  Since it was a game day, the T was particularly crowded and it took the two of us aback.

“This is kind of crazy,” I remember hearing Ashlyn observe.

We both agreed to consider leaving the game a few minutes early so as to beat the rush.

At the game we both had a great time.  We took a ton of pictures, and sang along to “Sweet Caroline” when it came on over the speakers.  By the 8th inning, we new the Sox had a win in the bag, so we figured we were safe to leave.  Luckily the ride on the green line to Park Street was significantly less crowded than the ride to Fenway had been.  We took the red line from Park Street to Central Square.  That ride was even emptier.  Although there was no direct route from Central to our apartment, the 70 bus dropped us off a few blocks away.  We took that, and were able to breathe a sigh of relief when we were finally away from people.

We started walking down the street and I realized how dark it was.  There was not a street light in sight.  I tried to tell myself that it was not a big deal, but as if on cue, a tall man in a trench coat approached us.  He walked with a limp, but he was still walking pretty swiftly.  He was near us in no time, and reached out to touch my shoulder.  We sped up at that moment.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he slurred in our direction.

I don’t know about the rest of the world, but when someone tells me they aren’t going to hurt me…I usually don’t believe them.  At this point we sped up even more.  I looked behind me and saw that he was gone.  I figured he had decided to stop following us to take a stroll in the park, because I didn’t know what else he would be doing.

“Oh my God, that was scary as hell,” Ashlyn said, slowing down a bit.

“Yeah, I think he’s gone now.”

I practically choked on my words, because a moment later the limping man popped out of the bushes in front of us.  We started screaming and running.  We screamed and ran all the way home.  I am not athletic in the least, so this was no small feat for me.  Once we got in the elevator that would take us up to the 12th floor, we collapsed and started panting.  And then we stared at each other for a minute in silence.  The silence didn’t last.  We were soon laughing hysterically without really knowing why.  Maybe we were laughing because we were going crazy from lack of oxygen to the brain.  We were incredibly out of breath.  Or maybe – more likely – we were laughing because we realized that the year would test the both of us.  But we were also sure that the year would be full of adventures.  And we were sure the year would teach us many things.

A Bostonian Tragedy

When I initially told my family and friends that I was planning on moving to Boston, they were all very excited.  They had almost nothing negative to say.  But one thing that they did all warn me about one thing.  They warned me not to eat the Mexican food up North.

“It won’t be any good.”

“I heard it’s really disgusting.”

“I mean…I wouldn’t trust it.”

All of the above statements were directed at me in the weeks preceding my departure.  But to all of those people trying to bring me down, I had one response:

“I’m not a huge fan of Mexican food, really.”

This was actually true.  I liked it, of course.  I thought it tasted pretty decent.  But if given the chance I would pick just about anything else: Chinese, Thai, Italian.  It just wasn’t my favorite.

My first couple of weeks in New England, I did not miss Mexican food.  I didn’t feel as if anything was missing in my life.  Nothing felt wrong.  But then, all of the sudden, I started getting these weird cravings.  Out of nowhere, I started feeling a longing coming from the pit of my stomach…for bean and cheese tacos.  I started missing salsa that was actually spicy.  Images of mole and enchiladas started haunting all of my dreams.  I realized, a few weeks too late, how spoiled I had beenwith the quality of Mexican food back in San Antonio.

I tried to figure out what to do to satisfy this craving.  I’ll be honest, I was scared to try Mexican food up here.  With all the beans, and cheese and rice, Mexican food is something that can go terribly wrong.  I decided to give Chipoltle a try.  I mean, the chain had locations in Texas, so I figured it couldn’t be that bad.  I was wrong.  It was awful.  I couldn’t finish the bland, sorry excuse for a burrito.  To this day, I don’t understand why people are so crazy about that place.

I heard a lot of buzz about Anna’s Taqueria, and decided to try it for myself.  It was good, no doubt, but it still didn’t really taste like home.  Truth be told, although it wasn’t bad, I had better food from taco trucks on the side of the road in Texas.

At this point, I have given up on trying to find Mexican food that is adequate to the quality it is at home.  Now if I get a craving for home, I just go buy a bottle of Jarrito’s Mexican soda.  Because even Boston can’t mess up a bottle of soda.

Stranger in a Strange City

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The above graphs were made with census information from 2010.

Upon moving to Boston, there were many changes I had to get used to.  One of the biggest changes was the change in demographics.  Growing up Mexican in the city of San Antonio…I never felt like a minority.  In San Antonio, getting breakfast taco’s for breakfast is more common than sitting down for pancakes.  Everybody knows basic Spanish terms and slang.  At school I was surrounded by Salazar’s and Gonzalez’s.  Rodriguez was probably the most common last name for students at my high school.

In Boston, things were different.  Right off the bat, everyone I came across let me know that I would not be getting quality Mexican food anywhere.  Unless I considered Chipoltle quality Mexican cuisine.  I can assure you, I will never consider Chipoltle quality Mexican cuisine.

People were also astounded that I was not darker complected if I was Mexican.  In fact, most people didn’t know what I was.  I was often asked if I was Egyptian, Armenian, French or Greek.  I was almost never asked if I was of Hispanic or Latin descent.  People just didn’t know what to make of the way I looked.

For some reason, the absence of Mexican culture in Boston made me more proud of my heritage, and gave me a craving for Mexican food that I had never before felt.

One day, after class, I had to meet with a study group.  They suggested we go to Olecito’s beneath Warren Towers for a quick bite to eat.  I refrained from making a snobby comment about the quality of food, and decided to just get something to drink.  I was pleasantly surprised to see that they sold Mexican soda at Olecito’s.  So I purchased a glass bottle of Jarritos and enjoyed it.  I was surprised to see that drinking something familiar made me feel a little more at home in this city.

An Apartment with a View

When I was accepted into BU as a transfer student, I did not qualify for on-campus housing.  For a girl who had never even set foot in Massachusetts, this was quite a terrifying thing.  I knew no one in New England.  I had no friends, family, or acquaintances.  I did not know how I was going to find a place to live or a roommate.  It was mid June, and I was supposed to be starting school at the start of September.  Time was of the essence.

Luckily I was able to find a Facebook group dedicated to BU transfer students who were not offered on-campus housing.  I joined, and within a matter of days I was messaged by A girl named Ashlyn who already had paid the safety deposit on an apartment in Cambridge.  It was a one bedroom, one bathroom in a high rise on Memorial Drive.  The price I would be paying monthly could be a payment for a much larger, much nicer apartment in Texas.  But I was going to be new to town and I knew I couldn’t be picky.  So I agreed to live with Ashlyn, and we planned on meeting for the first time and touring the apartment during orientation week in late July.

On the flight to Boston from San Antonio, I began to feel a bit nervous.  My stomach was uneasy, my head throbbed with anxiety and I was starting to wonder if I was ready for such a drastic change.  I had felt so certain about my future days earlier, but all of the sudden it was all too real.

I took a cab, along with my mother and grandparents, from the airport to the hotel.  I barely looked out the window the whole ride.  I couldn’t even enjoy my first impression of the city.  After we dropped our luggage off, we took a cab over to the high rise on Memorial Drive.  Again, I couldn’t relax enough to take a deep breath and look out my window.

Ashlyn greeted us before we both entered the building and made our way up to the 12th floor, apartment 1207.  I relaxed a little when I entered the apartment.  It was clean and sensible, even if the spicy smell of curry still clung to the room, a reminder that it was recently occupied by another family.  The rooms were empty, but I was able to look around, and see the life I would be living.  I looked at the bare walls and had no trouble imagining the pictures of our adventures that would soon decorate them.

“You haven’t even seen the best part,” Ashlyn said, taking me by the hand and leading me to the sliding glass door.

We stepped out onto the balcony, and I was stunned by the gorgeous view.  Our balcony overlooked the Charles River and the Boston skyline.  And for the first time since I arrived in Boston, I gave myself the chance to really take in the city.  The tall buildings hitting the skyline, the grand Charles River, all the bikers weaving in and out of traffic, all of the cars stuck in traffic.  I was finally able to smile and relax.  I finally felt certain that I was where I was supposed to be.  I had never seen anything like Boston before, and I had no idea what to expect.  But I was excited to start my adventure and find out for myself.