This is part of an essay about Boston I am working on. I would love to get some feed back on what I have written so far.
Boston is like an artichoke, looking at it you wonder why anyone would volunteer to try it. Each leaf has a sharp point, and a tasty prize. The closer to the heart you go, the sweeter the taste. The prick of each leave becomes, a reminder of the cost of getting this close.
Then you reach the heart, the fruit, like the city has opened up to you. The taste is sweet, tender and solid all at once. As you look back on the pieces you pulled away, the leaves laying to the side. Each has a memory.
Well Boston is like that, each street, each corner looks hard, but is soft at the bottom. Each road, sharp and the people inflexible. The heart of the city touches each of us, the way the heart of an artichoke touches each leaf, together in ways you can't see, and we will not admit.
But touch you it does. Not everyone mind you, for artichokes are not for everyone. Only the select few who know how sweet they taste inside. Who are willing to take the risk that comes with trying something new. And don't say the ones who are born here have lost something because they never left. I say, having lived in the artichoke, why would one choose to live in a pepper.