It’s weird to feel like a tourist in Boston, but I moved away after high school, so that’s exactly what I am. No one wants to be a tourist. “Tourist” is a dirty word that implies stupid and loud and destructive. Better to be the only person in an untouched landscape. The lone traveler who thought to photograph the street art. The one car on the open road. That used to feel possible. Not anymore. I remember magical places I visited 25 years ago and am afraid of what I’d now find in them. I remember the fever dream of Petra; and the Sinai Desert, where you could camp in a little hut for a dollar; and San Pedro, Belize, where people spoke the most beautiful Creole. I still recall some phrases.
Recently, I found this headline funny: Was Austin All That Great to Begin With? So I texted it to an Austin-based friend, who pointed out that you could replace “Austin” with anything.
Was the Olive Garden? Was The Godfather? Was childhood?
Last weekend in Boston with my mom and my nieces, I kept thinking of Tara Reid in Road Trip asking Tom Green where his roommate is.
“Austin?” Tom Green says. “Austin, Massachusetts?”
“You mean Boston, Massachusetts?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
My mom and I wanted to show the girls the touristy stuff: The Freedom Trail. Newbury Street. Salem in October.
Salem is an idyllic little city—clusters of sailboats moored in the harbor, treetops bright yellow and red. Its dark history—women deemed “witches” and murdered—morphed into pointy-hatted witches on broomsticks. Every October of my childhood, we drove to Salem in our Halloween costumes.
Things have changed. The haunted houses had lines that curved around the block. Everything was over-priced. We couldn’t get into the Witch Museum because it was booked until November. Even the foliage looked faded. We were visiting on a rainy day, but tens of thousands of tourists clogged the streets, undeterred. I always know my PMS has kicked in when I feel as though everyone is standing too close. I did have PMS, but also, everyone was standing too close. Salem reminded me of Mardi Gras, which I’ve never attended but imagine is where I’ll go for eternity if I’m bad in this life.
I’ve lived in places I thought were special, until a few years later when everyone moves there and they become objects of derision. Brooklyn, for instance. Even Mexico. During Covid, lots of “digital nomads” from New York relocated to Mexico City. Now some feel about certain Mexico City neighborhoods the way I feel about Salem.
I read an article about Salem locals and the tourists who try to barge into their houses the whole month of October. This year, residents got so exhausted, they gave up, left their doors unlocked, and set tip jars in their foyers. The article includes this quote from a beleaguered resident: “Yes, my house is haunted. Yes, I know the ghost’s name. Yes, of course they were a witch. In fact, they might have been a double witch.”
The last day of the trip, I took my younger niece, who is obsessed with history, to the Paul Revere House. There we learned that most of what we think we know about the guy comes from that Longfellow poem, written 85 years later. The poem turned Paul Revere into a folk hero, but really, compared to all the drama and bloodshed that ensued, his ride was insignificant. He was traveling with another guy, whom no one ever mentions. He never fought on the front lines. He was a silversmith and later a dentist. We saw some false teeth he made.
“He was kind of a loser,” my niece said.
“No way! He warned Hancock and Adams! He saved their lives.”
She wasn’t having it. At 18, you can still adjust the stories in your brain without grieving.
When I was 18, I moved across the country for college. Most of us spend our lives to that point wishing to be older. Not too much older, of course—21, 22, perhaps 25. In our permanent early-20s existence, we will have a car. We will be free from teenage sources of anguish, like hierarchies among peers. Aging will be amazing. We will be so hot. Forever.
I remember my first night in Colorado, weeping on the phone to a friend. I couldn’t articulate my feelings, but I preferred my crying to be witnessed. I still do. The rest of my family had also moved across the country. The house I’d grown up in had been ceded to strangers. My high school friends had embarked on their own new lives. The Juniors had taken our places as Seniors. We were gone, and the whole of my reality was gone. I felt extracted like a tooth. I couldn’t imagine feeling better. I couldn’t imagine that in a couple of decades, I’d find Boston nearly unrecognizable. Or that I’d be standing in the Paul Revere House, realizing I’d once memorized several stanzas of that Longfellow poem and could still recite them. I held that poem for years, and then I had to let it go.
Love,
Diana
P.S. What’s your relationship to wherever you grew up? Let me know in the comments!
P.P.S. There are a few ways to engage with my posts, any of which I’d deeply appreciate: You can “like” a post, comment on it, or share it wherever you share things. Thank you for being my readers.
Diana, this is lovely. It makes me very glad that you decided to create a Substack and populate it with whatever you feel like. When I was in my early twenties I couldn't wait to get out of Youngstown, OH--a place presidential candidates visit every four years to promise revitalization, never to be seen again until the next election cycle. But now, decades later, I have such a deep nostalgia for it and soak up every moment I can when I go "home" to visit my only sibling who never left. Great idea for an essay! Thanks!
I grew up in a boring suburb I was glad to leave behind. But after I turned it into a cute Dutch village in one of my novels, my attitude changed somewhat and now I can see the place had its charms.