I’ve worked in Boston’s Seaport district for a big chunk of the last decade. I’ve seen some shit. Parking lots transformed into towering condos. Once-empty sidewalks suddenly teeming with well-dressed yuppies. Local institutions torn down. Shipwrecks raised. Neat old bridges spun sideways and seemingly left to rot. Codzilla heading out to the outer harbor to blow doughnuts, office bros playing shitty lawn games on cheap turf soaked with dog piss, giant salad mascots handing out coupons, musical see-saws, shirtless Gronk riding a bicycle, the works. I know the area. I could give tours. Bet you didn’t know there’s a vending machine that sells fish bait! If you want mackerel, I can get you mackerel.
Given my wealth of experience, I have to ask Amazon and all the other companies planning to open offices in the neighborhood: why?
No, seriously. What in the fuck are you thinking? Like, have you even been here? I don’t think you’ve been here.
Allow me to give you an overview: the Seaport is a very pretty, overpriced, obnoxious, logistical nightmare. It’s the kind of place where they slap up a bunch of glowing words like “love” and “Boston” and “glory hole” and call it art (author’s note: two truths and a lie!). You’re never more than five minutes from waiting in line for a $15 salad. A small popcorn at the movie theater is seven bucks. The douche bus stops outside the Whiskey Priest and the Atlantic Beer Garden to disgorge a seemingly limitless horde of bros in blue polo shirts and their finest Nantucket reds every Thursday and Friday at 6 pm sharp. At night, the area degenerates into Marina Bay North, or—or perhaps more appropriately given the sucktastic addition of the Scorpion Bar—Patriot Place by the Sea. You can pay $50 to get into Grand’s third floor so you can walk around, shake your head, and leave. The average apartment in the area goes for three kidneys, a liver, and your firstborn. The fact that there’s an LL Bean a hundred feet from a Lu Lu Lemon should immediately tell you how interesting the neighborhood is.
And then there’s the transportation.
Oh my fucking shit, the transportation! See, the major public transportation route entering the area is the silver line, and the silver line sucks. It’s a bus in a tunnel, and it’s wildly ill-equipped to service a busy neighborhood, let alone extended jaunts to the airport and Chelsea. Shoving yourself into one of those overloaded hell wagons is bad enough when it’s sunny out. When it’s raining? Hope you like standing around in a dingy hole with spotty cell service for half an hour! They’d be better off dumping the buses entirely and just letting people ride bikes through the tunnel. And if you’ve got a car, there’s really only one way in and one way out—and that way dumps you right next to a highway onramp, which means you’d better bring a decent playlist with you. Shit’s so bad transportation-wise they’re seriously discussing the installation of a god damn gondola. They can’t build a decent road or public transportation line into the Seaport, so why in the fuck would anyone want to risk getting stuck hanging from a fucking cable for an hour? You have got to be shitting me.
And the weather! If it rains or snows, it’s doing so sideways, from all directions at once. It’s a meteorological miracle. If you want to stay dry, you’re better off wrapping yourself in Hefty bags than you are trying to hold onto an umbrella. Two separate storms this winter caused enough flooding to shut the area down, but don’t worry: you can always ride a floating dumpster to safety.
So. Now that you’ve read all that…seriously, why are you moving your office to the Seaport? It made sense five to ten years ago when space was prevalent, lunch was cheap, and you could manspread all over the silver line like a giant chunk of mold enveloping a week-old loaf of bread. Now, though…
Do you hate the people who work for you? Do you like throwing away money? Are you just doing it so people think you’re cool? Have you spent too much time getting hammered at Marina Bay’s Waterclub and now you want to work in Boston’s closest equivalent? Are you excited by the prospect of watching your office get washed away into the harbor forty years from now because a bunch of greedy fucks are pretending global warming isn’t a problem?
One thing’s for sure: if you think moving your office to Boston’s Seaport is a good idea, you are one silly goose.