Crossing Horizons: there and back again

I grew up in a small town in the one living city in the western state of Idaho. Full of lush and swaying green vegetation which seemed to carry on continual conversations with the urban explosion that was sprouting up around it. I still feel a sense of irony and guilt in realizing that although I had had the luxury of growing up in such a beautiful, confidential place... I longed to be set loose.

In a series of both daring and fortunate events that followed, I, a westerner, made my way out east. This caged feeling of anxiousness was relieved as soon as I stepped on plane, vowing to never again live in my hometown. From Chicago to DC, deep-dish pizza to the ambition settled into the heartbeat of the nations capitol, I fed into my own adventurous spirit sift confidently through my veins.

I then came to Boston, on vacation, for the first time. A city with so much capacity for walk-ability, I wondered almost instantly as I descended into its cool mist if I had perhaps been there before, in a passed life. Through cobblestone streets, striking close resemblance to European and European-influenced Latin America, I felt Boston whispering to me its stories. Stories of great history, culture, defiance, and most of all, a story or two that engaged me so fervently I felt as I had been there before. As a child seeing wondrous things for the first time, I ran around for hours... consuming. Consuming the air, the smells, the tastes of great restaurants, the sights of beautiful architecture, and perhaps most beautifully, its sounds. Sounds of the worlds languages entering my space while I commuted in the industrial era looking metro rails. But perhaps the sound that can be described as a cut above the rest, was the sound of crashes.

On my last day I ventured north east up the blue-line to Revere Beach. A town so similar in both setting and atmosphere to Northern California, I temporarily forgot that I was in Massachusetts. Vendors lined up the endless stretch of beach filling the air with odors of cheap fine sea dining and the salt coming from the Atlantic ocean. The climax of this Boston trip was the crash of the waves against the side of the beach, as I wondered both tenderly and peacefully as both the Atlantic and I made our introductions. Me being warm-water Pacific westerner, and the Atlantic being its perfect antithesis. It was during this greeting, I looked down at my feet as the sea crashed against my feet, and saw two perfect sea shells. Treasure indeed.