Investing in your community

So I’m looking for a new place to stay.

My lease ends end August and I’m ready to find somewhere else. This apartment has been good but the personalities of the people in the house don’t gel too well and it’s probably for the best that I move. And I want to avoid the utilities shocker of last winter so August/September is a good time to go.

So today I went to interview for a room in a co-op and the whole process was fascinating. I have never lived in a co-op before, since I have always been a renter – you pay your rent and you expect the landlord to fix everything. But I learnt today, a co-op situation is very different.

I know, I know. Many people think “communes”, “dirty smelly hippies” and “communism” when they hear co-op and their idea of a co-op is probably this:

Or this:

But I found out tonight co-ops have a different face.

The biggest difference to me is really the concept of ownership. Rather than just being a renter, you’re very invested in the place you live in. You take ownership of your property as if you own the place – there’s no landlord to answer to and to rely on when things go wrong. That means you pay the mortgage, maintain the property and make sure the property is in a good condition to hand over to the next person.

Secondly, a co-op is usually established with greater social/political aims in mind. The co-op I interviewed for was created to allow disadvantaged people a choice to live in the Boston area. Okie, so everybody in the co-op is not exactly disadvantaged but it had a really noble ideal when it was founded and it’s inspiring to be part of a vision.

Thirdly, there seems to be a closer bond in a co-op living environment. Members are expected to invest time and effort in the living spaces – there are housekeeping duties, financial meetings and weekly house dinners with people in the house. That’s the kind of relationship I’m looking for, maybe a little too close to communism for many people but I like to be close to people.

A good description of co-op living can be found here.

So another year of anonymous, “hi/bye” room mate situation? Or an intense “we are the people” living environment with significant demands on time and energy?

I don’t know yet but after all that superficial “so how are you doing” meaningless banter in the work place, intimacy doesn’t sound so bad.

It’s not just the weather that’s giving me the chills

When I moved to Boston, I read an article in a Boston rag about things that drive Bostonians crazy.

The article “Bad Boston” listed many many things but one thing that leapt out was the complaint that Bostonians are not particularly nice people. They are mean drivers, sullen fellow commuters and generally cold human beings.

So being in Boston for, oh 5 days, I dismissed the article as harsh and overly critical and didn’t think much of it. Afterall, who doesn’t like to bash their hometown a little – “I can knock my hometown but don’t you even dare agree with me!”

But after a particularly nasty episode yesterday at a neighborhood wine store, I’m beginning to see its point.

So there I was at Gordon’s wine store in Waltham for the wine tasting. When I stepped in, there was nobody in the store except for the wine makers and two ladies monopolising the tasting table. As I made my way to the tasting station, this lady waylaid me and started asking for my ID for the tasting.

I handed her my federal ID and she said that wouldn’t be unless I have a state issued ID. Weirdly, she was rather gleeful about that and was about to dismiss me when I promptly fished out my state ID. She stared at it for a few minutes before going off to the cashier to “verify my ID”. I waited for a good 5 mins before she came back to inform me I had to physically show myself to the cashier for her to verify my ID. So I went to the cashier and she asked for my federal ID that was rejected initially and held up my ID to my face and spent another 5 mins scanning the ID against my face .

All in all, it was a very humiliating and surreal experience just to taste some wine. Nothing wrong with asking for my ID, but the whole protracted painful process really irritated me and made me question if they would have done the same if I wasn’t a young Asian male dressed simply in jeans and T-shirt turning up for a wine tasting. If I was white male dressed in business attire, would they have checked my ID so tactlessly?

And really it’s not just this isolated incident. Driving here in Boston is a nightmare, people are impatient, rude and obnoxious. Cashiers are sullen and curt, it’s as if they are working in a labor camp. Taxi drivers are even worse, I was insulted by one when I asked for a receipt because the cab fare was under 10 USD.

People here are slow to smile and many seemed genuinely taken aback when I do my cheery “how are you?” when I buy something, order in restaurants etc

People here can be … rather unpleasant.

So what is it about the east coast? Is all the old money making people all snotty, exclusive and cranky? I don’t know… maybe I’ll find out in the next few months but the image that flashes to my mind now when I now think about Boston is:

Survivor’s Boston Rob! He became the season’s star villain with his manipulative and dishonest ways and his detached self centered persona fits in with my impression of Boston somewhat.

Boston is a beautiful historical city filled with brains and money. Packed with hedge fund sharks, ivy league elites, cutting edge biotech scientists, the constant flow of new and old money creates a steady stream of affluence and priviledge.

Sadly, the people here seems much too aware of that to trully step out of themselves and be nice.

Remains of the chocolate cake

How do you get used to your heart breaking?

Boyfriend J has gone back to California to start his new job yesterday and it was another one of our airport goodbyes. I was well behaved the whole day, from making lunch to hanging out at Boston Pride 07 (1st Pride! NYC 08 Pride!) to seeing him walk through the departure gates.

All was fine till I walked away and I realised I was alone again.

And I started to cry, big balls of breathless sobbing welted up and I walked back to the car feeling like I always do when we say good bye – bereaved, tired and indignant.

J called me from the airplane and instantly knew what was happening and stayed with me through the phone for the few minutes he had before he flew off.

And so now I’m staring at this wonderfully decadent chocolate cake J bought a few days ago to cheer me up. He knew that Mondays are bad and he snuck out to buy the cake from this really expensive foufou bakery in Harvard Square.

We planned to finish the cake by Saturday before he leaves but the cake was just too rich… and so I have the last slice in the fridge.

A part of me wants to keep that small piece till he comes back, maybe with that small slice of magic cake, he will come back a little earlier.

The months of magical thinking, the sheer power of wistful thinking will bring him back.

Afterall with all that sugar, the cake will last forever.