based on a true story

"need to stop by here and pick up some cloves."

Richard's pointing at the open door of Leavitt & Pierce, the local tobacconist in Harvard Square.

"I thought they were closed at this time of night," I said. My gaze wandered across windows filled with vintage playing cards and straight razors..

"They are," he replied as we walked in to the overpowering scent of pipe tobacco and old leather, "but sometimes he comes in here to do paperwork and just leaves the store open."

By 'he', my friend meant the proprietor who stood behind the cash register, flipping through folders and invoices, who looked up and saw us walking in, and without a word walked past shelves laden with Indian bidis and Gitane widepacks, pulled out a pack of Djarum specials and handed it to Richard, who already had the dollars in his hand, and was passing it along the counter.

You get used to transactions like this when you hang out with Richard, who's lived here long enough to be on a first name basis with a dizzying array of store owners, maitre'd's and bartenders. The glances of familiarity follow him wherever we go and the smiles that are accorded to a generous tipper appear frequently in the restaurants we attend. We walked along Mass. Ave. following the path from Harvard Square to Central, and he asks me about my intentions for moving, asking about qualities and preferences and expectations. Somewhere in the middle of it all, he offhandedly mentions an idle fantasy of working in Europe, and it's strange to think of him living in a city where he's a stranger in every bar or an anonymous name in a reservation book.

"Let's stop by the Middle East," he says, "You can't say no to free baklava."
"Well, at least you get the opportunity to say 'no.' The rest of us just hope for good service."
"and is that my fault?"

The waitress brings him his usual, and as he sips, he tells me stories of the brothers who own the restaurant; of the other properties they have in Central and how they let Lebanese immigrants stay in apartments for amazingly low rent. He tells me of the efforts they make to find jobs for those that ask for their help and of the barbecues that they secretly hold in the downstairs room, with DJs, bands, tables of food and no charge given to anyone who walks in the door. For a brief moment, I consider asking him if he's read that history book about Central Square, but felt that it may have been redundant, and that perhaps he's heard all of those stories before.

I've always been torn by the need to establish roots and to continuously move. A childhood and adolescence spent shuttling between three countries and multiple homes sired my wishes for novelty and discovery. But that only lasts for so long, and we can hope that they'll be replaced by a familiarity that is more comforting than boring. Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference between the two, and sometimes you need to see it through someone else in order to recognize it.