Oddly Specific Places to Cry in Boston

I watched crocodile tears roll down my cheeks and knew that it was the end of an era and the beginning of a legacy. I realized that day that it hurt more to smile than to cry. As I grew up, my crying got more professional and moved from a one woman show in my mirror, to a five star performance surrounded by my adoring fans (uncomfortable pedestrians.) To me, crying in public is one of the chicest things a person can do. It requires commitment, over active tear ducts, and a sort of magic melodrama that you have to be born with. If you think you have what it takes to master the art of water works, visit my top picks and report back to me. Better yet, tell me in person because you will 100 percent find me at any of these spots telling you to never change.

1. BPL Outside Staircase on a Wednesday in the Rain

These steps are sacred. As I think about that hallowed ground, I get flooded with my French actress complex and I can only see in Sepia. Crying outside in the rain is one of the most melodramatic breakdowns a person can have, and after seven hours of watching videos of aggressive performance artists instead of actually writing a paper about them, you will be ready for a release. One tip is to never let the rain one up you. It is complimentary and there to transform you into the silent film star you are. If people say anything to you respond with “Pas s’anglais” and your chic points will skyrocket.

2.  The Third Duck in the Public Garden  

The third duck stands for everything a public crier believes in. She is original, real, and clearly also crying. Unlike the rest of the poser ducks, she doesn’t give a shit about what people think of her. Her stunning back arch and mysterious downward glance makes her the perfect pedestal for your catharsis. Even though she is beautiful, she also has an ugly duckling facade. It is so relatable that no one will even think it’s weird that you are 20 and dry heaving on a duck. However, if little kids ask if you’re okay, say no and run away because the third duck lives for the shock value (her butt is up in the air after all.)

3. Bathrooms with Codes You Memorized

Not only am I brilliant and perfect, but I also have 17 different bathroom codes written down in my planner (obviously I don’t have a planner, they are in my iPhone notes). This is the place you go when the cry is no longer aesthetically pleasing. This is for the snot trains, the coughing fits, and the face-into-the-hand-dryer-confidence-boost. The coded bathroom is your sanctuary; it is your hiding place and your temple. Only you can unlock the chamber of privacy with the codes you worked so hard on typing and because of your dedication, take your sweet ass time. Ignore every knock, every “ma’am are you okay in there?’ and every impulse to leave. This is your house honey, don’t ever forget it.

4. An Uber Your One Night Stand Paid For

You lock eyes with your driver and, for a second, you feel like you’re floating. First of all, ignore this‒you are just coming down from the one night stand high. You aren’t in love, you’re just a little overwhelmed. By this point, we both know that weeping is the only way to sort through your ~feelings~. He was cute, not psycho, funny (good funny‒like Jim from The Office funny), and called you an Uber. Your heels don’t hurt anymore and your driver can tell. You are both happy. WARNING: this moment can be easily ruined if you realize it's 6 a.m., you’re still drunk, and have 39 missed calls from your boss. Good job, you little hopeless romantic.

5. Into your Omelet at Brunch after Your Card Gets Declined  

Goat cheese, spinach, egg whites: everything is perfect. Boozy brunch is usually cute and gossipy, but today, it is pathetic. Your mom told you she transferred 30 dollars into your account so you could buy food (alcohol) and you assumed the money went through. You’re on your third mimosa when the waitress comes back and says the most common phrase in the entire dictionary of college: “do you have another card? This one isn’t working.” Silence, death, tears. As someone who is in this position every Sunday, I have the best advice ever: DO NOT REMAIN CALM. Weep, sob, scream, or make up some bullshit story about being robbed. All you have to do here is perform and if you have ever cried in public, I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.

Text by Jenny Griffin

City of You

You’ve moved to a new place and you’re completely lost. You’re glued to a map on your phone trying to find your destination, and you’ve never felt smaller.

After you settle into a new city, you know where you’re going based on the concrete landmarks that were installed years before your arrival. When enough time passes, you can read back the metro system like your own phone number. You can recommend restaurants to tourists and feel like a true local.

Then life spills over this perfect and informative map of the city you’ve learned, and you find yourself navigating around town, passing by the landmark experiences you have faced and remembering them either fondly or with a pang in your stomach.

“Meet me at the Thinking Cup on Newbury Street” falls out of your mouth when you can’t help but remind yourself it’s the coffee shop where you found out you were failing a class. Instead of hopping on the green line at Hynes Convention Center, you’re walking towards the train you caught at 6 a.m. after having spent the entire night with someone you love, your stomach still kicking.

It’s not just a stop sign, it’s where your backpack ripped and a bad day got even worse. It’s not a bridge, it’s what you drove by when you got the call that Uncle John died. And it’s not a dock, it’s where you kissed her for the first time. Your life in this town is now a never-ending loop of crystallizing and paralyzing experiences: your mistakes, faults, victories, and quirks are forever inked onto this city of you.

Slowly but surely you create your own little maps to help guide you in the right direction, both physically and metaphorically. This town is yours, and where you once felt out of place, you now feel omnipresent—almost like the memories you’ve left behind will stay there forever, and even though nobody will know, you’ve left your mark, and the city has marked you.

Text by Caroline Long

Illustrations by Katrina Chaput

The Creation of Dinner

I’m standing in front of my stovetop, holding a spatula and watching my beautiful omelet turn into a charred mess. I let the kale sautée for too long and I didn’t leave enough room for both eggs—I was impatient.

Cooking is not, and has never been, my forte. Luckily, growing up I was surrounded by great cooks who were happy to please my bottomless pit of a stomach. My childhood memories are swarmed with exotic dishes from across the globe that my dad prepared when I got home from swim practice, and gourmet twists on home-cooked classics that my uncle made at every family birthday party and barbeque.

However, now I’m alone in Boston, trying to take care of myself and maybe be a real adult. One integral step in this process is cooking my own healthy food. Every time I go to the grocery store, I analyze each item before placing it in my cart: is it organic? Should it be? What’s the difference between organic and free range? I like to pretend I know what I’m doing, even though I really just end up throwing random bags of spinach and tofu into my carriage.

After a series of omelet disasters and sad lunches comprising of Pop-Tarts and whatever else I could scrounge up from the back of my shelf in the fridge, I decided to step up my game a little. When other people cook for me, it becomes a piece of art‒even more so than when I order a dish at a restaurant. There’s an emotional response in the process of cooking for someone, and I’m trying to find that when I cook at home.

The first step is picking the ingredients. I choose tomatoes that are the brightest shade of ruby that Stop & Shop has to offer. Then, there’s the spinach‒deep emerald that creates a harsh contrast with the tomatoes and lend tones and shadows to my frying pan. Finally, I throw some tofu‒colored like sand on a tropical beach‒into the mix, and I find myself pleased with the trio of colors.

The second step is waiting. This is hard for me. As a person, I am a fundamentally impatient, so as a chef I’m hopeless. I can’t stand waiting even five minutes when I’m cooking (hence my love of the microwave,) but I’m trying to change that. While I watch the stir fry in front of me take shape, I am left thinking: when did everyone in the United States get so impatient? In other countries, making a meal is a key part of culture. This isn’t necessarily true in the U.S., where you can get anything fast and to-go. Here, an art form is slipping away. You can’t rush a masterpiece, which is what I’m trying to convince myself that I’m capable of preparing. Taking the time to choose good ingredients in order to make a meal that I’m proud of has become my goal this semester. Hopefully, with each dish I make, I get closer and closer to being able to express artistry and creativity in a new aspect of my life.

As an exercise in self-control, I try to take my time cooking this meal and notice all the nuances in my process. What’s the best way to cut these little tomatoes? How long should I sautée the spinach before adding the other ingredients? I let myself appreciate each different color of the vegetables and the shine of olive oil sizzling in the pan.

Eventually, my stir fry is finished, and the final product isn’t half bad. Sure, some of the spinach is burnt and I bought the wrong kind of tofu, but I’m still proud of it. I made this meal for myself, I took the time to thoughtfully choose wholesome ingredients, and I stopped my impatience in its tracks while letting myself sink into the rhythm of making a simple meal into an artistic experiment.

Words by Isabel Crabtree

Illustration by Julianna Sy

Our Privacy, Ourselves

In our private spheres we are ourselves. It is here that we take a deep breath free of societal pressure that leaves us on edge. It is in this intimate space that we express who we are. What is hanging on the walls? What is on the shelves? Are we scattered, are we in order? Personal space reveals so much, and it’s frightening. We fear sharing this space, letting others in, because we do not know how they will react, if they will judge us.

At the same time we can take the inside perspective, as we peer out into the world. We leave the comforts of our space every day, leaving behind the paintings on our walls and the books on our shelves. We leave this space and face the outside world, a place that can be overwhelming, busy, and chaotic.  At the end of the day, we have the pleasure of returning home once again to the calm personal space created.

The outside world can be scary, but it is in this outside world that we have the privilege and opportunity to find someone to share our space with. Someone who will love it just the same. In looking in and out of the door, we ask ourselves will we be alone, or will we find someone out there who wants to be here, too?

Text by Joseph Boudreau

Photos by Andri Raine

Skin Is In

If you follow me on social media, you know how much I talk about acne. Whether I’m weighing the pros and cons of selling my soul to Accutane, exchanging skin care tips with friends, or complaining about how my classmates’ dumb questions were “literally causing me to break out,” I have acne on the brain almost always. Like many people my age, I have spent nearly every morning since I was 13 staring at my reflection in the mirror and devising my newest plans to infiltrate enemy pores with harsh chemicals and drugstore soaps. However, in recent months, I have developed a much kinder, gentler approach to developing the healthy, glowing skin I’ve envisioned for years. The first step to adopting this approach was realizing that healthy skin and acne are not mutually exclusive.

When I first read “skin is in,” one of makeup/skincare line, Glossier’s, slogans, I felt my skin crawl off my body and slink away to the nearest Burger King, where it rightfully belongs. I was perfectly content with the contouring makeup trends that encouraged me to apply nearly obscene amounts of makeup in the name of fashion. Thousands of makeup tutorials taught me how to transform my face from Cabbage Patch Kid to Bratz Doll in 57 easy steps. I knew that makeup trend was a bubble doomed to burst; not only does it take approximately 1232 minutes and the dexterity of a child prodigy from the Renaissance to successfully apply, but it is also just unhealthy to stifle your skin with that amount of makeup.

Makeup/skincare brands such as Glossier and Milk are redefining makeup, emphasizing healthy skin over makeup. Their trademark looks are heavily highlighted, dewy, glowing skin, using minimal makeup and a precise skincare regimen to achieve angelic-looking skin. Though I do not own Glossier or Milk products (primarily because they don’t accept Board Bucks), their philosophies have permeated the makeup/skincare market. Brands including Lush, Sephora, and NYX have products similar to the ones revolutionized by Glossier and Milk, such as skin tints in place of powder foundation, highlighting sticks, and face glosses.

Though this emphasis on clear skin and minimal makeup initially made me break out in stress acne, I have come to appreciate the sentiment and my own skin more than I have in years. I also feel less inclined to cloak my skin in mysterious powders and instead let my skin breathe a sigh of relief. Now, when I am getting ready for bed at night, I treat my skin to some tea tree oil and natural moisturizer from CVS while my suitemate Emily plays the soothing Lana del Rey songs (not the ones about cocaine and joining a cult). My skin is certainly not perfect, but it is significantly less irritated than it was when I was at constant battle with it. I have actually come to embrace it.

I think it is time acne hires a new marketing team and rebrands itself. In recent years, other skin imperfections, such as freckles, have become fixtures in the beauty industry. Instead of being seen as physical reminders of all the times you didn’t listen to your mom when she told you to pack sunscreen, freckles have become an almost desirable facial feature. There are covergirls with hundreds of freckles speckling their noses. There are even songs that celebrate freckles. Though I don’t necessarily think Natasha Bedingfield needs to release a song about acne on her comeback album, I do think that acne would serve a subversive role in the fashion industry. Last spring, Malaysian fashion designer, Moto Guo, made headlines at Milan’s Fashion Week when he sent his models down the runway covered in artificial, exaggerated acne. When I broke out the next day, I claimed it was purely for aesthetic purposes.

Currently, my skin is my spoiled, yet rebellious, tween daughter who gets anything she needs from me in the form of serums and attention, yet constantly defies me in front of the cashier at our local Hollister. We may not have a Gilmore Girls-esque relationship yet, but I no longer want to commit filicide. According to the wikihow page on “How to be a Good Parent” that I read more than any childless 18-year-old should read, you must “love your children unconditionally; don't force them to be who you think they should be in order to earn your love.” Even though my spoiled tween defies me at Hollister, I’ll still pick her up at a sleepover party in the middle of the night when she gets homesick. Acne and all.

Text by Maggie McNulty

Photos by Noah Chiet