Charles Street was lined with old lampposts and brick buildings that housed vintage dress shops or art galleries. Each step forward was a step back in time. The gray clouds weren’t dreary; they were quaint and cozy. The spitting rain wasn’t a nuisance, but the perfect excuse to dip into basement boutiques. We were content to wonder, with no plans or final destination, enthralled with a city so divergent from our own.

“New York is like our husband,” said Ivy with a smile that meant some truism was sure to follow. “I feel like New York is the love of my life… but Boston’s the hot young thing.” And we laughed, because she was too close to the truth: New York is home, New York is ours, yet
New York is the confinement as well as the escape.

This little weekend fling was exciting, and none of us wanted to admit how much we could possibly enjoy another city. The accents, the talkative cabbies, the fluffy hotel pillows... It was cheating! Our feelings were defiant against the tiny slices of life we’d worked so hard to create! Yes, we all needed a little vacation and a cannoli from Mike's. Yes, we were pleased to be back in our respective boroughs at

the trip's end.

But no, I’m afraid our love affair with Boston is far from over.

(Editor’s Note to Future Husband: I will never define you as something so mundane as confining, but Ivy’s analogy was all too perfect ;)