These lights are blinding

Berlin is yellow at night. Not a bright yellow, not like the crayon you used to choose as a kid to color in the sun in the corner of your drawing. Not a pastel yellow, not like the stripes you see on Easter eggs or the new must-have color for your tops this summer. No, Berlin is yellow at night like the glow of your bedside lamp after the sun sets, a soft hue, unlike your ceiling lights that cast a brightness over your room, that seems to run under your rugs and tucks into the corners of your bedroom, wrapping itself around the books stacked on your floor under your window, highlighting the dust collecting on the spines. Berlin is yellow at night, and it almost seems too romantic for anything bad to happen. 

I step outside the white lights of the convenience store, and it’s like I have traveled back in time. Each corridor of the streets seems to be lit up with candlesticks, invisible to the naked eye, but I can almost hear the flicker of the flame and feel the hot, melting wax against my skin, a heat simmering on the surface that may just be the remnants of the summer rays disappearing into the shadows of the century old buildings. I can almost smell the combination of the old cobblestones, the evening air mixed with spilled beer somewhere. Berlin is yellow at night, laced with laughter, tears, and the rich history of everyone who has ever stepped foot in the chronicled city. I have searched for this yellow elsewhere, in my box of markers, in different shades of fabric, but to no avail. Berlin is yellow at night, a yellow unreplicable and unrelenting.

New York does not have a distinct color. It is fleeting, like a mirage on the boiling pavement midsummer. The closer you get to it, the closer you think you are to deciphering what the nighttime is, the quicker it disappears. New York glitters at night, a collage of all the sounds, hues, and emotions existing in the human experience. I can not point out the color of New York at nighttime on a gradient; it does not appear in the rainbow. New York is a place where stories begin. Every corner you take, every person you meet, there is something new there. You are born a million times a day in New York. And when the sun sets, the lights of the city light up the streets, and each twinkle you see in the distance is a new birth, the beginning of a new story, like the stars winking down at you from the midnight sky.

Nighttime in Yantai glows purple, a dark indigo that almost seems black to the adjusting eyes. It is not a metropolis like Beijing or Shanghai, and it does not draw in tourism like Hong Kong. But still, it stands tall on the Northeast coast of China, and it is a beautiful plum color after sunset. It is simultaneously the loudest and quietest city I have ever visited. Loud in its culture, loud in its history, the birthplace of my father, a city rich in childhood memories and the successes and failures of an adolescent. I can almost hear the city outside my bedroom windows some nights, the honking of cars echoing down the highways even after dinnertime, and the shouts of civilians on the streets, parents trying to wrangle their children home, and friends stumbling out of restaurants after indulging in a little too much baijiu. And at the same time, amongst millions of beating hearts, I can also hear the burn of a cigarette on the railing along the water, the crash of the waves on the shore. Yantai, during the nighttime, is a brilliant purple, the color of fresh, stir-fried eggplants served to you on the dinner table. 

Boston is blue at night. Some nights, specifically on summer nights, the sky is a cerulean blue, tinted with pinks as the sun slumbers past the horizon of the Esplanade. Other nights, on my favorite nights, it is a dark, navy blue, and regardless of what time of year it is, it always feels like autumn. Boston at night hums with the making of memories, not like the hustle of New York, nor like the archaism of Berlin. You wander into the right neighborhood, and you’ll find families sitting together on their front porch, trying to catch fireflies. The giggles that fade into the alleyways cement the knowledge that a childhood is being fulfilled. The next street over, restaurants are bustling with customers, the smell of fresh parmesan and Italian bakeries is unavoidable. Skip down a couple of blocks, and you’ll find nightlife fit for whatever you want; you are Goldilocks, and each corner turned is a different chair. Cross the river, and you’ll fall into dive bars and live music and prestige that has stood the test of time and history. 

I do not think I could choose a favorite; it is like choosing between my past, present, and future. You can not find the yellow of Berlin in Yantai, the purple of Yantai in New York, and the glitter of New York is singular, elusive anywhere else. Why would I dare place one history over the other on a pedestal when there is beauty to be admired in every city? The only thing I must clarify, though, is that Boston is home. Daylight slants into the brownstones like a razor every morning. With the space to breathe, I dream tall and feel in on things. Each street I meander down, I wonder what kind of odd, solitary life I could slip into. 

Boston is blue, each night a different shade, and there is something here for everyone. You just have to know where to look.