Joshua and I are here. We are in our tiny July/August studio sublet on Comm Ave (read "Commonwealth Avenue." Bostonians abbreviate EVERYTHING). We have had, count them, TWO grocery trips (one walking to the Whole Foods across the street, whereupon we realized like every red-blooded carnivorous Southerner, we cannot shop here except for produce and other fresh niceties. The other trip to the confusingly-named Stop 'n Shop, which unlike its gas station convenience store sound-alike, is what my husband refers to as a "real" grocery store. We found Boar's Head beef bologna and Martinelli's apple juice there. The angelic choir sounded). We have met one neighbor on the fifth floor, an Algerian named Mac, who welcomed us heartily to town. We have ventured onto our Royal Tenenbaums-esque tar and rock roof which has a view of Allston-Brighton all the way to The Pru (read "Prudential Tower") in downtown Boston. We rode the T (Boston public transit) from our front door for an hour and a half, trying (successfully) to get to a party. We watched the Boston Pops' dazzling firework show on our first night in town from Brad's roof-top deck in the South End (you could hear some of the Pops' music, but alas, no Mellencamp). Bostonians, unlike New Yorkers, are complete 4th of July crazies. Not afraid one bit to wave their flags, paint their faces red-white-and blue, or get down and boogie to the once "Cougar" Mellencamp singing a rousing chorus of "Rockin in the USA." And I will also say, I have never seen such enthusiastic news-anchors congratulating themselves (Boston) on a big celebration.

UPS delivered two out of three boxes we had shipped from Anderson, South Carolina when we realized that we didn't really want to drive my 4Runner (Pepe) another 900+ miles (through another four potentially equally GIGANTIC rainstorms) with three large plastic tubs on top. Fantastic idea, except that the one box UPS didn't deliver today was the one with all my clothes in it.

I have spent the greater part of the last two-and-a-half days cleaning Irina Rosovsky's (affectionately called "Irina Derevko" by Joshua and me) teeny-but-cute studio. Hard woods in the main/bed-room, blue-and-white check linoleum in the kitchen and bathroom, cream colored walls, double-size futon bed, 1980's black-lacquered with gold writing atop amoeba-shaped coffee table in front of the red-velvet upholstered loveseat, and a very large, poorly-equipped closet for our seemingly massive amount of stuff. One suprising element of this place, the heat. I guess coupling the fact that we're one-floor below the tar roof and the fact that we can't get much of a cross breeze going with all the windows on one side, it doesn't matter that the temperature outside is in the 70s most of the day. Our apartment feels very much like a stiflling upper-80s. I never thought I (the heat-lovingest Texan I know) would want a fan or air-conditioner in this town.

Looking forward to getting to know my way around the neighborhood and the city, making some art, finding the rythm of daily life, and continuing in my new full-time occupation as a home-maker (it's really fun; though the cooking venture hasn't taken much of a turn for the better. All of my pots, pans, and measuring cups are in storage in Dallas, and Irina has one sauce pan and two small skillets in house. Time to get creative with Grandmacita-style palm of the hand measurements). So far, Boston life is MUCH slower-paced than Dallas. No planes to catch, no weddings or parties to plan... We just get to be ourselves, find out more who that is.