Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Have you heard of Blog-Trotting?

I had no idea it existed until my friend Cara (the founder) and MEP asked me to write about Boston for the site.

At first, I was hesitant to do so. I mean I am probably the least qualified Boston resident to write a post about the largest city in New England.

I am not a native.

Nor did I attend Harvard or MIT.

Heck, I never even experienced temperatures below 50F degrees until I moved here 3 years ago.

I have yet to attend a Red Sox, Bruins, Celtics, or Patriots game (I can hear the gasps of every New Englander reading this).

And I am also utterly clueless of half the things mentioned in this commercial.  In fact, I still have a tough time sifting through the thicker local accents.

(For a more complete explanation of New England-isms, see this post from Angela)

People here really do pronounce ‘car’ as cah, ‘Quincy’ as Quinzee, and ‘Worcester’ as Woostah. The usage of the “R” sound is as common as turn signals. 

Nevertheless, I love Boston. I fell in love with it at the age of twelve, when I first visited this beautiful city perched along the coastline. I remember being in awe of its diverse skyline sprinkled with tall, sleek modern high rises as well as beautifully intricate, historic architecture dating back hundreds of years.

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My family and I arrived back from Florida on Tuesday.  By Wednesday morning our normal life resumed.

Dadisodes is back to work. Toys are strewn across the living room floor.  And I have my laptop cracked open to begin the daunting task of checking my inbox.

Despite the 150+ unopened emails, I constantly find my fingers migrating back to the mouse pad to click on photos from our trip.  I must have taken over 500 photos during our vacation, and right now, they are the only physical evidence that I was actually there.  Proof that it was not dream.  A reminder, that for brief moments, our life existed over there.

For two whole weeks, I always had an extra set of loving hands to care for my daughter.   I sipped wine with old friends.  Dadisodes and I snuck away to the most beautiful coastline we have ever seen.   I visited the stomping grounds of my twenties.  And I made my way back through the halls of my grandmother’s house.  Her 1940’s pink, tiled walls transporting me to a more simple time.  Sleeping over her house meant endless treats, stacking mah-jongg pieces, and picking mangos from her tree.  They were all still there.  Frozen in time behind her cement walls. Only last week, its novelty and excitement lit my daughter’s eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, the comforts of having my own bed and pillows, our clothes folded back inside our dresser drawers, all feel and fit nicely. But at the same time, it’s hard to ignore my new honey-toned skin, my daughter’s sun-drenched hair, and the excitement in her voice spouting new words in Cantonese.

I wish they would never fade.

But they will.

In a few weeks, my bikini lines will lighten, Babisodes’ hair will darken, and grandma will have to convey via telephone how to say things in Chinese.  Slowly, the three of us will settle ourselves back into our usual mold.

But for now, Babisodes is still recovering from her grandparent hangover, while Dadisodes is busy planning for our retirement in someplace tropical.

As for me, although I am physically back in Massachusetts, my mind lies somewhere along the Florida coastline, reluctant to return with the tide.

It still longs for the simplicity, warmth, and breathtaking views of life over there.

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