Living in Jamaica Plain

Since moving to Boston, I needed to make a few, mostly pleasant adjustments to the neighborhood and apartment dwelling in general. I live in Jamaica Plain, a Boston neighborhood located south and somewhat west of the city proper. The area is pretty darn affordable, and it has a certain eclectic charm which attracts people from all walks of life. It is very much City Year territory.

One of the many murals at a nearby park.

I missed a Dominican parade my first weekend, which made me sad. On most afternoons I can smell Latino, creole or Chinese food as I make your way down Centre Street. This same food is often thrown into the streets the next day to feed the birds, so morning strolls are less enjoyable, particularly on garbage day. At night my window becomes a jukebox, though it mostly plays Latin music; I often wake up with "bump badda bump bump" stuck in my head. At 7:00 pm someone usually drives by blasting Bob Marley, which would be nice if it weren't always One Love.

I pass Bromley Heath, supposedly the roughest projects in Boston, on my walk to Jackson Square Station every morning. One of my City Year teammates who grew up there says he saw someone get shot when he was nine. The closest thing to a crime I've witnessed is hearing a frustrated resident exclaim, in broad daylight and to no one in particular, that he wanted some weed. Then he flagged down a car. It hardly counts as criminal, since marijuana possession was recently downgraded to a fine.

The entrance to Jamaica Pond

There are white doves painted in various spots along the sidewalk. Beneath each one is a painted banner which reads "Stop the Violence, Create Peace." They are the work of an acclaimed artist and are often painted by volunteers in places where acts of violence have taken place. The closest one is about 40 feet from the entrance to my apartment. My church group and I painted our own. While the message is appropriate, it feels less poignant painted within the safe confines of our parish house on Beacon Street.

Meatland is grand. My roommates and I live on the third floor of a red triple-decker which sits above the butcher shop which gives our apartment its name. We each have our own room, and there is a huge common area and porch. Anyone stepping out the door is a five minute walk from the T, three minutes from Stop and Shop, 20 minutes from Jamaica Pond and about eight minutes from, grumble, the laundromat. Not having your own washer and dryer makes laundry a three hour affair. And while I'm complaining, a mouse recently moved into Meatland. We've named him MacGyver, since he's managed to steal peanut butter from all of our traps.

Meatland

City Year is humming along pretty nicely. We had our opening day ceremony. We have most of our uniform parts, though many don't fit. We have our phones but do not have the numbers yet. My team is set, we've had our first full week of school, and I will be telling you about my role and my school in coming posts. I am sorry the formatting on this post sucks, but Blogspot is persnickity when I add photos and I am currently too lazy to spend more time fixing it.

In my last post I meant to thank my roommate Garret for letting me use his computer until mine became up and running. Garret, I will buy you some expensive, imported beer soon. I'm just waiting for MacGyver to come through with the rent.

Reese