Our Neighborhood is Weirder Than Yours



Yes, this is what I want my funeral to look like.

 If there's a respectful way to mock people, I would choose to do that. I would, but I can't think of such a way. Just know that as I type about our neighborhood, this is the look on my face: bug eyes, head shaking left and right as I finally give up trying to understand what it is I am seeing.

Those experiences come often in Eastie.

Fifty years ago, East Boston was a neighborhood filled with Italian immigrants. I don't actually know that for a fact, but it seems like it should be the case, and Wikipedia is never wrong.

There are signs of our neighborhoods old Italian roots. The market down the street sells cold cuts, olives and bread. And nothing else. On hot days, the Italians pop chairs out in front of their houses and just sit there, as if air conditioning and cable TV don't exist. It's so sterotypical a scene that I'm afraid my description of the Italians having a discussion (yelling) at each other in front of their homes will sound like some hack writing from a TV show. But it actually happens.

Among other short commutes, such as the 10-minute walk to the airport, we live in close proximity to a large Catholic church a block from our house. As a recovering Catholic, you couldn't pay me to walk inside the church. But the dog and I were at the park Saturday when I noticed another classy Catholic funeral going on. This much is certain: When I die (riding a Harley, naked), I want a black El Camino stuffed to the brim with roses.

That, or a rollicking party in an Irish pub, with no funeral service to speak of. Whichever.


In fairness, it was rather warm this day.


The thing is, I kind of love it all. I've lived in the suburbs, where people rarely come out of their houses to talk. I've lived in downtown Salt Lake, but there wasn't much ... ethnic diversity. Diversity is a good thing, if just for the blog fodder.

It's simply everywhere, the fodder. On a walk to the subway, a pair of 60-ish Italians had out sun parasols. I have lived in Florida. I've been to Las Vegas in July. Salt Lake is guaranteed to be sunny for four months out of the year. I have never seen anybody walking with a sun parasol before moving to Boston, and now, I've seen two people using them. I can die happy. On a Harley.