I’ve decided to blog again, to keep my friends and family updated about my life in medical school in Boston. Besides, I hate taking life journeys alone, so this way I get to take you with me! Also, having a blog to report to will be a great way to avoid slipping into those “big city” vices of drugs, alcohol, and volunteering.
So like with most journeys, mine begins with a 1am plane ride…
Since I apparently used my fake ID of Bobby McDownwithcapitalism, my luggage was thoroughly searched. Even though I left my plastique at home, I felt very nervous, like security was going to find something bad, so I felt the need to explain what my removed “suspicious” items were. “Those are just pictures!” “That’s a sphygmomanometer…”—he was bewildered by the sphygmomanometer and wary of my framed picture of my mom and grandma and sister. Allegedly, because the sphygmomanometer looks like a detonator, and images of empowered women across generations threaten democracy.
After confirming that the pictures were of my friends and family and not of my fellow al-Qaeda members, I was free to board. I was seated in the row right behind first class. Which is perfect, because I enjoy opulence that is in my sight, but just out of my reach. I didn’t see as much as I wanted to though, because they separate that area with a curtain, lest my retinas be damaged by their wealthy glow. As everybody knows, you’re supposed to gaze upon the affluent with one of these:

See, I thought I was all smart because I got a seat at the front of the plane. I envisioned deboarding the plane right after landing, guffawing as I left scrambling and disgruntled passengers in my wake. But it turns out that Continental boards from the back to the front. And, the front seats (lacking seats in front of them) don’t have carry-on storage in your personal space. So BOTH my carry-ons had to be put in overhead storage. Which was limited, because everyone else was all settled. So I ended up putting my stuff rows behind me, and was among the last to deboard. This is what it’s like, when the mighty fall.
Not to sound like a hopeless romantic, but I now resolve to obtain a child for the sole purpose of getting priority airplane boarding privileges. Don’t worry, I intend to reward/raise the child properly. I’ll share approximately half of my airport McDonald’s McGriddle with it, because I think in doctor school they’re gonna teach us that maple is an essential vitamin of developing brain stems. And my airplane seating baby is gonna have the healthiest brain stem on the block!
The plane ride itself was pretty uneventful, minus our in-flight entertainment of Confessions of a Shopaholic, starring Not Debra Messing. I couldn’t watch it with audio, since I refuse to pay $1 for weird two-pronged headphones I can’t use anywhere except Continental flights, but from what I could piece together (SPOILER ALERT!) she either conquered her shopaholism or found a man or something. My angle also made the movie appear in weird inverted colors, so I think she also became a zombie.
After a layover in Houston, I made it to Boston. Immediately I was assaulted by my old arch-nemesis: humidity. Non-existent story short, my hair immediately looked like this

After about an hour of looking awesome while carrying all my stuff, I finally made it to my apartment. I like it a lot—it’s a studio, but the kitchen and living room/bedroom are in separate rooms. The only things I have to get used to are having a radiator (which it turns out is NOT a hibachi grill), and using roller shades, which I’m horrible at. Anyone reading this who went to Pomona, or who is currently Amish, will know what these are.
Like with all new settings, sleeping on the first night was difficult. Every creak became “Is that a mouse?! Boston has those…” and every spooky whisper became “Is that a Kennedy?! Boston has those…” If I were a more optimistic person, I would’ve reacted with “Is that a rich history and diverse culture?! Boston has those…” but we both know that’s not happening.
The next morning, I noticed something interesting. When you wake up and look around and think “OH MY GOD I’VE BEEN ROBBED,” it’s surprisingly not that comforting when you realize “OH WAIT, I DON’T OWN ANYTHING.”
Later that day, I had a Comcast installer come by. I found out that my internet/cable line that runs through my wall was faulty or even cut. So maintenance resolved it by running a new one through my windowsill.
I immediately contacted Comcast to reschedule an appointment, since I was already shaking and hallucinating from not having checked my Facebook in two days, but it turns out they couldn’t come until Monday.
It was then that I faced a temptation so taboo that I guarantee no other blog dare speak its name: stealing a neighbor’s unsecured wireless. At first I felt bad about stealing internet. I’ve never stolen anything except the occasional heart, and now more than ever I’m supposed to be professional. My initial thought process was “But I NEED to check my email, for school purposes of course, so I’ll just check my email, and then disable my wireless card, and resume being a good citizen.” And that’s what I did.
But somewhere along the line, this devolved into “WHOA I CAN STREAM THIS 90-MINUTE MOVIE ONLINE! AND CHAT WHILE ON FACEBOOK.” So begins my downward spiral into depravity.
Although it was glamorous stealing internet in an empty room, while sweating as much as you’d expect someone who spends time stealing internet in an empty room sweats, I’m incredibly lucky to have great friends out here who took me shopping. There I bought a desk, a chair, a bookshelf, a microwave, and some frames. This made me very happy since my room was looking like one of those dungeons where they find young Eastern Europeans who have been held captive since they were born. A few more days like that and you would’ve seen a picture of my room on BBC with the caption “Zis is vhere I kept Svetlana. What iz problem?”
In a half-hearted effort to accept my life changes, I explored my surroundings a bit. I found this market called Bazaar, advertised as an international market. Being the citizen of the world that I am, I entered.
As I moseyed through the aisles, it then hit me. This wasn’t just any market. This was a Russian market. Which could only mean one thing. I was surrounded. By Russians. Remembering protocol, I searched my pocket. My cyanide tablet was nowhere to be found. Soon, I was cornered by the ethnic cheeses. I tried to remember that episode of MacGuyver where he creates a smokebomb using only Polish gouda and Turkish Delights, only to realize that that probably never happened. Thankfully, using my disguise of an awkward 23 year old with mild acne, I eventually snuck by them to safety.
As I continued to explore, I found another store that caught my eye: Treasure Chest. They advertised vintage wares. Being the citizen of the old world that I am, I entered.
This store was not what it seemed either. I sifted through the posters, but they were all of Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley, and Alice in Wonderland—specifically the hookah-smoking caterpillar. Then it hit me. This wasn’t just any vintage store. This was a bong store. Which could only mean one thing. I was surrounded. By bongs.
Apparently I still had my awkward 23 year old (with mild acne) disguise on, because I didn’t want to be rude (being the only customer, with the shopkeeper right there). So I looked around and half-heartedly admired the bongs. “Wow, a bong shaped like Medusa… Neat!” Then it got too exhausting, and I had already given the octopus bong a once-over, twice. So with a “Well, take care,” I left.
I think I’ll just stick to the Dollar Tree and Stop n Shop, for now.
Bobby
Hey bobby, long time! Sounds like things are going good for you. I like your post, you have a great entertaining way of writing. You make everyday boring things like taking a plane flight sound interesting! I too hope to master that skill one day. Look forward to hearing more about your adventures.
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jono
Regarding your glimpses of First Class on the flight - "you can't look DIRECTLY at the sun" :)
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