New England is home to me in a lot of ways, even though I love living in New York and going to LA. It felt good to be back in Boston for a weekend, walking down to Copley Square one morning, to a New England farmer’s market in the shadow of Trinity Church. A collection of stalls offers pies and herb seedlings. Cider donuts and goat cheese, piles of produce slightly smaller, more mottled and with deeper colors than their supermarket counterparts.
I stopped to buy raspberries and donuts, but my black linen sundress didn’t have any pockets for carrying cash. I dug my embroidered black wallet out of my black leather shoulder bag, and apologized for only having twenties.
I’ve never felt more like a New Yorker.