Favorite.

Whenever I think of happiness, I think of 50 Garden Street, Apartment 3, circa 2006/2007. (I think of other stuff too, like my family and friends and Disney World and Paris and honeysuckle, but for the purpose of staying on topic, I'm just going with 50 Garden Street for now.)

I probably shouldn't feel this way. After all, the apartment was filthy when we moved in, and since it was Beacon Hill, it was never really 100% clean. The floors creaked, the door frames were crooked, there was no dishwasher, the bedrooms were tiny, there were arbitrarily colored walls, the bathroom was miniscule, there was a mouse and a silverfish or two, the windows were drafty, the building's foyer smelled like cat food, we lost heat and hot water regularly,  the under-the-kitchen-sink cabinet was so terrifying, I don't think I ever really opened the doors, and oh yeah, a wall burned down. But really, none of that matters.

None of that matters because not too long after we moved in, all of those problems became overshadowed by goodness. All I remember now is a beautiful fire hazard, charmingly crooked with a couch just saggy enough to force snuggling in the middle. What sticks out are milestones and adventures, surviving a fire and dealing with the repercussions, losing a cable remote and dealing with boredom and free, television-less hours by going to Happy Hour and stumbling back to drink PBRs in the bathtub, cooking sweet potatoes in tin foil and Venice Cafe calzone nights, saving the second half for the next day in the vegetable drawer in our refrigerator that was re-labeled "Calzones". 

All I remember is the Summer 2007 No Pants Policy and Harvard Gardens and Cafe Podima and Rosie at the Market and flowers and petit ecoliers and spotting a silverfish behind the TV and drinking until it no longer bothered us. Paramount breakfasts and free wireless and jive talking and taking pictures of jumping and Christmas decorations and ethnic birthday celebrations and awkward visitations and exposed brick and chore charts. Ab swings, Sam Adams Summer, spontaneous dance breaks, a ficus tree with a faux bird in it and a cabinet filled with a badger and a poker set completely outweigh any negatives.

This is why it is hard to not be in Boston. It is because I so closely associate Boston with this year of my life, and while I would do anything to be able to live in 2006-2007 on a continuous loop forever, I've come to terms with the fact that that is what I miss, more so even than Boston itself. 

I've got to wonder if anything will ever be that good again. Right now I'm leaning towards no, but I'm overly dramatic and therefore usually wrong about this sort of thing.