Casualties

My hands. They are raw from ripping open boxes and using a screwdriver.

A bottle of Grey Goose. It's tragic, really. The cork popped out en route to my new apartment and the entire bottle leaked. But L brought over a new bottle as a gift. Sometimes, L is psychic.

My coffee press. It was sitting on the edge of the sink. And then it leapt to its death. And broke in a million pieces. This was not okay, because being highly caffeinated is not a choice but a necessity when you're staying up until 2am assembling furniture. Three nights in a row. Ow.

But the casualties are worth it. I look up from my coffee table -- champagne flutes and cupcakes split four ways -- and at the three people sitting around the table. And I wonder how I got here and why I'm so lucky. And I realize this is how it was always meant to be. I just didn't know it for a really long time. 

My Cross-Town Move

1 -- Dunkin Donuts iced coffee
104 -- minutes spent moving
50 -- feet I drove the U-Haul
9 -- feet of clearance needed for the U-Haul
10 -- feet of clearance on Storrow Drive
2 -- Starbucks iced lattes
9 -- boxes unpacked
3 -- times I listened to "Boogie Shoes" by KC and the Sunshine Band
16 -- episodes of Melrose Place watched during the unpacking
4 -- champagne flutes found that I didn't remember I owned
48 -- hours and counting of decorating
3 -- bags of groceries
1 -- piece of furniture left to be assembled

Champagne on the Common

At 6:20, I walk into Mitchell Gold + Bob Williams.

At 6:45, I walk out, having custom-ordered a new sofa. That's what I call getting things done.

I chose a slate grey abstract print. It's going to look phenomenal. I can't wait.

And by 8, L, E, and I are sprawled out on Boston Common. We have three blankets and burritos. E brought a bottle of champagne and the rest of her frozen fudge birthday cake. We're here to see All's Well That Ends Well at Shakespeare on the Common.

But Shakespeare doesn't have a chance. Because we eat the cake and E opens up the champagne (as discreetly as possible of course, because we don't really want to get arrested). And we lie on our stomachs in a circle and catch up. It's like a slumber party. With champagne. Under the stars. We plan out the rest of our summer -- tennis games and rooftop cocktail parties -- and Shakespeare provides a little ambiance.

Just Your Average Night in Boston

It's a beautiful day in Beantown, and I know it will be a beautiful evening. I text L: "Maybe we should go somewhere on the harbor?"

We agree on Temazcal and, after work, we take the Red Line to South Station. Looking back at the shiny glass of the Financial District, we walk along Fort Point Channel and then Fan Pier. We guessed all sports bars would be incredibly packed as tonight is Game Seven, but we didn't figure on the two hour wait for a table at Temazcal. We vote for the bar instead.

The bar at Temazcal is crowded, the doors are flung open to the harbor and the warm air, and the sky is so blue. I turn to L: "It doesn't feel like we're in Boston. It feels like we're in...." She says, "On vacation!" I was going to say California, but, yeah, she's got it right. Two chivalrous gentleman have given us their seats and we've got two potent cocktails. This is as close to vacation as we're getting on a weeknight.

We eat our flautas, guacamole, and tacos de pescado and, at right at 8pm, management turns the Bruins game on. I like hockey. I do. But it's incredibly loud. It's so loud that the bartenders are wincing.

We get the check. We think over our options: Drink. Or Rumba at the Intercontinental. We could waltz into O Ya and have a drink at the bar.

We settle on Les Zygomates. It's all jazz music and atmospheric votive candles. The last time we were here, we ordered a 1/2 bottle of champagne. Don't fix it if it ain't broke. The champagne arrives and we clink our glasses. There's  a TV screen behind the bar, but the volume's off. It's pretty quiet until a cheer goes up: The Bruins score their third goal of the night, then their fourth.

With only a few minutes to go in the game, we settle up our bill and walk to South Station. I arrive at Park Station without incident, but the Green Line is dysfunctional -- the seats are dripping with beer and there's a vague announcement about delays due to crowds at North Station. I hedge my bets on a cab and head up the steps to the Common.

It's nuts -- crowds yelling ("Stanley Cup right here, baby!"), car horns beeping, cops standing guard on every corner. I'm lucky to get a cab. And, you know what, it's fun to roll through town with the windows down. I think of an October, not too many years ago, when the Red Sox were down three games to the Yankees and came back from the dead to win the ALCS. That was my first October in Boston -- a hell of an introduction.

Boston loves when the underdog wins. And that's when you realize when Boston is not so big of a city.

Tonight, the city is united.