Thickly Settled

Despite being a native Floridian, I have lived in the Boston area for so much of my life—six years during college and graduate school and another fourteen since returning in 1998—that I barely notice the provincial quirks and characteristics that define this region.  I hardly hear the distinctive Boston accent that once twisted my ear as a college freshman.  I order frappes (milkshakes) and jimmies (sprinkles) without an outsider’s awkwardness.   I no longer cringe when the 11pm news broadcast turns to the streets of South Boston for its exclusive take on world events.

Learning to live like a native in this town takes patience and thick skin.  Long before Google Maps or GPS systems, Bostonians and their counterparts in the adjoining “towns” (don’t call them cities or suburbs) learned to navigate against a network of Dunkin Donuts establishments.  Every destination is described in terms of its proximity to these outposts which, every New Englander knows, is a place to buy coffee (not Donuts).  To get to my house, you go to the Dunkin Donuts and turn right.  It’s just that simple.

Today, I am able to pass as a local, brandishing my flattened vowels and knowing at least six different ways to get to Fenway Park.  I dress properly for winter, which is to say that I do not overdress.  I know the rules of hockey.  I know how to order a half cord of fire wood.   I know where to pahk a cahr in Hahvahd yahd.

Recently, my nephew moved to Boston for a surgical internship.  Having a New England newbie in our midst is an opportunity to relive my earlier Yankee enamorment.  It is resensitizing me to features I once found so charming.  It is an opportunity to play ambassador from an area that has sheltered me, educated me, employed me, healed me, and nurtured my family.  Suddenly, the sights to which I have become blinded are alive again.

So it was as we drove down Spring Street, weaving from Lexington to Waltham on a back road to the highway.  We passed a sign I see every day but take for granted.  It said, simply, “Thickly Settled.”  My nephew was baffled.  “What on Earth could that possibly mean?” he asked, his brilliant medical mind stumped.  If it had been Facebook, I would have ‘laughed out loud.’ 

Years ago, my father superstitiously refused to allow me to take my Florida driver’s exam in his car.  At the age of 20, a college friend was generous enough to take me for my road test in Watertown, Massachusetts.   In reading the Massachusetts Drivers’ Handbook, I learned about the “thickly settled district,” a Massachusetts term that defines a neighborhood where, for at least a ¼ of a mile, dwellings average less than 200 feet apart.  In a thickly settled district, the speed limit is 30 mph.

After years of passing it blindly, I suddenly realized the subtle Massachusetts implication of this little sign.  Its subtext says, “the speed limit is 30 mph, and if you don’t live here we are going to give you a ticket.”  In the New England vernacular, this translates to:  Welcome to Boston.

Tomorrow's blog:  Compatriot Games