The thing I miss most, living in our small town next to Canada, is not a Target. It's not good Mexican food or strolling by the Capitol building at night or my 3G phone actually having enough service to be 3G.
It's fish.
A little while ago, I asked my sister, who's a wildlife biologist (and clearly the more intelligent sibling) if I could make sushi with brook trout. Apparently a wealth of parasites keep these fellows off of the menu at your local raw bar. Good thing I asked first.
But last night, I had fish. And it was really good.
So, last week, some good friends graciously informed me that 1) they had an extra ticket to a concert in Boston, and 2) my sister was going. The bad news: I was scheduled to work. However, when I told my boss about the opportunity, I think he looked at me sideways. "What are you thinking? Go." Sir, you are a saint, and when I am back in tomorrow, I will answer phones like you've never seen.
And what was I thinking? This country mouse likes food, dancing, music, and - chiefly - her sister, which are all hard to come by in the north woods, but were found in plenty last night. We had dinner at an italian place in the North End (thank you, Greg and Heather), and I don't think I've ever had such good calamari anywhere. The aroma of garlic, shellfish, an incredible pesto, cured meat and red wine danced throughout the room. It was just glorious. It felt like I was on another planet.
The fish planet. The best planet.
This was followed by a walk to the Garden, and a concert with so much energy that you could have been blindfolded and still found yourself dancing in the aisle. Before the concert, we all threw out guesses at what the average age would be at this show. I guessed 22, and I'm pretty sure I almost nailed it. Two thoughts:
1. These guys started making music in 1995, which put the said average concertgoer in 1st grade. Did you really spend elementary school bus rides listening to funk and reggae on your ipod? The Wiggles probably drove you to it (for which I wouldn't blame you). They were around then, right?
2. You are just over the legal drinking age, so I don't want to tell you how to live your life, but I'd like to warn you about the dangers of combining too much beer, steep concrete stairs, and metal balcony railings. With all of that sloppy clapping and drunken dancing flailing, I seriously thought we were going to lose you.
I admit, however, that I did get a little shameful joy out of watching you party by yourself. Your moves, albeit off-beat and haphazard, were pure genius. I especially liked your use of the "cat claw" motion as you ambled up the stairs toward your seat. Rawr.
All in all, despite the drunken guy at our nine o'clock and the thick puffs of smoke surfacing from the stands, the night was pretty incredible. I danced, I laughed, I ate, and I spent most of the evening linked arm in arm with my favorite girl in the world.
Driving 12 hours for an experience like this seems like such a small price to pay. Just give me a reason.
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