The truth is I love Boston, and I haven't even been there yet. I've been reading The Scarlet Letter, a novel by Nathaniel Hawthorne about a particularly adulterous scandal in New England. When I think of old Boston I think of Berklee College of Music, of delicate white sailboats on the lake, broad accents and Irish Americans, of the Tea Party of the American Revolution.
The truth is, I might be going there sometime soon, if I am supposed to, and if things work out, and if I can succeed in making a good decision, which is something that happens to me only on occasion. The decision part, I mean.