By Madeleine Kando
I went to Cambridge today to have my iPhone fixed. Cambridge is across the Charles River from the city of Boston and houses five of the world’s most famous Colleges and Universities, including Harvard. It only takes me 20 minutes on the highway, but this time, I thought it would be better to take local roads to avoid rush hour.
I arrived during commencement week. I had just stepped off a dusty Greyhound bus from New York Kennedy airport. Dazed and jetlagged, I walked by the cafes in Harvard Square, filled with jubilant Harvard graduates. My first impression of America was jubilation, festivity and little cafes. I liked the feel of the place.
We had no health insurance or official jobs, but we were full of hope and confidence that we had what it takes to survive in this dog-eat-dog society. We were young, which is the best asset an immigrant can have.
I entered North Cambridge, where my firstborn learned how to walk. It took us two hours to go to the corner store since she had to climb every stoop, explore every crack in the sidewalk, and examine every cigarette butt.
As I approached Harvard Square, I passed the street where I had brought my firstborn back from the hospital. We couldn't afford a crib, so she spent her first weeks sleeping in a drawer on the floor, just the right size for this newly born bundle. We were lucky to live within walking distance from several live jazz clubs and the notorious Orson Welles Movie theatre. Massachusetts State Police raided it for showing Oh! Calcutta!, an avant-garde production, full of sex.
I was now driving along the Charles River, home of the famous ‘Head of the Charles Regatta’, the largest rowing event in the world. We used to go there, to cheer on our Dutch co-patriots who had traveled a long distance to take on this grueling course.
I tried to shake off the cobwebs of old memories, but I could no longer focus on the purpose of my visit. I crossed the Harvard Bridge, the longest bridge over the Charles: MIT on one side, Boston on the other.
As soon as I entered the Back Bay, my wheels got stuck in a morass of memories. Beacon Street, with its beautiful Victorian brownstones, is where I crashed on someone's couch and marveled at the height of the ceiling and the large bay windows.
I drove down Newbury Street with its expensive designer stores. There were no traces of the fancy French Dubarry restaurant, where I landed my first American job as a waitress. While serving a fancy dinner on the back terrace, I saw the occasional rat scurry away into a corner.
From Beacon Street, I could see the golden dome of the Massachusetts State House tower over the small, cobblestoned streets of Beacon Hill. It is the cream on top of the cake of Boston. You cannot get more 'Colonial Era' than that small, highly coveted district. That is where I shared my first apartment with Michelle, a petite French woman who made a few unsuccessful passes at me, after which we became best friends.
Taking a trip down memory lane has its thorns too. I suddenly found myself in the Longwood Medical Area, a beehive filled with dozens of hospitals, research facilities, and colleges. That is where my youngest daughter was taken in an ambulance, unconscious and comatose. The emergency doctor at Beth Israel said that she was in a diabetic coma. They weren't sure whether she would live or die. She lived, thank God.
When you live in a place long enough, you leave traces of your past almost everywhere you go, like a slug. My memory map is covered with ‘enter at your own risk’ areas that are too painful to enter. But I won’t take you there today. It would make this story too depressing.
I would rather see myself as one of those migrant birds that feed on our snow-covered bird feeders on their way south. They have to fatten up for their long journey. I am fattening up on memories for the rest of mine. One day my journey will stop, and I will look back and say: 'that was a hell of a ride'.
