boston ruins

When people ask me what's the most important thing when learning a new language, the response I give over and over is this: don't be afraid to get things wrong.

If only that sentiment applied to everything. Like, oh, say, driving in Boston.

I've been in Boston now for less than twenty-four hours, and I've already managed to get lost about fifteen separate times. "How is this possible?" you might ask. "Didn't you live in Boston for, like, five years?"

It's possible because a map of Boston looks something like this:


That's right. The streets of Boston might very well have been made with house paint and cigarette butts. It's a wonder Clement Greenberg managed to resist its allure.

And if the lack of city grid weren't already enough of a challenge, then there are Boston drivers to take into consideration. Now, I have to admit that I have nothing but respect for Boston drivers. They are downright malicious, yes, but they're also skilled, which is a refreshing change from the drivers of my childhood, who tend to be downright dumb. (My favorite stretch of Highway 40 in St. Louis is a curve near Clayton Road where everybody inevitably slows down in evening rush-hour traffic because the road suddenly points due west. As if it's a huge surprise every single day that the sun is actually setting in that direction.)

That being said, I've been coddled by three years of New York City driving, having gotten used to things like buses that actually signal before cutting you off, and I nearly died at least three times today.

Which is probably why I keep getting lost, because I'm too busy focusing on NOT DYING to look at my map.

In language, if you get something wrong, you risk nothing more than public embarrassment. When driving in Boston, though, you risk your very life and limb.

Which is to say: God help me because I have three more days left in this city.