On new experiences in old places..

I'm in Boston for work. I've got 25 hours in one of my favorite cities. Check that, we're down to about 21 at this point. Delays on the tarmac in DC and a bumpy ride made me feel like we'd never actually get here, but once we were in the car and the skyline made its appearance through the gray and rainy day, I couldn't help but smile.

Despite the fact that I spent four years here, and four pretty formative years at that, Boston's starting to feel more and more distant each time I visit. It still comforts me like a warm blanket to be in its environs, but it's also an odd experience to feel like an outcast in a place you've called home. The same thing happens when I return to Maine at the holidays, but it's very different.

I'm here with a couple of colleagues and one of our students. As we drove toward downtown on a mission to find dinner, three of us (those with some sort of connection to London) realized that a Wagamama had opened in Boston not too long ago. Now, Wagamama was my absolute favorite restaurant when I was studying abroad in London. It was cheap, it was hip, it was simple, it was delish. Noodles. Stark beech picnic tables. Waitstaff in black jeans and black t-shirts. Very social. It's the type of place that makes my heart hurt to think about I miss it so much. So, upon realization that we could live it again, we squealed and adjusted the Garmin to Faneuil Hall.

When we arrived, it wasn't nearly as large as the ones we'd remembered, nor nearly as busy. We of course realized 6:45 was a pretty early dinner hour for a town like Boston, and were comforted by the line of folks waiting to get in as we left. We were instantly welcomed by a fantastically friendly staff, one of the things I miss most about this area. Holding the menu in my hand brought a wave of the simplest but most fun memories, and we were nothing short of joyous upon realizing the menu was announcing another to open in the DC area this year. YIPPIE!

I sought out what I ordered as a student abroad - chicken ramen. That's right, chicken ramen. The biggest bowl of ramen noodles with grilled chicken you've ever seen. I grimaced a bit when I saw the price; no way did I pay the equivalent of $9 for this on an undergrad budget in London and, well, when the food arrived, it just wasn't the same either. Don't get me wrong, we had a great night; but it wasn't what I remembered. It invited a moment to realize that you really can't transport some things. Sometimes its the whole context of a thing that makes it so memorable. 20 years old, running loose in London, learning and seeing things I never thought possible and stuffing my face with giant bowls of noodles among people going through the very same bewilderment as I.

I was dismayed when my dinner-mates found themselves too stuffed to walk to the North End for Mike's Pastry, not to mention unwilling in the "bitter cold" (it's like 35 degrees people.. it could be SO much worse), but we opted for another bakery in the Hall to curb the cannoli craving. As we walked by the restaurants, shops and pubs that were staples of my life just a few years back, they looked like postcards to me, instead of the places that served to define me.

I'm not saddened by this, oddly. In fact, I'm utterly comforted by it. I feel ready to move on in a way I've never experienced before. And it couldn't be coming at a better time.