About Me
The humble About Me page is one of my favorite things. Reading about people’s formative experiences and unique influences makes me feel more connected to them.
Yet few venues exist for this kind of sharing; social media profiles are much too brief, while networking events are over-curated and performative. As someone who cherishes openness, I thought I’d write the kind of biographical page I love reading.
As I grow and evolve, so will this page. I hope it brings you closer to me!
So who am I?
I live in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where I was born and raised. I’m perpetually curious, and fascinated by people and culture — as you probably know if you’re on this page, I’ve talked to a stranger every day for over a year. (Jan. 2025 edit: over two years.)
My day job is in healthcare software, but I moonlight as an election mapmaker, studying why places vote the way they do.
I grew up steeped in baseball culture, spending springs on the field and summers at the ballpark. Through playing, watching, and reading about thousands of games (and, later, tennis matches) I developed equal reverence for the analytical and intangible aspects of sports.
I’m a sucker for pop music’s simple pleasures: a serotonin-laden hook, addicting melodies dreamy and dancey alike.
Above all, I’ll always be a New England kid, soothed by the rustic comfort of fisherman’s platters and candlepin bowling.
Today, I’m most focused on creating enduring social connections. I chase experiences that bring me closer to new people.
“You ever go shooting?”
The three boys across the table were starting to look interested. Gino’s Pizza and Spaghetti House, its humble interior littered with black-and-white photos of coal miners, was barren when I pulled in for a pit stop. Halfway through my only meal in this sleepy town high in the bluffs of southern West Virginia, their dirt bikes screeched into the parking lot in unison. In they strolled, gentle and babyfaced, kids in hunter-core T-shirts bearing faint smiles and a fainter idea of where Massachusetts was. Within an hour, I found myself amid black flies in a small clearing, a heavy hunting rifle resting calmly on my shoulder, eyes fixed on the tree target they’d given me.
I was four days into a six-week road trip. My mission? To meet people in the most different parts of America from my eggheaded hometown. Soon after talking myself into my first shooting lesson, I ziplined through the Ozarks, witnessed the debauchery of a Louisiana tailgate, and scarfed down fried chicken in southern Mississippi. Most importantly, I expanded my social horizons in previously unfathomable ways.
Born from irrepressible curiosity and a craving for spontaneity, my “strangers project” journey has transformed me into a lover of social connection. The enduring bonds I’ve created from simple conversations give me immense purpose and joy. Through my adventures, I’ve developed a worldview emphasizing constant novelty, deep relationships, and profound openness. Indeed, this very page exists because the project forced me to think more intentionally about friendship.1
So how did I go from so attention-wary I shunned my own birthday parties to willingly following Appalachian teens up a dirt road to their makeshift range?
Jump to a section:
The early days
Learning to feel through sports
In the classroom
Pop music and community
Becoming an election mapmaker
Finding joy in conversation
Core beliefs
Personal traits
My favorites (and where I get them)
Little things
The early days
If there was drama in West Cambridge, I never saw it. My earliest memories — elementary school, tee ball, playdates — are set in this calm, purposefully restrained residential neighborhood, its understated sophistication diluted by quaint, old-timey operations on their last legs: the cramped convenience store with rickety front stairs, the no-frills pizza shop that unfailingly sponsored our Little League, the candlepin bowling alley, easy to mistake for an industrial warehouse.
My mom, the only girl of five in a raucous Italian-American household, had little choice but to be loud and assertive. Raised in the tranquil Berkshires, she moved to the city after earning her nursing degree. Her generosity and loyalty has never wavered; she baked unsolicited cupcakes for my baseball teams, gifted Lindt chocolates to my elementary school teachers, and still makes a point to regularly call her childhood best friend. She takes pride in playing by the rules; line-cutting and backroom politics irk her. Around other parents, she always made animated small talk, her boisterousness disarming even the most uptight types. From her, I’ve inherited a soft spot for gnocchi and an impatience for typos.
I rarely meet people with my dad’s level of childlike wonder upon encountering something new. Open-minded and unfazed by oddities, he delights in off-the-beaten-path adventures. He’s a physician and director of software development whose active imagination gives him an admiration for artists — he proudly recalls dabbling in mime and painting before medical school. His voracious reading habits made him a polymath, equally at ease breaking down Federal Reserve policy and 1970s BMW parts. This casual omniscience was a reassuring constant in my childhood; if he didn’t have an answer, he knew how to find it. A levelheaded presence in any room, you’ll never hear him yell. His standout active listening skills meant I never felt unheard as a child.
I showed more indifference to other children than most kids. The first clue came on neighborhood strolls, my parents grasping to figure out why I insisted on stopping so frequently. Eventually, it dawned on them: I was reading license plates and apartment numbers, wholly unimpressed by greenery and monkey bars. At malls, I cared more about deciphering store names than hoarding candy.2 People were well and good, but learning Asian flags or figuring out an Enigmo level was just as entertaining.
My dad’s relaxed philosophy led to a rather unstructured upbringing: no chores, curfews or screen time limits. Keepsakes from that era — messy baseball and bowling scorecards, well-worn board games — evoke the untarnished nostalgia of a screenwriter’s dreams. Eventually, though, I needed to emerge from my insular world and learn to process complex emotions. Luckily, there was an outlet at the ready.
Learning to feel through sports
Never make the third out at third base. Look for a fastball in a 3-1 count. Keep ground balls in front of you, and always know where you’re going with the ball before it’s hit.
I learned the game of baseball by osmosis: nightly broadcasts, toys, video games, and trips to the ballpark. After midnight I’d use my clunky alarm clock to illuminate the pages of my favorite novels: the “Baseball Card Adventures” series, featuring a baseball-crazed kid who time-traveled to meet the sport’s icons. My parents dutifully brought my treasured foam bat and ball to even the tiniest parks. Evenings at Fenway were so thrilling that I cried when, upon reaching Gate E one game day, my dad realized he’d been duped by fake StubHub tickets. So, when it came time to enroll me in youth activities, there was no doubt I’d be suiting up in a helmet and spikes.
My first years as a Little Leaguer were marked by an uneasiness that made me prone to distraction by whooping parents or barking coaches. Instead of going for broke, I merely aimed to avoid humiliation. Failure was hard. I’d slam my helmet and pout in disgust after strikeouts; bad days at the plate lingered for hours, like mental dirt stains. My tendency to rage ebbed only gradually, over dozens of debriefs requiring Herculean patience from my dad.
At 5’8” and 120, my build was impressively average. Knowing I’d never have standout power without prohibitively intense training, I earned respect in other ways: ready familiarity with rules, a hatred for getting outworked. During one pregame warmup, my coach was in a feisty mood, smacking towering fly balls well over our heads. Unfazed, I dove doggedly after every one, as if I believed I’d catch them. This did not go unnoticed. Before first pitch, Coach chided the indifferent kids, explaining eloquently that I was “busting my ass” and they were letting me down.
Occasionally, I surprised myself with that insistent grit. One sequence still brings a smile to my face: I was on third base, another runner was stealing second, the catcher faked a throw in that direction — the oldest trick in the book — and for a moment I broke toward home. As the ball zipped past my head, my body contorted instinctively into a perfect hook slide. The tag came late. Stunned, I apologized to my third-base coach. He shrugged. “Sometimes,” he mused matter-of-factly, “you gotta be brilliant.” And sometimes, I was.
Although I enjoyed playing, baseball really etched its special place in my heart through broadcasts. The best announcers are a city’s glue, commanding living rooms by the thousands, turning noteworthy plays into visceral memories. Color commentators, not English teachers, were the first to teach me the art of storytelling, intertwining folklore from their glory days with on-field action. I’d imitate the crisp play-by-play voices who narrated my evenings: That is RIPPED into right-center field! It’ll split the outfielders and go ALL the way to the wall! Less rigid ritual than ever-present backdrop, the broadcast was always there to sweep me away for a three-hour ride — true aural comfort food.
While I rarely commanded the spotlight on baseball teams, tennis forced me to take center stage. My dad retained enough from his casual playing days to teach me the basics. Summer mornings were filled with schoolyard-style games at a local camp staffed by peppy undergrads; in fall and winter, I took weekly lessons with a rotating cast of intermediate players.
Matches were nerve-racking, but their one-on-one nature appealed to my desire for control. Admittedly, silly mistakes from baseball teammates bothered me. Moreover, a sport cloaked in silence was revelatory; no sophomoric trash talk or overanxious spectators, just twenty-second rests to collect yourself and the occasional stray wind gust. As for my play, someone qualified could tell I’d not met an instructor stubborn enough to correct my technical flaws. My serve, powered more by arms than knees, was fairly hard — when it went in, that is. I struck flat groundstrokes with little margin for error, my forehand often morphing into a near-horizontal slash that made redirecting the ball hard. Speed and quick reflexes compensated for my inconsistency; I craved the mini-burst of energy that came with winning a rapid-fire volley exchange.
I had less competitive experience with tennis but chose to play it in high school, dissuaded by the machismo and authority baseball coaches felt pressure to exude. To convince myself I was “into tennis,” I watched matches on TV, inadvertently gifting myself a new passion. Finding a rooting interest was usually easy; after a few games, someone’s sharp volleying or impeccable footwork would get me on their side (cocky celebrations had the opposite effect).
Near a tennis court, my powers of observation peak. I notice forehands landing too short in the service box or slices floating too lazily through the air. Few sports boast equivalents to the intense fixation a lengthy rally demands; you’re holding your breath for far longer than a pivotal 3-2 pitch or fourth and 10. And when, 15 or 20 shots into an exchange, you’re treated to a seeming defiance of physics — maybe the relentless topspin on a seemingly errant shot magnetizes it to the back of the baseline, or a last-ditch squash shot, hit from a position that would instantly rip an ordinary hamstring, buzzes inches over the net — you flinch reflexively and wonder how anyone could hold their nerve after that. Tennis amazes me.
In a region where Wimbledon lies on the fringe of sports culture — a tennis player would have to marry a Patriot or Celtic to draw Boston radio hosts’ attention — my own matches had few memorable moments. Yet sometimes the capriciousness of low-level doubles broke our way. My high school coach was a vaguely ornery math teacher who loved imploring us to play better (without further specifics). In one doubles match, he’d uncharacteristically checked out when we were a few points from defeat. Our opponents raised their level, he told us, so just finish strong. I started poaching on nearly every point, just for the hell of it. Lo and behold, they got flustered; we rattled off six games on the trot to win 7-5 in the third. I’d like to think I experienced a much-diluted version of a pro player’s adrenaline that day.
Sports meant a lot to me, but I didn’t join high-stakes travel teams or clamor for Division I roster spots at showcases. My last formal competitions passed with little fanfare and no identity crisis. Make no mistake, though: my time in a uniform was invaluable. I got comfortable feeling crushing disappointment and raw elation; I learned to treasure caring leadership and healthy camaraderie. No matter how distant my playing days are, I’ll never look away when a game’s coming down to the wire.
In the classroom
In fourth grade I could write coherent research papers, get lost in a good biography, and organize Capture the Flag games at recess. On the other hand, I couldn’t take compliments, perform on stage, or hold my temper when I lost said games.
Nine years ensconced in a Montessori bubble made the world seem simpler than it really is. Airy classrooms with high ceilings and abundant plants integrated three grades at once; assemblies featured saccharine sing-alongs preaching love and harmony; chunks of each day were reserved for unstructured work. Homework was a fuzzy concept, with deadlines rarely non-negotiable. Afternoons were relaxed, even languid at times. This unique environment reinforced the self-reliance I’d already displayed at home.
Early on, I paired strong classroom skills with stubborn impatience. Teachers praised my diligent note-taking while flagging an oft-detrimental tendency to take pride in finishing worksheets before everyone else. My hastiness led me to gloss over nuances or fail to recognize patterns.
I was emotionally volatile. “If a call doesn’t favor his team,” my gym teacher wrote regretfully, “he will complain quite a bit about it.” I only read my short stories aloud on the condition that no one would applaud afterward. The energetic banter I initiated at communal tables proved distracting; I’d sometimes need to swallow my pride and accept nudges to refocus.
Exposed to the uncertainty of a large, conventional high school, I grew more businesslike.3 I prided myself on extra effort, fighting for every point on tests. No square inch of white space went unused, even on low-stakes warmup worksheets printed in Comic Sans. I pored over rubrics the way I imagined lawyers scrutinized contracts. A few weeks into freshman year, I got to my desk early, went to retrieve an Algebra 1 assignment… and it wasn’t there. The panic of that moment recalled the time I spilled an entire gallon of chocolate milk on our kitchen floor. The only logical reaction? Sprinting home and back before the first-period bell to ensure full credit.
With parents who extolled the virtue of learning, I was sympathetic to most assignments, however tedious or corny. When groupmates phoned in their slides on collaborative PowerPoints, I was more baffled than angry. My conscientiousness made me a de facto teacher’s pet.4 Some of my teachers were notorious for their harsh grading, dull lessons, and polarizing personalities; I got along with them all.
I was a highly pragmatic teenager, treating high school mostly as a self-investment; a time to play my cards wisely and emerge on track in life. Socializing, then, felt less urgent. To be sure, I was neither shy nor ostracized. People greeted me when I walked into class; I rarely ate alone. That said, I mainly interacted with fellow enjoyers of baseball or current events. We chatted readily about our shared passions, but little else. And there were many social circles I simply had zero exposure to, like the theater kids and lacrosse teams. However amicable and sincere my friendships were, few of them extended beyond school grounds.
While classrooms may not have brought me closeness, I left for college untainted by petty drama. Crushing heartbreak? Nihilistic rebellion? They remain abstractions to me. At the same time, I passed up prized rituals, never attending a house party, prom, or homecoming game. Another world had my attention back then.
Pop music and community
In my teenage years, I spent most evenings cozied up in my bedroom, the main culprit not video games or crippling shyness, but a deepening love of pop music.
My parents never played music around the house; I ended up falling hard for Kiss 108’s early-2010s power rotation. Club-ready bangers like “Where Have You Been” or “Born This Way,” the eerie earworms of Lorde’s “Pure Heroine,” and vibey Drake material (“Headlines,” “Hold On, We’re Going Home”) were among my earliest obsessions. I started checking the Billboard charts weekly, waiting with bated breath to see if the tracks I’d bought had risen. Before long, the VMAs and Grammys were mandatory viewing in our house.
In fall 2013, I found a music forum boasting a dedicated charts section, where enthusiasts monitored daily changes in airplay and streaming stats; after a few months of lurking, I became educated enough to make well-informed predictions. The community validated my fascination with the whims of record executives and the merits of televised performances. I couldn’t stop talking about charts, so I created a podcast recorded over Skype with buddies from New York and Venezuela. With a news anchor’s cadence, I guided them through recurring segments like “Will It Go Top 10?” Before my 17th birthday, we’d reached double-digit episodes.
(Above: a playlist that tries to, as concisely as possible, summarize my music taste from 2011 to now.)
But the forum proved more than a place my passion ran wild — it was a bona fide vehicle for friendships. My friends and I spent late nights in chat rooms, taking turns queuing songs for the others to discover.5 The forum’s Games section saw hosts put music-themed twists on Spoons and musical chairs. Playing was a weeks-long commitment; games produced heated competition and increasingly self-referential memes. Another cherished tradition was writing and dramatically revealing “best of the year” lists each December — I’m convinced we could’ve penned blurbs for Variety. One summer, I orchestrated a surreptitious meetup with a close friend (my mom would’ve been terrified) during a family vacation in Canada. Our four fever-dreamy hours together cemented it: this was genuine community.
Those rambunctious discussion threads kept me precious company in a time where I felt detached from the in-person zeitgeist. While my forum-posting days have passed, I credit them with helping me be more unabashed about all that I love.
Becoming an election mapmaker
Tucked away on a side street in the outskirts of Boston, behind a Home Depot and beside a manufacturing facility, sits a flat, warehouse-like structure devoid of color and signage. The aesthetics are so brazenly stifling it seems like a preposterous scene to seek out. Yet, as I shoved open the building’s heavy metal double doors on a sweltering July afternoon, the widest grin swept across my face.
I’ve always followed the news closely. Dramatic bumper music blared from our living room as often as cinematic crescendos. Binge-watching CNN clips with my morning Honey Nut Cheerios gave me the rush of keeping up with stuff Important Adults mulled over at coffee shops. Middle school classmates consulted me for updates on tropical storms and MLB trade rumors.
When the 2016 primary season rolled around, the outlets I read zeroed in on the horse race. I dissected debate rhetoric and perused POLITICO dispatches, but found myself especially transfixed by election nights: the oversized graphics, brightly colored maps, and suspense of waiting for individual counties to report results. Both parties’ underdog stories captivated my statistics-curious mind. Was I destined for D.C.? I couldn’t help but wonder.
Exploring politics-focused communities quickly clarified things. My deepest fascinations lay not with Congressional minutiae or wonky legislative debates; rather, I wanted to grasp the cultural forces behind voting patterns, why people support the candidates they do.
Several years later, an election map found its way to my Twitter timeline via a journalist I followed. Further investigation revealed an ecosystem of mapmakers exploring varied niches: some zoomed in on ticket-splitting, others on historical comparisons.6 I was elated. These were my people! I absorbed the esoteric knowledge they’d recall as readily as their ABCs: counties with the highest proportions of college graduates, areas that bucked national trends by becoming more Republican between 2004 and 2008. Amid the pandemic’s lowest depths, I taught myself how to make maps.
While I’ve mapped plenty of modern races, my favorite work focuses on historic elections. In making a map, I don’t just want to see colors on a screen: I try to understand the story behind each unanimously Democratic ward or dramatic year-over-year shift. The catalyst for going back in time? When I learned, to my surprise, that Cambridge was sharply divided in the late 1800s. Intrigued by the lack of detailed maps from that era, I got to work.
Combing through nineteenth-century newspapers to map and write about my hometown’s competitive era, I stumbled upon riveting stories: how neighboring sections of the city diverged dramatically in allegiance (hint: ethnic politics), the idiosyncrasies of a cultural bloc overrepresented at Harvard. Soon, I’d accumulated books covering Irish immigrants, the businessmen behind pioneering textile mills, and the birth of our coastal summer resorts. Previously, I could gesture to a few red-brick buildings or gravesites and entertain onlookers with a short quip, but I had no coherent picture of how New England culture developed over the centuries. The delightful side effect? I’ve become a passionate tour guide for friends old and new.
Election maps beckon us to uncover their origin stories, illuminating cultural differences in striking ways. The arduous Excel cleanup and painstaking effort to corral obscure data files ultimately shines light on only-in-America places from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to Texas’ Rio Grande Valley. Shocking unsuspecting visitors from far-flung states by knowing about their counties is just icing on the cake! Mapmaking has made me more curious about my country than ever.
Finding joy in conversation
Every so often, my mom and I sparred over the importance of friends. “No man,” she’d intone, “is an island.” I’d shrug and stare at the floor, unmoved by her cute aphorism. I was perfectly content — what could other people bring me? I wish she was a little pushier.
After leaving my early-childhood bubble, I usually found myself on the outside looking in: last to learn two friends were dating, unaware my high school class had proclaimed an official song (“Tuesday” by Drake). I passed up most events with the thoughtlessness of skipping an advertisement. My time online trained me to try befriending people through DMs, a task akin to starting a fire with damp detritus. Failing to build deep relationships, I grew haphazard, adding more no-worries-if-nots to my entreaties.
Meeting someone new every day completely changed how I think about conversations. I could satiate my curiosity through people, each question unlocking a piece of someone’s story. Table neighbors at coffee shops, erstwhile background characters in life’s B-roll, were potential best friends staring me in the face. Spontaneous chatting is the purest expression of my eagerness to learn.
Connecting with people in Deep South locales whose mere mention causes many from my hometown to recoil reinforced my conviction in the value of open-mindedness. My interest in visiting someplace used to be contingent on landmarks; now, all I care about is sitting down with locals. Traveling places to learn their stories is the ultimate expression of that belief.
I’ll never go back to having a homogeneous social circle. My contact list contains multitudes: a rocket scientist, a softball coach, a film actor. I go to performances by singer-songwriters and stand-up comedians I’ve met through my project and feel jolts of pride upon seeing my journalist friends’ bylines. There’s a heady rush to meeting people inhabiting unfamiliar worlds; humanity’s collective passion inspires me every day.
No aspect of me has evolved more than my outlook on friendship. Loneliness in college shattered my apathy; talking to strangers spurred me to socialize more intentionally than ever. I’m captivated by how we build connections and what makes us open up to new people. Each morning I arise grateful for the ever-growing pool of people in my orbit. My biggest priority in life now is forming deep social bonds; to me, it seems the surest path to lasting fulfillment.
Core beliefs
Existence is amazing. I’m so lucky to be alive! I loudly cherish life’s happy moments and express gratitude for our awe-inspiring shared existence. I seek to surround myself with fellow appreciators of life and reject jaded cynicism portraying the world as an irreparable hellscape or wasteland. It’s hard to reconcile the latter worldview with the overwhelmingly genuine cross-section of humanity I’ve seen.
Listen, don’t argue. I always want the other person in a conversation to talk more than me. Active listening is key to empathy and connection. I don’t make a fuss of disagreements; if someone’s views differ starkly enough from mine that they discomfort me, I disengage rather than debate. Anyone should feel at ease expressing their mind to me without filtering themselves, knowing I will respond with good-faith listening, not hasty judgment. When people engage with others merely to feel righteous or win arguments, our collective social trust suffers.
Seek variety. Having a diverse set of interests, friends, and experiences is vital to my growth and fulfillment. Communities that unite people around an identity or activity serve real needs; however, social sorting has deleterious effects. Those in cultural silos struggle to comprehend those outside their in-groups, frequently succumb to confirmation bias, and become less open to new experiences. Variety humbles and delights me; it deflates my self-importance. It keeps me on my toes and ensures I’m always excited for who I’ll meet next. Who knows what doors they might open for me?
Logic over superstition. Growing up, I never related to rituals stemming from supernatural beliefs, whether a daily prayer or an avoidance of certain foods. I understand why notions of fate, destiny, or signs from the universe are comforting, but don’t relate to feeling them. I’m not comfortable invoking impossible-to-prove explanations for real-world phenomena. As a result, I’m not superstitious, don’t believe there’s a preordained purpose for my life, and embrace uncertainty.
Personal traits
Curiosity. From relentlessly asking my dad “why?” to going on marathon Wikipedia spirals, curiosity has been my most consistent personality trait. When I want to learn something, I dive deep. Unsatisfied by cursory summaries, I yearn for the full story behind whatever social phenomenon, news bulletin, or person I’m preoccupied by. I trace my curiosity to both my dad’s scientific I won’t rest until I know everything about how this works attitude and my mom’s instinct to blurt out questions about anything she sees. I dislike politician-style non-answers and am inherently skeptical of closely guarded secrets.
Meticulousness. By now, I’m used to hearing people exclaim “why did you remember that?” Minute details — names of classmates’ parents, dates of family outings — frequently lodge their way into my brain. I take copious notes, never allowing fleeting thoughts to escape my mind.
I’ve always enjoyed keeping track of things. In elementary school, I tallied the chairs I stacked at each day’s end; on the music forum, I posted daily updates on Spotify chart movements; today, I log every conversation I have with a stranger.
Directness. I say what I mean; I mean what I say. While I can usually detect facetiousness, I don’t instinctively express myself that way — my sentences are logical and literal, without hidden messages or signals to interpret. Pulling someone’s leg or cracking jokes at their expense doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m a take-it-or-leave-it type, uninterested in social shapeshifting.
Lack of prescriptiveness. I don’t have many visceral, all-consuming opinions about how others should live. I find it unsettling when people imply their opinions entitle them to moral superiority and treat others as simply unenlightened or brainwashed. I don’t express myself very loudly or publicly and won’t scoff at someone who offers an unsolicited opinion.
Competitiveness and drive. I love to win. I can still conjure the incandescent rage that overtook me when I faltered on the final turn of a Mario Kart time trial. At the height of Flappy Bird mania, I devoted hours pushing my high score into the 700s. Whether it’s Jeopardy! with my parents or pickup tennis with friends, anyone who beats me earns their victory.
My drive extends beyond conventional games: I’m intent on making the most fascinating maps and being the most supportive friend. I don’t bother trying something if I won’t give it my all. And when something isn’t intuitive or easy to pick up, I’m only further motivated to master it.
Quick closeness. If I enjoy someone’s company, I want to maximize our time together, regardless of how long we’ve known each other. Because I see openness as the main gateway to connection, I often feel incredibly close to people I’ve met recently if they are very open.
My favorites (and where I get them)
Food
Fried clams - Essex Seafood
Clam chowder - Land Ho!
British fish and chips - Jones Wood Foundry
Mac and cheese - Turner’s
Fried calamari - Amaral’s
Chicken parm - Carmelina’s
South Shore bar pizza - Home Cafe
Ice cream - Ron’s
Tiramisu - Caffé Vittoria
Chocolate cake - Mamaleh’s
Cookie flavor - chocolate chip
Soda - Boylan’s black cherry
Non-soda cold drink - mango lassi
Pasta type - gnocchi
Morning pastry - pain aux raisins
People
Interviewer - Nardwuar the Human Serviette
Television host - Alex Trebek
Tennis player - Gael Monfils
Baseball player - Brett Gardner
Baseball announcer - Don Orsillo
Misc.
Extant candlepin alley - Wakefield Bowladrome
Book about New England - The North Shore
Carnival game - skee ball
Presidential election - 1928
Tennis venue - Indian Wells
College class outside of my major: intro to philosophy of religion
Social media platform - X/Twitter
Weather day - 85 and sunny
Little things
The Fish and Chips Connoisseur: My dad was an avid Yelp user; it was the first app I used religiously. I excitedly chronicled my favorite plates of fried goodness across New England. Ahead of road baseball games, my parents came to expect scouting reports of local dinner options. Several hundred reviews earned me a Yelp Elite Squad invite, which I declined on account of being eight years under drinking age. One night on vacation, after my parents were let down by a meal, I channeled their anger through a scathing one-star review. Unbeknownst to me, the owner could reply, and he posted an aggressive screed insinuating I should complain to his face. I was spooked!
One habit from that era lives on: I take pictures of almost everything I eat. It has proven an excellent tool for jogging memories.
New England nostalgia: Lanes and Games, a West Cambridge institution, played host to my fondest childhood memories. The exterior resembled a dingy warehouse, rusted lettering adorning the barren façade. Those humble candlepin lanes catalyzed countless birthday parties and pre-sleepover evenings out. After bowling, I was partial to their arcade’s vintage United States vs. Soviet Union hockey game. The second floor, meanwhile, was a cavernous townie gathering spot with dreadful bar food and décor frozen in 1983. I miss it more than anything.
Things I love
Seeing the skyline come into view from Route 2
The extra stray pieces of batter that come with a fried dish
Watching a fiery sunset on the footbridge overlooking the Charles River
Memorizing the backing harmonies for a song
Nasty changeups
A fresh Cinnabon with extra frosting
Profile writing
Being the first person someone’s ever met from Massachusetts
Floor-to-ceiling windows
Saxophones in pop music
Peak foliage at Franconia Notch
Hand-cut french fries
Listening to audibly annoyed opposing announcers call walk-offs
Recognizing a song from a half-second of audio
Finding new books via book footnotes
Things I don’t love
Hints of citrus in cakes
Crude comedy
Sports betting
Excessive noise
Unctuousness
The smell of weed
The pitch clock
Blackened pizza crust
Watery mac and cheese
The “apart/a part” typo
When water gets on the inside of your sleeve after handwashing
When people are so deep in a bubble they use jargon without realizing it
Not being able to hear “Ironic” without being irritated by how it’s not actually ironic
When young kids are peer-pressured into throwing home runs back
When I abandon a book midway through and have to re-read from the beginning
Let’s chat!
If you made it this far, I’d love to meet you and hear your story! Reach out on Instagram or Twitter and let’s grab coffee.
Specifically, my writing is inspired by my friends’ personal sites. Getting a window into their thoughts strengthens my bond with them; the realization that writing could bring my friends closer to me helped me overcome my inclination to lay low.
This may have had a lasting effect. I’m an ad agency’s kryptonite, seldom enticed by aggressive marketing or garish packaging.
Here’s a paper I wrote for my AP Comparative Government class, one that I think is a good representation of my work back then.
The downside to this was the lack of direct criticism I received. To this day, scathing words still catch me off guard.
One friend from Mauritius who was an exceptionally prolific music listener introduced me to Leighton Meester’s “Heartstrings,” a record obscure enough I’m confident I wouldn’t otherwise have stumbled upon it; today, it still ranks among my favorites.
I maintain a Twitter account that aggregates the most insightful maps I find in our corner of the internet. While I specialize in New England content, there’s a prolific mapper from almost every state at this point. It’s mind-blowing how much you can learn about vastly different regions of the U.S. through a few weeks of passive browsing.
Wow this is such an incredible piece !! You are a fantastic writer and I’m so glad you shared this
!!!!!!!! SO HYPED THIS IS FINALLY OUT