Heat presses down on Boston like a steam iron on high. The air almost congeals with its load of moisture and the sullen atmosphere surrounds everything with the impression of great depth and pressure weighing down the world, as if from the depths of an ocean, heated by a boiling cauldron blackened by dragon’s breath. Oppressive heat.
Walk out of an air-conditioned building and the steaming liquid air grabs you by the throat, wringing the fluids and breath right out of you. Walking Boston is hot. Descending into the bowels of the subway is even hotter and sweat bathes the body almost immediately, although which is sweat and which is condensation is the question. At least above ground there’s some air movement. Below it’s like entering into the caverns of the goblins, trains roaring, the ground shaking, heat and moisture gathering to mist over glasses.
This winter people will complain about the bone chilling cold, the heavy snow to shovel, the ice to chip away, the fender benders. Remember summer.