I've spent the past few weeks reassessing
Boston.
Maybe it's that I've gotten familiar once more with the city of my birth. Or that the pain of leaving the little home, the little community, that I found myself a part of in Brooklyn has begun to fade into the background. But when I really think about it, neither of these reasons are the biggest factor.
I should have known. Or known better at least. This is a city for fall dressing. I, a native daughter, who almost rationalized buying
a pair of elbow-length cashmere gloves because of their color and who has, for the past two months, found herself visiting a pair of
Bottega Veneta heeled
oxfords that reside in the
Barneys shoe department, should have realized. Because before
Princeton and
London and
Clinton Hill, there was this place.
So there are the cardigans and the coats. Young men who actually pull off a bow tie and cardigan combination without looking twee. Cords of all cuts and colors. Mustards and browns and hunter greens. There are tights of plum and gray worn with sweater dresses and woolen miniskirts. Scarves and hats and boots. I often find myself appraising the many pairs during very long bus rides. The wellies and the riding boots and those that lace up. Deep, soft, supple leathers covered with the marks of past winters. On warmer days, people leave their outerwear open. Relishing the last moments before everything has to stay behind the curtain of their coat in order to keep out the chill and the snow.
Boston's season is fall.
And, as such, it is mine.
