Lunchbreak

I wander down the street, shaded and sandwiched by sterile glass high rises. A mere three years ago what is now a maze of concrete right angles and scattered construction cones was acres of parking lots -- urban fields of cracked asphalt stretching to the ocean. Just behind it, empty warehouses whispered of industry long drowned in the harbor. Now, they house tech companies and feed their employees from posh new eateries. As I walk across the well curated intersection towards the perfectly planned park, there is a breeze in the midsummer air, just enough to keep the warm touch of July sunshine from feeling too hot on bare skin. Strangely, the scent of pizza wafts by: a heavy scent of someone's home. I don't know where that tomato perfume is coming from, a hint of herbs underneath, the rich smell of melted cheese and hot grease pooled on top of craggy bubbles of blackened crust. It smells like Nonna's kitchen. Like hot cast iron and well worn wooden spoons. Like a kitchen coated with a family's history.

Nothing here has history. It was built with all eyes on the future, raised on the foundation of progress. As I hit the end of the block, however; where the street turns into a brick pathway and opens up to rough-hewn rocks along the edge of the water, history cannot not help but seep in. Manicured lawns and uncomfortable seating look across the harbor, where the clean geometry of new construction gives way to the stubby, misshapen lines of two hundred year old storehouses retrofitted and remodeled for modern times. On the water, there is a collection of ruddy tall ships and bright white streamlined yachts. Even the sailors cannot decide between heritage and progress.

As I sit on the freshly mowed grass, I breathe in the salt air and lingering scent of home cooking.  It's quiet here, the city sounds blocked by the buildings, muffled on the rippling water. There is just the soft hum of boats in the distance. At one point, a harbor cruise drifts by, leaving strains of soft jazz in it's wake. From here, I can see Old North Church, it's bright white spire still visible from most parts of the old city, despite the glare of plate glass windows around it. It stands out against fluffy clouds gathered on the horizon, a soft threat of late afternoon rainstorms. I don't know what all of this innovation will bring, the drive for progress that has expanded the skyline and pressed the character out of a neighborhood once swollen with potential, still gritty with the sweet-bitter history of mafia and mob bosses and sailors on leave. It's much smoother now, very easily digestible. It sits neutral on anyone's palette. A little grit, though, a little grime often accompanies the most delicious meals. I certainly always prefer Nonna's cooking over the store bought stuff.