It's hard to believe that it's been two months since I went from that /\/\/\/\ to this \/\/\/\/.
Two months ago I was living in Charleston, working at a local newspaper and living in a little 100-year-old house on the outskirts of downtown. My days were made up of two-minute commutes, long walks under the live oaks, $4 cocktails with friends, and small-town gossip. Life was easy, and it was slow, and I was happy. But ready for a change.
Our new house is about five miles from the heart of Boston, yet a 15-to-45-minute commute by bus, depending on traffic. I work as an editor in an office surrounded by hip restaurants with $15 cocktails, and my daily walk takes me through the skyscrapers of the Financial District and past the Tea Party Museum over Fort Point Channel. In the evenings and on weekends, we've had pasta in the North End, ridden the ferry to Spectacle Island, explored the Museum of Fine Arts, eaten fish tacos in Fenway, and taken day trips to Newburyport, Marblehead, and Walden Pond.
It all still feels very new, and I'm still catching up. But every now and then I stop for a minute to think about how far I've come in a few short weeks — whether I'm hurrying along to catch the T, organizing a photo shoot at my new job, or just walking through the streets of a city I can now call home.