Top Ten Places To Write In Boston
- gracielacewood
- Sep 7, 2015
- 2 min read
Why Boston? No reason, I definitley don't live there. Please don't murder me.
Long have the mortals of Cambridge and the greater Boston area searched in vain for a place where they can work in peace. A sweet sanctuary with a bounty of outlets, and rich in public restrooms. A promised land of free wifi, open at least past six, and where no man can tell you, "You're going to need to buy something if you want to sit here." Fear no more fellow unemployedsmen, be ye writers, or undergrads, bloggers, or PHD students. Even the lowly tradesman hawking thy goods on Etsy, your time has come, behold...
Clean public bathrooms, outlets, serenity and free wifi abound in this great cathedral of learning, though it be but poorly endowed with hours of operation. (It closes at five on the weekends.)
It will be a "palace for the people," declaimed architect Charles Follen Mckim upon it's completion in 1895 and indeed it was. A marble palace where anyone can go to poop, be they princes, or paupers, it welcomes their bowel movements with open arms (provided they aren't carrying food or non-water beverages because the security guards will yell at you).
Look upon the hasseled engineering students and be mirthful my fellow unemploydsmen, for you my friend are not studying calculus. Also once, during finals week, the librarians thought I was a student and they gave me cookies.
Be ye student, or professor, buisnessman or successful author, all the baristas here are still cooler then you.
Like the words etched upon the gates of hell, "abandon hope all ye who enter here," so too do words etched upon paper adorn the wall of 1369. They read, "please be respectful of other patrons and limit your stay during peak hours." And like, Dante's intrepid Virgil, so too we will ignore those words, buying a single coffee and lingering for hours. (which, fun fact, is exactly what Virgil does in ninth Canto of the The Divine Comedy)
Nothing is wanting in this temple of peace, but perhaps that they turn down the air conditioning a smidge.
Revel in the fact that you don't work here my friends! Revel in your joblessness! and get a scone or something the bakery's nice.
Far afield one must travel to reach the Diesel Cafe, out past the turbulence of Central Square and beyond the wide sea of preppy rich kids (Harvard Square), far far to the outskirts of the city. To Somerville my friends, to Somerville.
The irony of writing the filthiest erotica that I can imagine in a religious center is not lost on me.
Like the Holy Grail of Sir Thomas Malory's Le Mort D'Arthur only those virgin maids of purest heart, of noble birth and of true faith may look upon it. (seriously though, the back porch is way nice)
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