Beantown Break-Up

I’m sitting on the BOLT Bus to Boston, digging the futuristic bus wifi and cheap ticket, but bemoaning the traffic and several choice smells emanating from my fellow commuters. Once again, I’ve survived the insanity that is the BOLT bus launch pad outside the Tick-Tock diner on 34^th and 8^th. Travel adrenaline is still pumping through my bod. A throbbing crowd forms with no lines or signs and no communal knowledge of who’s going where and what’s going on. A veteran BOLTER at this point, I assure several freaker-outters that they’re in the right place and that it’s going to be just fine—though I lie because about half the time BOLT is way South of just fine. The feisty driver (Karla with a K) dares us in a voice that’s calm but I bet not always: “I run a drama-free bus.” With that mantra, I know it’s not going to end well for the guy in the Red Sox cap screaming outside on his Blackberry as Karla expertly finesses her way into Manhattan traffic. If you think travel inspires the worst in people, BOLT Bus makes Southwest Airlines seem pleasant. Luckily, my bag is full of Bagels and Books (Booze is sadly absent from the perfect alliterative trifecta).

In an undetermined matter of hours that I pray resembles four, I’m going to rendezvous with my ex—city not boyfriend, though there’s some potential for the latter. Just like the premeditated post-relationship coffee date to “catch up” (why do we torture ourselves?) or the unplanned run-in with an ex on the street (why do the Gods of Chance torture us?), meeting up with an ex-city forces you to wonder.

Allow me to make explicit my amateur Carrie Bradshaw-esque dating metaphor: Ex-cities are like ex-boyfriends. Cue inner-monologue, dwindling cigarette, wild curls and old-school Macbook, not that Carrie’s ever been on BOLT. But really, they are.

You move to a new city—anxious with possibility and lusty newness—thinking it might be the perfect fit. You make your bed, plot your daily routes and find “the perfect yoga class,” the whole time wondering if these streets could be the real deal. Forever streets. Do you mesh? Do you vibe? Is there chemistry? Would your parents like it here? Keep an open mind, you tell yourself, even as things start to feel wrong or flat. Everyone tells you this city has so much to offer. Keep trying—relationships take work.

Boston and I had a tumultuous yearlong relationship; we gave it the old (post) college try. Looking back, we had a lot of good times: sailing on the Charles, drinking Harpoon, hanging in Central Square and lapping Jamaica Pond. Boston introduced me to amazing people and taught me how to be a teacher. Like any boy who’s worth dating for a year, Boston challenged me and forever changed me. Things weren’t always so bright and easy with Boston, though. By the end of the year, things had dulled. My bond with the city felt weak and fractured. It was a hard decision to make—we’d gone through so much, much of it good—but I knew it was time to move on. After much internal wrestling, I broke it off with Boston and started something fresh with New York. Fresh streets, fresh job, fresh yoga, fresh friends and fresh boys (then fresh ex-boys). Despite some bumps, things are still going strong with New York. I find the city very, very good-looking.

After a few months of not speaking—a solid post-break-up rule that I have yet to successfully practice with an actual ex—I visited Boston in October, and I’m doing it again this weekend. While the October weekend was wonderful, and I know this one will be, too, the visitations reaffirm that Boston and I aren’t meant to be together. Unless Harvard decides to offer me a free doctorate, we’re better friends than lovers. Although I will always have love for the city and consider a small part of it mine, some things are simply not meant to be.

And if this BOLT bus never picks up speed, even my post-break up visitation is perhaps not meant to be.