Is Boston Terrible?

No city is perfect but Boston is often the butt-end of the joke. Bostonians, of every degree, are either defending their city or joining in on the 'Boston sucks' banter.

Boston Tapeworm

By Clarke

My favorite thing to do in Boston is to get out of it. Outside Boston is some of the most pristine beauty the United States has to offer. Even during the winter, when Boston is cold, windy, and miserable, Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont are booming with activity.

On a recent weekend, I got out of Boston twice. On Saturday, I did a bike ride out to Dover and then up to Concord. I spent the first 10 miles cussing out drivers who didn’t hear or see me. But once I got out of the city, it was lovely rolling hills, 50 degrees and just a bit windy. The roads were in perfect condition — no water or salt — so I could just cruise along at 24 miles per hour. Wind in my face, waving my hair, feeling like Fabio. 

Even the people were nicer, I talked to a couple people I biked with and was even offered water as I passed a lovely little farm. Sadly, there is only so much sunshine in a day, and I had to turn around. 

The last 10 miles back were miserable. One Boston driver rolled down the window to tell me to go fuck myself. I don’t think I did anything besides exist as an obstacle to his car. Everyone in Boston is just angry at the world, probably because the world they know is Boston.

My second day was even better than the first, and I went to the playground of Massachusetts: Maine. In particular, Sunday River Ski Resort. It was an absolutely beautiful day. Partially sunny, fresh snow, perfect day for skiing. On the new chair lift (it had heated seats and everything), we talked to a recent transplant who had lived in Boston for 30 years but got tired of it and moved to the sleepy ski town of Bethel, Maine. 

Boston has so many transplants who left, yet echo Boston praises. This city does a great job of burrowing into the psyche of its people, who carry their memories of Boston like a tapeworm. 

“One of the most Boston things you can do,” our new friend said. “Is leave Boston, but tell everyone how much you love it.” 

How to be mean in Beantown

by Andrew

The rudeness of Boston isn't something I mind, it's lively, entertaining, and maybe a sign I have love for the city.

Riding the train in Boston conditions me, sharpens my edges, letting me cut through the crowds. The Orange Line during rush hour — I'm standing up and ricocheting off of backpacks and shoulders. The seats around me are full so I move to a hesitant looking sitter, stand directly in front and wait for the spot to open up. No luck. The Ruggles stop comes, filling the train car to its seams. Only one more stop. I begin to push forward only looking towards the door. It opens and the mass of students standing in front wait for an order,

“MOVE! I need to get off” I bark from behind the wall.

The incessant wind, inebriated sports fans, and irregular weather patterns make Boston an unwieldy place, with hard-nosed locals to match. Whether it's raining, snowing, or just St. Paddy's day most people are beelining for their destination without really considering who or what they’re walking by. 

When I moved here I was hesitant to talk too loud or yell on the train but after a while it stopped seeming crazy, and became almost necessary. It's easy to feel like you're being drowned out by just how many people there are around. Adopting the bluntness of Boston has made me feel at home away from home. 

Plus, there are really nice days when people seem to let their guard down, especially along the Charles on a good evening in the spring. It's hard for me to keep up the act when the wind dies down or when I'm not in a rush. When I can take the time to appreciate Boston’s slowness, there's no need to be loud.

It’s Raining More Than Ever

by Emily

 Three years of your life contained within a few buildings beyond the bridge.

The “b” in Boston stands for boring. Besides going out to eat for $20+ a meal, the only other accessible pastime in Boston is walking. For those who have little to no balance and even less time with their parents as children, biking is not an option. Somedays, there is so much free time that the only option is to walk for hours. You can only rewatch Breaking Bad so many times. 

I’ve begun to amaze myself with how much I can walk, as if Boston were churning out groups of cross country walkers with each admitted year. It starts with walking as the most convenient mode of transportation for groceries or traveling to campus. Then, walking becomes more routine, developing into frequent strolls in the Commons. And after some of these walks, I would wander around for a bit more to pass the time. I’d idle around Northeastern and dare myself further and further away from campus. I often go down familiar roads and question where it would lead if I kept going instead of making the same turns I always did. In my sophomore year, I learned that if I didn’t return back to campus after Muji and I pursued past the sketchy alleyways on Mass Ave, I would roam my way onto Harvard Bridge where it feels as if all of Boston is before you. In one look, I could see Mass General, where I had my first co-op, and, to the far left, the illuminated Citgo sign in Kenmore. I could trace my eyes down the Esplanade where I frequently explore at midnight when all the parks are closed. No where I was, the bright “PRUDENTIAL” in the middle always led me back to everything familiar. Three years of my life contained within a few buildings beyond the bridge.

Though walking is convenient, Boston is not the most ideal place to walk in. Within my lifetime, I hope for some meteorologist to explain the impossible wind currents of Boston. I think too much about if people can sense my overt bitterness towards them when their hair remains perfectly untouched in the Boston wind tunnels while mine enters a zero gravity chamber on every street. And I’ve never known a truer truth than the resentment towards the Boston rains, not for its downpour but for its seemingly horizontal pelting. None of my umbrellas have withstood its force. It doesn’t sound right, that in the birthplace of engineering degrees, everyone seems to accept being drenched in the rain as a way of life. I’ve wished for some elite, heavy-duty umbrella of my dreams, but it doesn’t exist. Maybe one day I’ll patent my own umbrella made out of 100% stainless steel, like in that one movie. But frankly, I worry that it won’t even do the job, and I’m not ready for the horrid repercussions of hundreds of Bostonians carried away like Mary Poppins, wielding sheets of steel.

But I’ve learned that if I just stopped thinking for a minute, Boston seems a bit more bearable. I could almost even like it. Sometimes those snowstorms are chunky and slow, and the rain falls into patterns on the Reflecting Pool; the wind, more refreshing than incessant. It’s a small breather to remind me to notice the same signs and brick sidewalks I encounter daily. And sometimes it’s nice to see the things I’ve always seen, but to really notice them.

It’s brutal out here… or is it?

by Poon

Are the lows worth the highs? 

That’s what I ask myself on an annual basis as a resident of Boston. As someone who grew up in the tropics, where daily temperatures don’t go beyond the narrow band of 75-95 degrees, I’m accustomed to the same weather all year round. 

That’s most definitely not the case in Boston. During the summer, the heat is unbearable; in the winter, the opposite is true. Every December to March, I’m thrown against my will into an interactive months-long exhibit of what it’s like to live in Antarctica.

It’s only during spring, some days in summer, and fall that I enjoy the weather here. If it’s a sunny day with nice temperatures, you’ll rarely find me cooped up inside. I’ll be out and about all day exploring Boston. I find so much enjoyment in mindlessly walking the city and its tree-lined streets, parks, and riverfront areas — usually with a Dunkin’ Iced Latte in hand.

It’s days like these where the frigid winter and sweltering summer months are but a distant memory. Yet, I would not fully see the beauty of these days if not for the bad ones. There’s a common saying that you’ve got to experience the lows to truly appreciate the highs. I think this perfectly encapsulates my time living in Boston. 

Going back to my original question: are the lows worth the highs? To be honest, I still can’t answer that question for myself. I have not yet fully adapted to the climate here, with seasonal depression hitting me like a truck during the winter months. But I know one thing for certain — the highs and lows of the seasons are all part of the Boston experience, and it's up to us to make the most of it.

Passing Potholes While People Watching 

by Margaret

Whenever I am walking in Boston, which is all the time, I shove my hands deep into my pockets, watch where my feet are going, and try to avoid the cracks and loose bricks. If I am up on the hill, I avoid the broken glasses from dropped 12 packs outside Fig’s Liquor store from overly ambitious, yet extremely limp-armed university students. As I near my home, I avoid the cemented tree roots that break through the pavement. 

Every walk comes with wishes for fewer steps, fewer obstacles in my way, and wishes for transportation superpowers. Whenever the wind kicks in, I’ve noticed that my body doesn't flinch anymore, it’s like I’ve trained my mind to move elsewhere. Anytime the walks become unbearable, which they often do, I find comfort in closing my eyes and picturing myself home. I remind myself of the feeling of unlocking my door, the one with the shitty old lock. In my dreamscape, the 1950s bolt lock is far easier to finesse. I remind myself it will all be worth it once I open the doors. Times like this are when I wish I had a bike or a scooter but I only have cues, keys, and legs that do what I tell them. 

My city is not flawed, it's historic.

I like to think Boston is worried no one will like it anymore if even a tiny bit of its history was removed or altered. What would Boston be without its weird criss-cross cobblestone roads? I learned how to drive on Boston streets in a small boxy car, so I not only learned how to drive but learned how to empathize with leftovers flying around in tupperware. Driving in Boston is a miserable superpower, one that is impenetrable and brings a newfound appreciation for spill-proof lids. But now that I am living in the city and going to school, it's just me and cracked pavement that will never be fixed. 

My city is misunderstood. 

But on a windy day, at just the right spot on the hill, you can watch some Northeastern kids, who unlike me, did decide to invest in a fancy scooter, try to accelerate, but end up only moving in place. Like a seagull with its wings out, flying in one spot, unable to gain any traction. I could spend all day watching people try to get their electric scooters to move even an inch up the tallest hill in the city. Who said Boston doesn't have much to offer? Walking up the hill will never get easier but somehow surprisingly does when I observe, as Meg said, the huge increase in 20-30-year-old men who are now scootering everywhere.

Generations upon generations of people living permanently and temporarily in Boston have found comfort in bad-mouthing their city. Seriously, Boston could fall apart if we had nothing to complain about. What would it be without its ridiculousness? 

We all secretly love it still but keep quiet. 

Flock of birds sitting on top of a church in Mission Hill