For eight years, Hubby and I resided just outside Manhattan, in Astoria, Queens. It wasn't as expensive as Manhattan, it wasn't as hip as Brooklyn, but it was our borough and we came to love it.
The day after we moved in, there was a street fair on 31st Avenue. It was there that we learned our new neighborhood had the largest Greek population outside of Athens. Who knew? I didn't.
We were only seven subway stops from Manhattan, but Astoria was a tiny village in and of itself. When the weekend rolled around, sometimes I wouldn't even leave. And when I did, the view riding home over the Queensboro Bridge upper roadway from the backseat of a cab never failed to make my heart do a little flip flop. It was magical. (Plus, the lower roadway only had hookers and crackheads to look at.)
When I miss New York, it's usually a faraway, intangible sort of ache; not something I can even put my finger on. But some memories are specific. I miss ordering chicken cardinale at 10:45 pm for delivery from the Last Stop Cafe. I miss gyros and good, authentic tsatziki. I miss impromptu dance parties and singalongs at Vanessa's house. I miss walking over to the bakery for flaky, powdery kourambiedes. I miss Top Tomato, the 24 hour vegetable mart. Come to think of it, I miss the many places that stayed open all night. I miss sitting on the back patio of Fatty's Cafe, and not even having to order, because they already knew what I was going to ask for before I even said it. I miss the familiarity of it all.
What I'm getting at here is, I'm sort of falling in love with Boston all over again. And I think some sick part of me feels like I'm cheating on New York. As if getting comfortable here means I'm somehow turning my back on the memories and life we made there. Sometimes I can be so mental.
So it only took ten months, but I think it might be safe to say that Hubby and I are kinda sorta warming up to Boston. Naturally, it helps that the temperatures are no longer idling in the single digits. It also helps that Boston just so happens to be a breathtakingly beautiful place in the Spring. It seems everywhere I turn there's something pretty to look at. Not that New York didn't have its wow factor, but Boston is smaller, so somehow there seems to be more beauty within a much closer proximity.
The James P. Kelleher Rose Garden is one spot I'm especially taken with.
Seriously, I don't recall there being a rose garden in the Fens! All I remember about the Fens was you couldn't go there at night, and sometimes you'd see businessmen mysteriously emerging out of the tall weeds, walking funny.
But a rose garden there was, apparently since 1930, and it's still there today. And Reader, everything is in bloom. I walk inside and instantly feel like I've stepped into a page straight out of Frances Hodgson Burnett. (If I haven't mentioned, I have a vivid imagination.) I see so many beautiful things to feast my eyes upon! I get the feeling there are fairies hiding behind every corner. There are magical looking archways crawling with buttery, yellow blooms, and never ending rows of fragrant rose bushes with whimsical names like Carefree Wonder, Gypsy Dancer, Super Dorothy, Miss Elsie Mae, Merlot, and even one called:
Last weekend I made like a tourist and snapped these pictures, just for you, because I want you to come to Boston, and walk through the rose garden yourself...
A public rose garden in the middle of a city. It's a truly magical place. Happy Friday, Dear Reader. xoxo




