Notes

The street which runs in back of the Berklee School of Music is named, appropriately, St. Cecilia.

Very narrow streets of red brick buildings with columns of bay windows, low-growing junipers and tall leafy trees--if the sun is right, they look like the canyons back home or in Utah.

I have seen more things saying or signaling "Boston Red Sox" in the last six hours than I have in my entire life.

I am in love with the Boston Public Library.

I am in love with Trinity Church (at Copley Square).

Tomorrow I plan on falling in love with either the Harvard Natural History Museum or the Boston Public Gardens, depending on the weather.

Massachuussettss!

About fourteen years ago this month I started third grade, my first year at a real school in the United States. We'd just moved to Fort Collins; on my first day I wore a flowered dress with a white peter-pan collar, and my teacher was Mrs. Johnston, who wore jean jumpers.

This month, this year, I'm moving to Boston, for my first year at a "real job". I start work on Monday; I don't know what I'm going to wear yet, but I do know that instead of sitting in the little chairs behind the little desks, I'll be standing at (or near) the front of another third grade classroom. This school is in an old six-floor apartment building with a big marble staircase in the center; they don't have a big playground like my own third-grade school, but their street has magnolias and they might raise baby chickens this spring.

I'll be in a hostel until my apartment opens up, so posts might be periodic until then. Next step of the plan : learn to spell the state's name.