Baptized in Boston
In my mind I now live in a small house off Warren Street in Charlestown. It has a wood paneled entryway, a gas lamp on the wide pavement outside the front door and a first floor drawing room with a bow shaped window. If the house were in England I would call it Georgian but that seems an inappropriate label for a dwelling so close to Bunker Hill.
If I ever disappear this is where you will find me – on the other side of England. I lost my heart to Boston in the pouring rain with Henry James safe in a polythene bag. I ate my favorite food in the Warren Tavern and felt the compelling need for revolution. I met three Bostonians. They all said the same thing: “I like your accent.” Surely, that’s as good a place to start as any - if a tad ironic.