So. . .how did I live so many years of my life in Massachusetts without hearing the term MASSHOLE? I imagine that the people who cemented rocks into the wall around their house in Cambridge were Massholes. I imagine all the people who honked their horn at me while I manuevered carefully through a traffic circle or intersection were Massholes. I think it must take a lot of meditation, scream therapy and/or booze to keep from becoming a huge jerk from having to drive around the greater Boston area. In a store in Harvard Square, I asked a woman to excuse me as I squeezed by her in a narrow aisle and she practically growled at me. That's right. Masshole.

Having experienced a week of refreshingly friendly strangers in western Mass. I thought maybe I'd been unfair to my old haunts. I tried smiling as I walked down Mass Ave. Not crazy smiling, just happy smiling. It was a beautiful day and I was enjoying myself. Not a single person smiled back. I could give them all a break for being in a big city instead of a small town. I'm sure that's part of it. But then there are the reports from friends who insist that New York is far more friendly than Boston.

Despite the general jerkiness, I still know and love many lovely people who make Boston their home. Maybe they are stronger than me. More flexible. More loyal. Somehow they know how to thrive in a less than welcoming environment. Or maybe it was just me who was unwelcome. Unwelcome from the start and bitter ever since.