Oh man. It’s our third month since moving from Manhattan to the Boston suburbs. I’d like a falafel, please.
Regular readers will recall it was my wife who insisted we move, for the sake of our two year-old son. And despite my reluctant return to my hometown, I cannot deny that Fox loves it here. It took him about a day to transition from urban baby to country boy.
In New York, we would dutifully show our son pictures of farm animals and teach him the sounds they make. But such animals were wholly abstract, like dinosaurs. The only local fauna he encountered were pigeons, squirrels, and the occasional hipster.
Now it’s just a ten minute drive to Drumlin Farm, where Fox can get close to chickens, goats, horses, sheep and countless other creatures. For less exotic but more immediate gratification, we need only walk out our front door for bunnies, chipmunks, butterflies, ducks and snakes.
Life in New York was admittedly fun-filled and glamorous. Fox grew up riding the subway, taking morning strolls along the Hudson, and pressing elevator buttons to his heart’s content.
Edie Falco was known to fuss over Fox on the street; he’d cavort with MILFs like Bridget Moynahan at the local playground, and Alicia Keys in swim class. No big whoop.
Now his days are filled with ponds, playgrounds, forests and farms. It’s achingly wholesome and absurdly conducive to growth. In fact, probably the most subversive influence in Fox’s life now is me.
Even though I grew up here, I feel like an outsider. For starters, I haven’t learned to censor myself. Profanity is so ubiquitous in New York that nobody notices or cares. New Yorkers are more apt to take offense at tourists wearing ornamented Christmas sweaters. But swears, not so much.
Case in point. Yesterday while rock-climbing at my new gym I referred to the “vagina hold,” for want of a better descriptor. Wait, here’s a pic:
My new climbing buddies exchanged awkward glances, probably because of our proximity to a mother and daughters. I should probably suppress such vulgar talk, but there’s a legitimate danger I’ll end up hating myself.
In addition to swears, New Yorkers disregard sirens and flashing blue lights. But when a police car races through the suburbs, conversation stops and everyone watches until the cop speeds out of view. Apparently seeing some police action unfold might make your day here. In New York it’ll just make you late.
Suburbanites are also way too attached to their cars. In New York, there are no white lines to delineate parking spaces. Accordingly, when parallel parking, we rely on adjacent cars for feedback. Here in the suburbs people are really touchy when you bump their car’s, er… bumper. I’m not going to waste my time lecturing them on tautologies.
Oh and speaking of linguistics, something’s been nagging at me that perhaps you can explain: If people from England are English, why aren’t people from New England referred to as New English? Wait – forget I even asked that.
For my part, I’m doing my best to embrace easy access to trail running, canoeing and wildlife preserves. But I could still really go for that falafel.