Now I am sitting on the couch in my apartment, and everything smells like the garlic bread that I just took out of the oven. I am drinking red wine, reading Infinite Jest (as I have been for a good number of months now), and listening to the Decemberists. Even though it was 80 degrees in San Francisco today, my body thinks it's fall and feels cuddly and nest-y, and the wine and the music and the book are feeding the autumn feeling because they make me think of Boston.
I don't know how others who lived in and then moved away from Boston feel, or even those who still live there, but there are just enough excellent things about it that sometimes moving back seems appealing. I'm thinking mostly of the Central Square old man bars that I spent too much time in, and the fact that there was always someone I could finagle into a beer at the Field or the Cantab or the Middle East or even the Enormous Room. I also really, really loved the walk back to my Washington Street apartment from the T (Red Line, I heart you) - there was a tree directly under the streetlamp on my corner that flowered in the spring and hung out icicles in the winter, and if that's not a recipe for mental photo album pie I don't know what is.
Mmmm, pie. Have some in the freezer, just waiting to get het up. Score!