Boston, Harry Potter and Coming Home

I needed that weekend away. My four days in Boston wasn’t everything I expected it to be, thank God. It wasn’t worse or better, just . . .different than the way I pictured it in my head. I had no idea, for example, that the weekend would include World’s Largest Balls jokes, discussions about the luxury of zippers relative to the Amish culture or Autism. Seeing as I was at a Harry Potter convention, I expected all the talk about Harry Potter and literature but I had no idea I’d come away with a completely new perspective on the series I adore so much. If you were in Boston at LeakyCon this weekend, thank you. Thanks for continuing to teach me about love and what it means to make a difference.
Proceeds from the convention benefitted the Harry Potter Alliance and Book Aid International, two amazing organizations that fight the Dark Arts in the real world. It always amazes me how a group of people from vastly different backgrounds, cultures and experiences can bond over some books and together, challenge injustices committed in the world.
On a self-indulgent level, the city itself—Boston—was just what I needed this weekend. I finished my last term paper at 2am Wednesday and boarded a bus at 6, barreling past Connecticut countryside toward a Hogwarts-meets-New-England holiday. Boston glistens with academia and history seems to lurk behind every corner. Just strolling down one of the winding streets or through Boston Commons made me feel a little bit smarter. By the time my bus pulled out of Back Bay Station on Sunday afternoon, the last place I wanted to see was dirty, crowded, concrete New York. I especially dreaded returning to the underbelly of Brooklyn where I live.
The closer my over-air-conditioned MegaBus got to the city, however, the more my excitement grew. Seeing the Bronx — old men playing cards on the street ,yelling at one another in Spanish—made my stomach turn flip-flops. We rolled into Harlem and the sight of the subway entrance at 125th street made me smile like it never has before. I suddenly became aware of how much I missed New York. Despite its dirt and crowds and smell and god-awful summer humidity, there’s something so real about this place. Even in its most touristy neighborhoods, New York is authentic. So many people store their hopes and ambitions here that dreams seem to ooze from the sewers on 14th street—they may be revolting, ugly, inconvenient, but they’re always there, always real, always genuine.
Now that I’m home, in this beautiful, disgusting city, it’s time to get back to Real Life: dancing, moving, getting married, celebrating the fact that my fiancée has a job! I think I found an apartment . . . more info soon.