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Boston, Massachusetts: the East Coast’s strange twist on the American dream. A place that doesn’t quite scream “America” in the way a place like Texas might. It’s a little more refined, a little more European – but don’t worry, it’s definitely American.

The trip begins, as most trips across the Atlantic do, staring at the in-flight map. Marvelling at all the British names dotting the landscape below – Plymouth, Portsmouth, New Hampshire. No history lesson needed; we know why. But still, it feels thrillingly odd, like stepping into an alternate version of home.

Boston itself? Gorgeous. Especially in the autumn -sorry, the fall- when the trees explode into fiery oranges and yellows that line streets and parks as if a painter had gone wild. The city has layers, villages within a metropolis: Back Bay’s elegance, the Italian charm of the North End, the youthful pulse of Cambridge. It’s impossible to ignore the sports culture. The Red Sox are practically a religion. The Celtics and Bruins? Icons in their own right.

Every trip, I believe, should start in the most bizarrely Boston way ever: The Duck Tour. Equal parts history lesson and stand-up comedy act. The tour guides? Truly unique. Their humour was so niche, so quirky, it left me questioning whether this was a Boston thing, or just the oddest cross-cultural experience ever. British humour meets American absurdity in an amphibious bus—does it get more Boston than that? Once you step off the replica World War II vehicle, you’re raring and ready to go. Off to explore every street corner you’ve just learnt about, but mainly compete over how many nerdy facts you can remember.

Boston has a way of making you feel like both an insider and an awestruck tourist. From its iconic skyline to its hidden corners, it’s a city that reveals its charm in layers. The Prudential Tower viewing deck is a prime example. Standing there, looking out over the patchwork of historic brownstones, shimmering skyscrapers, and the Charles River, you realise why people fall for Boston. Seeing it from above adds an almost cinematic quality—familiar yet magical.

You look down on iconic scenes; the Common and, of course, there’s Fenway Park. Home of the Red Sox. A temple of sport where tradition meets raucous fun. Of course, we had to visit for a game. Did I grasp every rule of baseball? Not even close. Did that dampen the joy? Not for a second. The cheers, the beers, the hot dogs, the seventh-inning stretch—it was all intoxicatingly welcoming.

American food is something else entirely. The portion sizes are almost comical, the flavours unapologetically bold, and the combinations—well, let’s just say they’d raise eyebrows back home. But hey, you’re in the US, so why not? Wrestling with a fresh lobster, buttery juices running onto your plate, while a perfectly grilled steak sits nearby, daring you to take it on next. That’s surf and turf Boston-style, balanced (somehow) with crisp salads and decadent sides.

And then there are the snacks. One specific brand of crisps—or chips—blew my mind. Wrap City; salty, sweet, like caramel popcorn had a love child with kettle chips. Absolutely groundbreaking. Even the mundane becomes magical abroad. ‘Grocery stores’ turn into treasure hunts, aisles filled with peanut butter brands I’d never seen, and snacks so absurd they demanded a try. Back at the kitchen island, we unpacked brown bags of these discoveries, sampling Eggo waffles, Dunkin’ Donut bites, and peculiar cereals, laughing as our hosts watched on. Amused and slightly bewildered. For them, this was normal. For us, unforgettable. Boston, with all its quirks and indulgences, has a way of stealing your heart bite by bite.