I was in Boston for PAX at the end of march, but only for one night. I scrawled a short blurb in my notebook while I was sitting in my strange little room at the Y, on Berkeley St.
“I don’t generally feel like places have histories – which is to say I don’t tend to realize it, to think that way. Even Eastern State Penitentiary didn’t have the weight, the… for lack of a less cheesy word, the aura of this simple room. Possibly because it was moved into distant, safe “museum” territory by the attending staff, the plaques, the wall art and text panels.
Perhaps it’s because this place is my home while I’m here, however briefly. Or it could be the grandmother smell of the place: dust, mothballs, and ghosts of perfume. Or the mismatched tiles, the dirty teal pleather chair. Or the institutional fixtures. Of course, I could just chalk it all up to my mood: exhaustion, caffeine, and general overwhelmedness of seeing new places and sensory overload from the nerd con.”