Pilgrim Crossing

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 Englanders think I am completely overreacting. Plenty remind me that I “ain’t seen nothin yet.” But occasionally one takes pity on me. While waiting to cross the street, my friend Michael, a New Jersey native, attempted to engage me in conversation that he hoped would take my mind off the cold. But all I could do was shiver, and stammer and shake in total disbelief of my mind-numbing surroundings. Finally, realizing what he’s up against, Michael says to me, “You know what, it’s ok if you need to use all your brain power to keep warm right now. I understand.” Then a stranger joins in: “Hey, you’re shivering! That’s a good thing! It means your body’s working to stay warm, sending out all kinds of endorphins and stuff.” He hollers all of this into the dark night, his laughter puffing forth in little white clouds.

Well, if nothing else we are all in this together, I muse. Strangers are offering me encouragement in the crosswalk. Friends are excusing my inability to form sentences. The whole experience of living in a freezing climate is so ridiculous, so consuming, that we can not help but laugh about it, making our own little white puff clouds as we scurry through the streets. The real adventure, I am beginning to suspect, is seeing how the cold, with its shrill howls and nasty bite, actually brings people together, enlivening ways of relating to each other that we might not know without a common hardship. Who knew the cold could be such a mighty equalizer? Pilgrims, no doubt.

I luxuriate in the warmth of this new reflection, its poetic resonance with journeying to the “New World,” and the well-heated train ride back to Cambridge . When I share something of my hopeful discovery to Michael, he promptly quips: “Don’t worry, you’ve got another 4 or 5 more months to figure it out…”

Ha ha. Fantastic.