there’s a moment, when the red line train rushes out onto the charles and the sun streaks through the grime on the windows, that i feel like i could be back home in california on the BART, or back home in singapore on the MRT. it’s a trick of the light that i blink away when the train hurtles past Charles/MGH and back down into the darkness. i exit at park street, and i walk to work.
the days reset themselves, over and over.
boston and i got off on the wrong foot. i thought (and still do think) that it’s dreary and freezing and altogether depressing, and the people are generally less worldly and more insular than in california. i often become some exotic animal when i reveal that i’m originally from singapore, and for the first time since i’ve moved to the US i’ve just defaulted to saying i’m from the bay area instead. better to be put in a box with a label that already exists in their minds, than for them to have to struggle - asia? chinese? southeast asian? oh, i remember, i was at changi airport for an hour and a half! it was beautiful, and so clean!
the thing about a layover is that you know you’re only there for as long as you need to be. you’re there, yes, and you’re trying to find your gate, something to eat, a bathroom, a place to sleep.
the thing about a train station is that you can be there for as long as you want to be. part of me wants to skip back to cal or skip forward to the rest of my life in singapore, but i’m here, biding my time. i’ve known my first real fall, my first real snow, the joy of a cafe in a walkable neighborhood, the smell of an apple orchard when you crunch through the grass at the height of the season.
i’m grateful for the steady pace of life here, and for the people i’ve met and the moments i’ve had that have made boston feel a little like— not home, but a place to be for a little while.
Written in December 2024 for Traverse, a zine about the twenties in our twenties