MAYBE YOU CAN RELATE

I miss my city.

I miss the graffiti in the underpasses along the routes of the trains, reminding me the city was near.

I miss the palpable excitement in the air during regular season sports events — events other cities would have trouble promoting.

I miss the annual September influx of college girls, eager to study by day and explore by night. I made a great tour guide.

I miss taking Xanax and Starbucks in the Prudential Center Barnes & Noble, removing myself from society for days while immersing myself in a connected concoction of poems, photography and music.

I miss Felipe’s in Harvard Square feeding me long after I had taken the last train of the night across the Mass Ave. Bridge.

I miss Pino’s in Cleveland Circle doing the same. I miss the Kani Katsu Maki from FuGaKyu in Brookline, the Chef Special Roll from Teriyaki House in South Boston, the Lunch Box from Snappy Sushi in Back Bay.

I miss wandering around different blocks in the early morning, waiting to see if the rising of the sun looked any different on a different morning from a different neighborhood.

I miss seeing drugs being sold hand-to-hand in Downtown Crossing. How the in-person sight of such weakness and access reminded me to remain focused on my salvation, still dealing with the ghosts buried just under my sternum, trying in vain for their resurrection, their salvation.

I miss brightening the nights of the workers at the Store 24's and 7-Eleven's, simultaneously providing a familiar face during the loneliness of an empty night.

I miss watching the skaters in front of the First Church, the skaters in Brattle Square area, even the Back Bay posers who would always carry their boards rather than risk skating along the uncertainty contained within the city’s unforgiving sidewalks.

I miss the brilliance of brotherhood found within the close quarters of Wally’s, where the juxtaposition of chess, alcohol and jazz never seemed out of place.

I miss the South Street Diner, and the predictability of having a memorable run-in each and every time I dined there. It was as if freaks were drawn there for no other reason than other freaks were bound to be there.

I miss the countless espresso and coffee shops in the North End — all selling competing products in ridiculously small adjacent shops.

I miss the hollow requests for money from James, Anthony, Black Irish; all of whom were seemingly too well-versed in the art of charm to have succumbed to a life on the streets. I quickly became humbled when they offered me money in my times of need.

I miss going to the old Tower Records, then Virgin Records and then Best Buy at midnight on Tuesday mornings for the latest new music releases; the patience of waiting the extra twelve hours too unbearable for that Masta Killa debut.

I miss walking for miles, talking to myself the entire time, appearing unhinged to passers. The jury is still out on that indictment.

I miss the fragrance of Border Cafe in Harvard Square in the winter — how their creations permeated the perimeter in the stale cold night.

I miss introducing myself as ‘Mike’ to the coffee shop barista’s and deli workers, thinking my name was too often misspelled to deal with the corrections on a daily basis. How embarrassing to have a cute girl see me in my natural setting, calling out “Mike!” from afar, and the fact I lied about my name to save her the trouble being written on my face from the jump.

I miss sneaking out of work to meet that Colombian hostess, grinding against each other in the darkness only found between two buildings in an alley in the city at night. Both too nervous to make a move, both too attracted to stop meeting in the same spot at the same time.

I miss taking boomers in the The Christian Science Plaza at dawn, laying my head down against the infinite fountain and realizing everything is everything; how lovely life could be if you let it into your heart, even for a moment.

I miss smoking weed in the labyrinth of architecture in the rear of the Edward W. Brooke Courthouse, watching the stars at night and thinking of Her.

Always thinking of Her.

I miss scanning the sea of faces on all the city’s sidewalks, trusting if I looked long enough I would run into someone I knew; the assurance of familiarity worked wonders for my confidence.

I miss peeing into Vitaminwater bottles in my bedroom, fearing if I exited I may encounter one of my Craigslist roommates and be forced into an awkward conversation about their past prison and/or political experiences.

I miss being high in Newbury Comics, looking for new music, listening to whatever the employees were playing and being lost and found at the same time.

I miss seeing the rats on the train rails, and how I could never figure out if they were invading our living area or us theirs.

I miss smoking cigars in Faneuil Hall, listening to my iPod and watching these people pass me by, this life passing me by.

I miss catching the Red Sox score outside of Cardullo’s, stopping to catch an at-bat complete with lawn chairs and mixed drinks conspicuously stored in plastic cups and soda bottles.

I miss challenging kids in NBA2K at the Best Buy in the CambridgeSide Galleria. The joke was on me when my taunts literally fell on deaf ears one night. No matter — he got it, too.

I miss roaming the Berklee College of Music campus, searching for a free event to attend in order to pass some time. I miss Karmaloop, Bodega, X-Squared and especially The Tannery in Harvard Square. One of my favorite feelings in the world is the genuine excitement sparked by the purchase of a new pair of sneakers.

I miss taking transfer trains to Roxbury to buy weed, the hour-plus journeys worth it every time the first celebratory blunt was lit once back home.

I miss the packed house of an Opening Night at the AMC Loews Cinema on Tremont as much as I miss the empty matinées.

I miss the Cold Stone Creamery in the Landmark Center for no reason other than the one time I bought two ice creams; a small Cake Batter for Her and an overzealous large Cake Batter for me.

I miss the girls sunning themselves on the Commons, trying to get a tan.

I miss exploring Coolidge Corner on drugs and caffeine, a rampant theme during my stay.

Starbucks, Mr. Sushi, Brookline Booksmith, Zaftig’s.

I miss the parties we threw in Brighton as much as the parties we threw in Southie.

I miss sleeping in the storage closet in a Back Bay building one night. The next morning delivery-man never saw it coming: a half-naked kid, sleeping on stacked linens, being awoken at 6:00 AM, and not particularly happy about it.

I miss buying extravagant meals for myself during my first months in the city, celebrating nothing more than freedom. I would dine alone and bask in the glory of being shaped into a leader by a city looking for a king.

I miss the church bells on Sunday mornings.

I miss going to Red Sox and Celtics games with my Dad, and his uncanny ability to sneak into better seats without fail, always keeping one eye on the game and the other eye on our next destination should the real ticket-holders come and claim their seats.

I miss bartering fares and discussing cultures with cab drivers. What a fascinating subculture I was fortunate enough to infiltrate.

I miss taking the commuter rail from Boston to Foxborough, falling in love along the way. I miss Opening Days and Grand Openings.

I miss staying up late at night, taking hallucinogenics, smoking hookahs and trading song-for-song with my roommates, learning and growing amongst truly great minds.

I remember having sex underneath staging in a meeting room inside the Hynes Convention Center during the Democratic National Convention. I remember receiving hand-jobs on the balcony of the Back Bay Hilton, overlooking the city skyline at night and feeling so alive.

I remember making late-night visits to the Symphony Hall district and leaving as soon as I came. I remember Green Line blow-jobs.

I remember running into an old girl at midnight and getting a hand-job from her on the benches outside the Prudential Center.

I remember having sex in the lofts at 360 Newbury Street while again overlooking the city skyline. I remember having some fun with a girl in Newton, and walking back to Cambridge at sunrise the next morning.

I remember walking dogs with a girl who was house-sitting for her family’s friends, taking her down shortly after while watching the moon rise over Charles River from the Master Bedroom windows.

I remember getting hand-jobs in the basement of the Park Plaza parking garage, always being left to finish the job myself as the fear of getting caught took over the heat of the moment for her every time.

I remember getting blow-jobs in an adjacent storage closet in that same Back Bay building, easily finishing due to the extreme tension of committing such a dangerous act in such a small space.

I’ll never forget the girl who asked my buddy and I if we would “think differently of her tomorrow” during the very middle of a double-team in his apartment in Kenmore Square.

I remember attending regular season and playoff games for all future Championship teams. I remember waiting on NBA Champions, smoking weed with NFL Pro-Bowlers, getting drunk with MLB All-Stars.

I remember giving Governor Romney a fist-bump during a Yankees-Red Sox game at Fenway. I remember Torii Hunter giving me $20 after escorting overanxious fans away from his private table.

I remember sneaking into the Keyshia Cole concert with the entire Celtics squad in the VIP section, watching her perform.

I told the bouncers I was a promoter.

They let me right in.

I remember pouring out of Clarke’s and dropping to my knees in tears when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004; the entire city’s population hugging and high-fiveing in a celebration of released joy I had never before experienced.

I remember waking up with bruises over my heart the morning after the Celtics won the Championship in 2008, so proudly pounding my chest like Kevin Garnett the entire night before.

I remember serving underage Bruins players at one of their private parties. During the party, one player asked another player, “How’s the ‘za?” His response? “It’s ‘za”. Of course it was.

I remember the ticker-tape parades for each of the Patriots Super Bowl victories, the confetti raining from the skies bringing tears to my eyes each time.

I remember taking my brother to UFC 118 at the Garden.

We smoked a blunt and watched amateur models get their pictures taken in a small studio across the street — both of us too excited for the night ahead to speak.

I remember the two City workers who wanted to kill me when I wouldn’t back down to their demands to “Get the fuck out of the road”.

I remember being offered crack in a back alley on one of the nights I quit smoking weed.

I remember sleeping on a couch-mattress found in the streets, and the bedbugs that followed.

I remember the pimp who told me: “All you need in life is Tupac and money” and how I couldn’t agree more.

I remember grilling a man for an entire train ride to Cambridge simply for the fact of him grilling me the entire ride.

He eventually threatened to “Jackie Chan” me, then ran away.

I remember a well-dressed albeit disfigured man walking me home one night, naive to the fact he was asking me on a date.

I remember eating weed brownies and serving Mr. Belding. He gave me an unsolicited autograph at the end of the meal.

I remember serving hamburgers and chicken to Dan Akroyd and friends until 3:00AM after the grand opening of the House of Blues on Lansdowne Street.

I remember the feeling of innocence I had every time I would help an elderly woman cross the street.

I remember all of the substances consumed on the rooftops across the Back Bay and North End.

Seeing the city from atop reminded me how small each individual is; how large the dreams of those individuals are.

I remember listening to “I Don’t Wanna Know” with Mario Winans.

I remember the kid who insisted on giving me a $100 tip on a $1 tab and his feeling remorseful after I couldn’t procure the drugs he so badly desired.

I remember stepping outside at night during a shift at work, seeing two youths sharing a blunt and asking if I could hit it. They obliged.

I remember the man who gave me $30 at work one night to play “Ms. International” by Method Man & Redman.

I remember partying with members of The Real World, afterward walking the entire city until dawn.

I remember being a regular customer at Hong Kong in Harvard Square, watching the patrons enjoy their debauchery while I enjoyed my chicken fingers from afar.

I remember sleeping on the couches of friends, giving away my clothes to real kids on the streets.

I remember balling my eyes out in the dark, sparse bedroom I maintained while watching a replayed CNN broadcast of the inauguration for President Obama.

I remember smoking borrowed weed with my Dad during the Dave Matthews Band concert at Fenway Park.

I remember paying a cab driver $20 to park his car while I tried to attack his passengers for hollering at the girl I was with.

I remember joining an unaffordable gym just to use their showers.

I remember coaxing on a knife-wielding college kid in the streets of Allston after a post-party brawl, praying for the police to show up and take him away — they did.

I remember singing “Remember The Time” by Michael Jackson in the dark of my closet-bedroom; the shock and embarrassment I felt when I saw the silhouette of a face through my window from the street — laughing at me.

I remember the diary I once found, sparsely written-in but containing the immortal phrase:

“This city is conquerable.”

I miss it all.

Written By: Matteo Urella / May 2011

Original Photography: 2011 — 2014