A few weeks ago, my dad came to visit me for the second time since I’ve been at BC. A true Texan, born and raised, he openly abhors Northeastern weather and refuses to step a foot into Logan airport unless it is absolutely certain that the temperature will be above 60 degrees. Needless to say, there have been very few chances for him to come during the school year, so it was great that he made it up here while we’ve been having some of the best weather I’ve seen in Boston since my arrival. I swear, you never know when it’s going to be nice here. One moment, it is cold and rainy and the wind feels like ice. The next, the sun is shining brightly and there’s purple flowers everywhere and you can’t fathom where the hell they came from, you’re just glad that they’re there and you hope that they don’t retreat back into that frost that’s soaked into the sidewalk. Brrrr. We’ve had some cold winters here, but it sure does seem like Spring is on its way.

And that’s what my Dad said when he first got in. “Wow, I didn’t expect it to be this sunny.” I smiled and gave him a hug. It’s always nice to hear a parent talk about the weather. Older people seem to have an uncanny understanding of the seasons, probably because they’ve been here for so long- by now, I suppose that they’ve gotten used to it. The first thing that we did was go for a drive along the river, the Charles River, where already, Harvard and BU kids were rowing their boats along the canal, making trails that rippled behind them like the Slinkys that my Dad has always hated so much. “They’re too cheap,” he complained. “And they never work how they are supposed to.” I sighed. “They go to Harvard, Dad. I’m sure that they work as hard as they can.”

The sun eventually set and my Dad had long since stopped talking about the dangers of eugenics, so we decided that the only thing left to do was get some dinner and call it a night. I did a quick Google search in my phone and came up with a place called “Trattoria II Panino,” located in the North End. There was limited parking on the sidewalks so we navigated through the narrow alleyways in order to find a mythical parking lot that Apple claimed was real, but you can never be sure. Upon arriving at the restaurant, we were promptly seated at a table for two, with a cramped kitchen behind me and an outdoor patio to my right, enclosed due to burgeoning rain. Beside the patio there was a narrow staircase that descended steeply into what I imagined to be the bowels of Paul Revere. I laughed about this, weirdly, and we ordered some pasta. They used the pans that the food was cooked in as plates, and Dad and I both agreed that Boston’s Italian food would be hard to beat, anywhere.

In all, it was a really good visit.

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James Masterson

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