After many more hours of work than I had at first thought, I have moved out of my apartment in the Fenway, which I had first rented in 1995 for $775/month.

I’ve shed more than half the mass of my belongings, including clothes, linen, out of date tech books, paperbacks, very old school papers, two working but bulky CRT monitors and decrepit furniture. It’s a surprising good feeling to shed the dead weight of the past, though my future biographers will berate this decision.

The fens have changed a lot in twelve years and I suppose so have I. With the incredible amount of construction that’s happened in the last five years, a Starbucks has finally appeared in the neighborhood.

I can’t say that I knew many of my fellow fenway residents nor did I partake in local events as much as I would have thought. In particular, I regret not going to the MFA more and never making it to the Gardner Museum. However, the Fens remain an excellent home base for exploring Boston and even Cambridge (Harvard Square was merely a 45 minutes walk away; Kendall about 30 minutes).

I had a good run in that apartment, which was my home for longer than any other place I’ve lived. Still, I can’t help thinking how I moved in as a young man and left middle aged. I suppose that will happen if you’re not careful.