After spending a year on Commonwealth, and spending a fortune in rent, I knew just enough about the city to start looking for cheaper digs. The older male merchant reps kept telling me that if I were their daughter, they would put me in the North End because it was safe. I learned that what made it safe was that it was Little Italy, an authentic Italian neighborhood… protected by the mafia. I chose to forgo another Serafin experience and, using the paper, found a cute one bedroom on Fleet Street with an open faced brick wall and a walk in closet, for 650.00. The only drawback was no parking.

I still feel guilty about how messy I left Commonwealth, but my “moving company,” which consisted of two, young Armenian brothers with a beat up truck, whipped through my apartment like a drunken tornado. They were absolutely hilarious, so funny that I didn’t mind them smashing my box frame in order to get it up the three, narrow flights of stairs into my new apartment (I feel equally as guilty about how messy I left my Fleet Street apartment when two crazy Rastafarians moved me out).

Fleet Street was a wonderful place to live. I encourage everyone who travels to Boston to walk the extra steps under the 93 expressway from Faneuil Hall Market to experience it, if only for the food. The North End is loaded with amazing Italian eateries (the best calamari fra diavolo on the planet) and bakeries. How bad can life be if you live within walking distance of a cannoli? The North End was alive every weekend with festivals (Madonna Della Cava, St. Domenic, St. Joseph, etc. etc.) most of which paraded right in front of my house. It is very convenient to have a funnel cake cart outside your door when recovering from a hangover. I loved the history of the North End as well. Among many sites, Paul Revere’s house was a block one way from my apartment and the famous North Church was a short walk in the other direction.

Parking meant using meters after hours and getting up at the crack of dawn to retrieve the car before the traffic cops ticketed it. But, the unexpected benefit was getting acquainted with the shop owners of Hanover Street; as they were unlocking their sliding metal doors, I was treading the pavement. My favorite was a portly, bald man who ran the newsstand. Each day he spat his greeting around the wet cigar he kept in the pocket of his cheek. He only spoke Italian but we developed a nod/smile gesture that we exchanged. Eventually we had our own nonverbal language that communicated how we felt about the day ahead.

The salesmen were right; it was incredibly safe and clean. For example, in the year I lived there, I never saw one homeless person. I was later told that they “weren’t welcome”. That entire village was observed by powers that kept all things undesirable to a minimum, by any means. [An ex-mafia footman once told me that he had kicked two Irish gang members out of a bar and gave one of them a “curbie”. See American History X for a demonstration] I was thankful for this policy when I returned late from New York one night. I was lugging my bag and briefcase down Hanover Street after midnight and saw a light coming from a closed pizza joint. In the North End, it was not unusual to see a group of dark suited men having a meeting in a closing restaurant but on this particular night, there were two men standing watch, arms crossed, outside the front door. As I passed on the other side of the street, I saw a few men look up from the table and mark my presence. Having seen my share of mafia movies, I dropped my eyes to the sidewalk, in case I witnessed something I shouldn’t have. I soon heard footsteps behind me and started to panic. The sound followed me all the way down Hanover but stopped when I turned down Fleet. I picked up the pace until I reached my building. “Is he going to shoot me from there?” I thought, stupidly. Key ready, I turned it in the lock. Since no shot had been fired, curiosity got me and I looked up the street before I walked through the door. The footsteps belonged to one of the footmen standing guard outside the restaurant. Obviously, he had been told to follow me and make sure I got home safely. Relieved, and thankful, I gave a little wave. He nodded, lit his cigarette, and cooly turned away.

Two years later when I visited Boston, and of course the North End, I walked past a restaurant owner standing outside his café. “Hey, you used to live here,” he said, “Down Fleet Street, about two years ago.” Stunned I said, “Yes!” I think I will tell my daughters to live in the North End.