YOKED

I embarked upon my trip to Boston or the New World, as it were, in search of a great adventure. I dreamed of old buildings, laced in ivy and finding three Irish pubs in one square block. I dreamed of autumn colors, charming footbridges and the glow of the city on the bay. And all of this has come true. But nowhere in my great adventure did I map out, in much detail, the part about it being 29 icy degrees with a wind chill and ever shortening days. “Isn’t that part of your adventure?” my mom asks from cushy California. “Well,” I reply, “I suppose I better relocate my notion of an adventure.” Navigating the Venetian canals with a bottle of vino? Adventure. Trekking the snow-encrusted gorges of Mt. Everest? Not so much. Bundling up with warm woolen-mittens and a cute periwinkle knit beanie? Adventure. Wearing a “gator neck” that covers my face like a bandit or a burka? A new, but necessary fashion low for me. I am sure that many of the thick-blooded New Englander