In the morning, Rami (my father's brother, older by nine years) and Aya (Rami's wife) met me at the hotel for breakfast. It had been at least a few years since I'd seen them. Ingesting food quickly became less important than the lively conversation on such topics as my career, their retirement, and childhood in the nascent Israel. In keeping with their nature as Jewish relatives, they kept nudging me to get more food from the all-Amitai-can-eat buffet. And then we talked some more. After breakfast, we went up to my antepenthouse of a hotel room and talked even some more. It is my contention that regardless of one's religious beliefs, Jewish relatives are the best kind to have.

Just about immediately after waving goodbye to my aunt and uncle, I checked out of the hotel and went with Amit and Mike back to Harvard Square for lunch. During the daytime, it was even easier to notice the general attractiveness of those walking about. We settled on Bombay Café, which had food good enough to eat (even as I had just eaten), but not worthy of comparison with the myriad inexpensive lunch buffets on Devon Avenue on Chicago's north side.

At a glance, it seems everything of importance in downtown Boston is under construction. This bodes well for the future, but is a bit of a nuisance in the present — especially when, in search of the airport, we once again weren't totally sure where to go. But we found it. In the moment when I said goodbye to Mike and Amit, the role of Cleveland in my life became fully exposed as an expressway rest area on a long drive: a fair distance from the start, an unknown distance from the finish, a place to rest briefly and check progress. Soon it will be in my rearview mirror.

Boston is a great city. I could definitely live there. Whether I will, and how soon, remains undetermined.