In September of fourteen-hundred and ninety two, Columbus made landfall on what is now a popular tourist destination, known for its warm waters, sunny beaches and general awesomeness.
He did not land in Boston.
Had he landed in Boston harbor in September and remained through February before sailing again to Lisbon, the stories he would have brought back might have stayed the colonizing fleets of Europe, and the new world would have been left relatively alone. As it was, he landed in the present-day Bahamas, and who doesn't like a beach? As a direct result, we now find ourselves here.
I'm speaking about the weather. Columbus had sunny with a high of 80; we got stuck with crappy and a chance of depressing. Case in point, I have a real problem with Boston weather, and it's to the point that I question what people were thinking when they decided to live here.
OK, first, a little personal history. I'm from Denver, Colorado, and for those of you who failed geography, that's in the middle of the country. I'm not west enough to be part of the West coast, and don't you dare associate me with the midwest. We have our own timezone, and if that's the only thing I can cling to for regional identity, then so be it.
No, we do not ride in covered wagons, and no, we do not fight the Arapaho on skis. Denver is a completely normal place and to top it off, it's beautiful. It usually has cool days all year round, sixties to seventies, and when there is bad weather, it's an awe-inspiring thunderstorm or a serene blizzard.
Imagine my surprise when I came to our fair city of Boston. The city woos you with some terrific colors for the first three weeks of fall, and then, BLAM, the winter hits you like a hand-of-god right hook sheathed in ice.
While the temperature drops, it never drops low enough for a decent and constant snow. So the rain falls in torrential, biblical downpours and each drop is chilled to the point of freezing. In terms of semantics, one could safely say "winter" is synonymous with "absolute and total misery."
And winter does not go quietly, much like Leonardo DiCaprio in the end of "Titanic." He could have just let go, drowned and saved us all a lot of pain and suffering. So could winter, but instead, it hangs around and keeps vomiting sub-zero rain all over the coast until late May.
Then summer rolls around, and the temperature ratchets up sixty degrees in mere days. The wind decides to take a vacation, the rain god puts on headphones and zones out, and the humidity gets so intense that it's prudent to set aside two sets of clothes and three sets of underwear just to ensure decency for the entire day.
Overshare. My bad.
So why? Why are we here? Why is there a major metropolitan area here, or anywhere on the East Coast? After much deliberation, I can only come up with one tenuous answer: The Brits. The English were the first to pick out the East Coast to set up shop, and, knowing London, maybe the weather reminded them of home. That or they were just trying to get in on the rampant carving up of new territory, and in that time, beggars couldn't be choosers. The Spaniards and the Portuguese had the resort areas tied down, and the French had staked out Middle America. So the Brits got Canada (save Quebec), and the godforsaken East Coast.
I can't imagine what George Washington must have thought, during the Revolutionary War, when winter descended on his broken and underfed army at Valley Forge. Did he, for one second, give pause to the idea of seizing the East Coast for himself? Might he have wondered if the New England winter was worth fighting and dying for? Did he consider taking his army west and south and setting up shop somewhere across the Mississippi where it was warmer?
Maybe the more realistic question is why did I come out to the East Coast? West is the best, as they say, and the mountains are practically non-existent here. The humidity makes me sweat from places I didn't think could excrete fluids. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure why I'm here.
Your next question is, "Did I really just read this entire rant for there not to be a unifying point at the end?" I'll say this: the disclaimer is at the end of the article for no other reason than that I didn't want to turn you away early. And for that, I can only apologize.
Disclaimer: This article/viewpoint has no unifying point. It is stream of consciousness and may not make sense. Reader discretion is advised.
Alex Sherman is a senior majoring in architectural studies. He can be reached via e-mail at alex.sherman@tufts.edu.
