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Opinion | Farah Stockman

Boston vs. The Big Easy

I just got back from New Orleans and I’ve been going through withdrawal. It’s been three days since a bartender called me “Sugar” or a stranger chatted me up in the street.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Boston. I have come to accept the arms-length way we show affection for each other. I understand that when the lady-with-the-dog-in-my-condo raises her eyebrow at me, it means: “Are you my new neighbor? Welcome to the building!” I know that the hair-trigger honk a millisecond after a light turns green is just the guy-behind-me’s way of saying hello.

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