My family moved to downtown Boston in 1985. As a wide-eyed 14-year-old from Onehunga the shock was both cultural and culinary.
From my fifth-floor bedroom window, I could watch the antics of the uni students dancing on their fraternity and sorority house rooftops or playing gridiron on the streets below, even over fallen trees during Hurricane Elena.
Finding a park was a 30-minute exercise any day of the week and it took another five minutes to execute the nine-point parallel parks to get in. My walk to the subway to get to school came with a warning… "Don't stop to talk to the vagrants!".
Orange juice came in a frozen cardboard package of concentrate and lunch at school was a hot meal from an army-like canteen. I came to love Cape Cod kettle chips a decade before they arrived in New Zealand.