Bahston, baby: eating my way through the North East

I’m in Boston on a vacation unlike any I’ve ever taken.

For various reasons, I found myself in need of a few weeks off from my life in Dayton -- as full and wonderful as it is. Generous bosses helped me arrange it, provided I put in the planning to take care of my work responsibilities ahead of time.

My sister, here on a travel nursing assignment, offered to put me up for two weeks, as happy to offer me the much-needed break as to have my company to explore New England in the fall.

I landed on a gorgeous afternoon that put the sun in Sunday, with no plans for the next two weeks, except a vague idea of exploring Boston and the surrounding region, and camping out in coffee shops to spend some time catching up on personal writing. Hence, this blog post.

Something you should know about me. I’m typically a compulsive extrovert. The idea of a single Saturday afternoon with no plans usually scares me into a planning frenzy, texting every friend I know until I find a companion for the day.

But I was ready for a change. And from the minute Callie had put the idea of a trip to Boston in my mind, I’d had a good feeling, like something was waiting for me here.

We hit the ground running -- literally, as soon as I waded through Callie’s two dogs’ enthusiastic welcome celebration, and set my bags down in the furnished apartment, Callie suggested we go for a run. We parked at the hospital she works at, and set off on what I anticipated would be about a 3-mile run, since I had just recently recovered from mono, and was easing my way back into exercise.

Locals hang out on the docks on the Charles River during our run

Four and a half miles later, we had detoured to the Bunker Hill monument.

“Does this mean we are 4.5 miles from the car?” I asked, catching my breath as we walked around the monument.

“Yep,” Callie said.

“So much for that 3-mile run…” I said, as we started off jogging back down the hill towards Quincy Market.

We caught our breath at the Bunker Hill monument.

Although we stopped more times on the way back to the car than on the way down, we also took a few detours through some of the main sights of Boston, and chanced upon a breathtaking sunset over the Boston Common.

The sunset over Boston Common took my breath away.

My GPS app read 11 miles when we reached the car.

“Welcome to Boston!” I told my aching legs.

From my previous travels, I’ve learned that public libraries are a must see in every city. The Boston Central library is no exception. Its vaulted ceilings, calming inner courtyard, marbled staircases, and studious reading room made me ache for a good excuse to spend hours in study at the wide work tables.

I was happily distracted by a small exhibit on cartography, one of my weaknesses. If it has a map on it, I want it.

I could lose myself for hours in a place like this. 

My companion for the day was my sister’s friend Keith, who was staying with her after finishing up hiking the Appalachian Trail. We set up my hammock in the Public Garden, much to the surprise of many onlookers. I guess hammocking hasn’t really hit Boston yet. We nestled into the cocoon of the double hammock, our heads disappearing below the top. I dug into my book, and Keith took a nap as the daylight slowly faded and it was time to pick Callie up from work.

On Tuesday, Callie and I took one of several day trips we would take around New England, themed around eating our way through the East Coast. We did some shopping in Newport, Rhode Island, and I happily checked the state off my list.

The  view from the Newport Cliff Walk

We had intended to run the length of the famed Rhode Island Cliff Walk past the opulent Vanderbilt mansions in Newport, about a 7 mile round trip. But when we hit the trail, my body just wouldn’t work. A little shocked by the 11-mile run on Sunday, everything in me felt wrong and each step jolted me from my knees to my neck, and I realized in dismay that I was desperately in need of a restroom.

I thought I could muster a brisk walk, but about a half mile in, I found myself in a near state of panic.

“Callie, I’m prairie-dogging it!” I whimpered. We rounded the corner, looking for a secluded spot that might do in a pinch. I had actually grabbed a doggie bag from the beginning of the cliff. I’m not going to say I’ve never stooped to that level before. Or, squatted.

But lo and behold, to my utter delight, the trail presented us a fully functional, indoor plumbed bathroom, with no line to the women’s room. The veritable bath “room of requirement,” as it shall always be called in my memory.

We ended our night with a trifecta of clams -- in the form of Rhode Island style chowder, clam cakes and fried clams -- from Flo’s Clam Shack by the beach.

Wednesday was a delightful day for spending time in a hip coffee shop in Somerville, and catching up over the phone with one of my college roommates while lounging in the Boston Common. Rejuvenated after that day, I woke up Thursday morning to a text from an unknown number, but the friendly familiarity of a 919 area code.

“A little birdie told me you want to go to the Sam Adams brewery today.” The text said. It was my long lost friend Keary, whom I’d swam with for years and years growing up. Swimming friends are forever friends.

Keary went to school in Boston, so she’s got the inside scoop on what to see, and her favorite pastime is giving Boston tours. She had the day off and no plans. This was a win-win situation.

Me and my tour guide, and my brand new Sam Adams shirt

We met at the brewery at 11:40 a.m., where they heartily thanked us for choosing to spend our Thursday morning with them drinking free beer. I learned more on the Sam Adams tour about the subtleties of creating a beer’s taste profile than I’d ever known before, and thanks to the #DaytonBoozenessJournal, I’ve seen the underbelly of a quite few breweries.

The brewery promises each guest one 7-oz pour of each of three beers during the tasting session, but if you’re sharp-eyed, you can snag the last pitcher as it comes around again for seconds. Keary and I nailed this part, and stumbled out of the brewery 30 minutes later, into the gift shop. This arrangement is rather clever, because my buzz changed my reasoning skills as I ogled the softest baseball T I’d ever felt. At $39, I knew it was highway robbery, but I justified it by saying I’d wear it every day. I am wearing it now. Good sense: nil. Olivia: one.

We hopped onto the party trolley to DOYLE’S. I say it in all caps because whenever you reference DOYLE’s, you must say it with gusto and a fist pump to match. Or, hold on because the driver is letting go of the wheel, a DOUBLE FIST PUMP “DOYLE’S”!

After DOYLE'S we stopped by Keary’s apartment to drop off her tasting glass and complimentary Sam Adams pint glass. I was impressed by the size of her roomy apartment, compared to the living situations I’d seen of my friends in Manhattan.

Keary was thrilled to show me a relatively unknown museum in Boston, called the Mapparium. I’d never heard of it, but my love of maps made me an easy sell. It’s a giant, three-story stained glass globe, and thanks to a catwalk built about halfway up, you can walk inside it. It puts the equator at about eye level for the average person, providing an amazing view of most of the habitable earth. I love maps and could stare at it for hours, as it hasn’t been changed since 1935, and presents a snapshot of human history from a geographical standpoint. But the acoustics were even more fun. Standing on one end of the bridge, you can whisper confidential messages to a friend on the other end and hear each other loud and clear, but no one else is the wiser. Or, standing in the exact center, your voice fills the room and bounces back from every corner, and you hear yourself in perfect surround sound. If there were voices inside my head, that’s what they’d sound like.

It’s no surprise I also love a good birds’ eye view of a city, since it's basically like looking at a real live map. So Keary took me to the Top of the Hub, a bar on the 52nd floor of the Prudential Tower. Instead of paying $16 to go to the observation deck on the 50th floor, an $11 cocktail will get you the same experience, plus booze.

The view from Top of the Hub, looking out over Boston Harbor

Eyeing Keary’s assortment of piercings, I asked whether she knew a good piercing spot in town. I’d been wanting some new piercings in my right ear -- truth be told I was hoping for an industrial, but my ears just aren’t cut out for it -- and decided Boston, and my new start to life, were the right combination.

In which I make weird faces while a nice man punches holes in my ear. 

We took the train to her favorite piercing salon, and gritted our teeth through the experience, as the smooth-voiced piercer Owen coached our breathing. Thrilled with my new holes, we headed out to the final experience Keary wanted to share with us. In her last year at Northeastern, she’d discovered a bar popular with many students called The Squealing Pig. On Thursday nights, the comfy gastropub hosts Mike Barrett, the “world’s most outrageous folk singer,” who delights the crowd with bawdy and irreverent pub songs. The regulars beat the tables in time with the songs, singing out the words, which are often changed to be more inappropriate. We picked up many of the songs quickly, and joined in whenever we could. Between fits of hysterical laughter and trying to keep time with the table drumming, I kept wondering how I could find a similar experience like this in Dayton.

Friday’s highlights included running five miles through the gorgeous countryside along the Battle Road Trail in Minuteman National Historical Park. It reminded me of the hours me and my brothers spent coloring photocopies from the American Revolution coloring book when I was a kid. Callie and I also drove up to Portsmouth for the evening and enjoyed fine beers, more mussels, live music, and delicious orders of egg-in-a-hole on thick, hearty homemade toast from an adorable diner called The Friendly Toast.

Now that is what you call toast!

Then we set out Saturday morning to climb Mt. Katahdin in Maine, which is another story for another day.

Firefly: More weird than you can fit in your pants

Jack Johnson blows away with crowd with an incredible performance.

 

“The weirdest things just happen around me all the time!” my friend Jamie proclaimed, lying on a T-shirt blanket under the canopy by our tent.

Kelly and I looked at each other, nodded, and laughed.

“Why do you think that is, Jame?” Kelly asked.

“I think because I egg people on,” Jamie said, reflecting on the disproportionate number of weird but hilarious things that had happened in the three days since we had arrived at Firefly.

“The funny thing is, most of the stuff that happens is not even your idea,” I said.

“I give them confidence to do the crazy things they already wanted to do,” Jamie concluded.

I finished scrambling our omelets over the camp stove on the last day of the four-day music festival we’d driven nine hours for, and we laughed as we looked back over the highlights.

Looking grungy after four days sans showering.

…

On Friday, our first full day at the festival, we planned to enter the festival by 4:30 p.m. to see Bronze Radio Return, and a slew of other artists later. We cracked the first beer at 10 a.m., and began acquainting ourselves with our next door neighbors, the J Crew or JTrain (as most of their names began with J), who also happened to be from the Cincinnati area. We’d been enjoying ourselves for several hours, playing Frisbee games and meeting new people, when I realized we had to leave or we’d be late for the show. And with a 45 minute set, every second counted. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I ran back to the car and laid out six slices of bread on the back bumper. With one stroke, I peanut buttered three slices, then did the same with the jelly. I stacked the sandwiches and threw them unprotected into my drawstring bag. We grabbed a water bottle and two roadies each for the 30-minute walk to the festival.

At the festival gate, I distributed the sandwiches.

“What, no bags?” Kelly asked, wearing a sports bra and colorful skirt. “Where am I supposed to put this?” she asked, as we prepared to smuggle the sandwiches in to enjoy later.

“Get creative!” I said, nestling mine between my belly button and the wasteband of my jorts. Kelly evaluated her best assets, and slid it behind her butt. Jamie looked at her sundress, frowned, and slapped the PBJ on her right boob.

“Can you tell at all?” We all asked each other. Satisfied we wouldn’t get caught, we sauntered through the security check point.

We enjoyed a few shows, then went back to camp for some dinner and to resupply before the late evening shows.

The next morning, Jamie woke up with a weird stain on her bra. She held it out the tent for better lighting.

“Ughhh it’s a peanut butter jelly bra!” she said. The J Train had a good laugh out of that.

“In hindsight, sandwich bags might have been a good idea,” I mused.

That morning, we needed to make it to the festival by 2 p.m. to see Twenty-One Pilots. So we set down to the task at hand. At 1:15, I remembered sandwiches. This time I grabbed bags, along with a healthy supply of fruit snacks and granola bars, sure we’d be able to find suitable hiding spots at the gate. 

Twenty feet from the gate, I again dropped my bag and started handing out the contraband. Kelly and I put everything out of sight, and walked through with no problem. I looked back.

Jamie stood before the metal detector wand wielder with a full corner of the plastic sandwich bag sticking out of her cleavage. The man looked at her, a dead serious expression on his face.

“I bet you have a gun, don’t you,” he said.

“I have three!” Jamie said, exuberant.

Unconvinced, he wanded her and waved her through.

Ten feet inside the gate, we pulled snacks out of every crack and crevice, doubling over in laughter that the guards hadn’t questioned the baggie sticking out of her boobs, which had looked to contain far more questionable materials than it actually did. 

Jamie and I pregame before hitting the festival.

Twenty-One Pilots put on an amazing show, working the crowd into a frenzy despite the majority of the audience only knowing one of their songs. But as their 45-minute set ended, a mass migration away from the stage began. Since Kelly wanted to see Third Eye Blind, beginning in 45 minutes, we seized our chance for a better spot in the crowd, and salmoned upstream toward the stage. We got about 15-people deep from the stage, and people weren’t budging, so we settled in.

I’d brought a blanket, so we asked a few neighbors if they’d like to sit down for the wait. They gladly agreed, and we all made room to spread the blanket. We instantly became the most popular people within a full 20-foot radius as I pulled out deck of cards to play B.S.

The crowd got restless, so we had to stand again. As we stood up, Jamie caught a whiff of a strong odor to her left. A sleepy-eyed boy with bright blue eyes and an impish grin was screwing the lid on a water bottle. Jamie looked at the yellow liquid in the bottle.

“Did you just pee in that bottle right next to me?!” she asked, shocked.

He couldn’t very well deny it with the evidence in his hands, so he laughed and admitted it, dropping the warm bottle into his drawstring bag.

We feigned anger but more than anything we were just jealous of the convenience. But to make it up to us, he offered us a sip out of a sunscreen bottle.

“Excuse me?!” Jamie said. Then shrieked as he went bottoms up with the orange tube.

He laughed and pointed to the “ingredients” on the tube – 54% boozerwine, 30% drunkacider, etc., with fine print instructions reading, “If a security guard is reading this, run away!” He offered a taste again, so I went for it.

“Oh…it’s just Fireball and Red Bull!” I laughed. He told us where to find the clever water bottle online.

Third Eye Blind came on stage, and relived its glory days from decades past. I hoisted Kelly onto my shoulders for a better view of the first band she’d ever loved.

We realized we’d planned our day poorly, because after that show, we wanted to stay in the festival rather than make the long trek back to the camp for dinner and more drinks, but we didn’t want to buy food and drink in the festival, so we bit the bullet and walked back. I got impatient and jogged back to get a head start on making camp chili.

I dumped six cans of beans and chicken in a pot and realized we had way too much food for three people. The J Train was away from their camp, so I looked for some other new friends to share the food with. Two fine looking gentlemen stood two sites over and I waved at them and offered them some chili. The smell was wafting their way already, and it was an easy sell.

“It’s kind of a BYO-Bowl situation,” I said. “And spoon. And beverage. But I’ve got the chili!”

Jamie and Kelly slumped into chairs, finally having caught up with me to find chili sizzling on the stove, and new friends joining us.

“OK, guys we CAN’T miss Imagine Dragons, so everyone has to eat and drink fast!” I said, dishing out the chili.

I watched everyone’s lips like a hawk. If they weren’t chewing, I threw a goldfish at them, commanding “DRINK!”  

Somehow we still managed time for conversation.

“Does anyone like kiwis?” Alex asked, out of the blue. “I’ve always had this vision of walking up to a girl with a kiwi in my extended hand, and offering it to her, just holding it in front of her mouth. Just to see what she would do!” he said.

“Wait, like to see if she would eat the skin?” Kelly asked excited. “I totally would! I eat kiwi skins!” she said. So Kelly and Alex bonded over their weird fruit habits.

“Well, one time I wanted to eat a whole banana—peel and all,” Alex said. “But my friends wouldn’t let me.”

I thought it was a strange idea, but Jamie’s silent powers of egging on the weird in people pushed me forward.

“I … have a banana … in the car… is this still a dream of yours, sir?” I asked Alex.

“Yes?” he said, a light coming into his eyes.

“We’ll save it for the walk to the festival,” I said. “Now drink faster!”

Alex showed some reluctance, teasing me.

“Lift the drink, put it to your lips, and guzzle!” I said, laughing. Then I remembered an exercise we’d used to do in high school. “Let’s play that game where one person closes their eyes and then we have to tell them exactly what to do but they have to follow all the instructions literally!” I said. For no good reason, everyone cheered and agreed to play the dumbest game ever invented.

“Close your eyes! Touch your nose with one finger, put another finger in your mouth! Now throw a goldfish at Jamie! Now put a piece of corn in your nose, then snot rocket it out! Now drink your beer!” And so on. Jamie had to alternate placing three fingers in her mouth with sipping her drink. I had to make a beautiful scarf out of the roll of paper towels, all the while getting pelted with goldfish.

We were determined to not spend money in the festival, so we loaded up the backpack with a bottle of Gatorade, and two water bottles full of various liquors. They slid nicely into the crotch, with only the slightest indication that all might not be entirely right down in those parts.

As promised, I also grabbed a banana out of the car.

Halfway to the festival, I turned to Alex and handed him his banana, for which he’d been waiting so patiently.

“OK, are you guys ready?” he asked.

WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP! Swallow. It was gone. Just like that. Four bites. Our eyes grew huge and the laughter couldn’t find its way out fast enough.

“You actually did that!” we screamed. Little banana pulp pieces eeked out the corners of his mouth as he attempted to keep it down. But then he smiled, licked his lips, and kept walking.

We all continued on as before, but now genuinely curious what our new friend’s next pooping experience would be like.

We made it in time for Imagine Dragons, and made sure everyone in our group got a turn sitting on someone’s shoulders, as the experience is heightened 10 times from that vantage point.

From Imagine Dragons, we ran to get a place for Tegan and Sara, one of the bands I had been most excited about.

They were going full power, with an energetic crowd responding well to the music.

Feeling at home among my people, I broke free from Jamie and Kelly. “I’ve got to mingle!” I yelled, squeezing through the press of dancing revelers. To the first pretty girl I found, I tried a cleverly crafted line.

“You can’t see Tegan and Sara without making out with a girl, right?” I said, compelled by liquid courage, which is not exactly synonymous with charm, tact or being smooth. But still, a tall blonde took me up on it and went in for the kiss.

I came up for air, my mind blown. I ran back to Kelly and Jamie.

“I saw stars! Oh my god! I saw stars!” I yelled as they shook their heads at me.

After Tegan and Sara, we collapsed in a heap on the festival grounds during a small break before Outkast was supposed to take the stage. For some reason, we could not stop laughing as we rolled around in the dirt, with life and emotion gushing through our veins and exploding out our pores.

We didn’t venture too far into the crowd for Outkast, wanting plenty of elbow room to dance. But halfway through, safely past the performance of “Hey Ya!”, Jamie and Kelly found they couldn’t stay awake. They told me to meet them in the mulch area under the trees, 100 yards from where I stood.

I distracted myself with my hands on the hips of a blue-haired girl, displaying a considerable amount more charm than I had two hours before.

The show ended, and I turned the girl to face me.

“I’m Dana,” she said.

“Nice to meet you, Dana,” I said, and leaned in for a sweet kiss. She smiled, and we parted ways.

Then I was lost. Where in the world did Jamie and Kelly say to meet them? I breathed down the panic. There were still more shows I wanted to enjoy with them, although I supposed I could have tried to find Dana again.

I vaguely remembered something about the mulch, and combed through it, calling out for them. I couldn’t find them, and no one was responding to my calls.

Almost out of hope, I turned back for one more pass through the mulch. Then I spotted their two dresses as they lay passed out on the ground. I slide tackled them for joy.

“I found you!” I yelled, shaking them awake. “Oh my god you have no idea how happy I am to see you!”

They sat up groggily.

“Who, what…where?” Jamie said, groaning. Kelly’s eyes were open, but she looked like she’d never seen me before.

“Are you guys missing how ridiculously lucky it was that I just found you?” I asked, surprised. “Come on, let’s go to the bathroom and then go to Pretty Lights!”

“Bathroom, yes, Pretty Lights, no,” Jamie rasped, looking exhausted. Kelly stood, still without saying anything.

We made it to the port-a-potty corral, though Kelly stayed out by the fence, looking dazed. Jamie decided to go back to the tent by herself to sleep, but I wanted to stay for Pretty Lights. Finally Kelly seemed to turn on. “Yeah, I’m excited for Pretty Lights!”

We were walking toward the stage, and she realized there was a hole in her evening.

“What happened between going to Outkast and just now?” she asked.

I replayed the story for her.

“I didn’t wake up until just now at the port-a-potties. I legitimately have no memory of you finding us in the mulch,” she said.

“Well that explains why you weren’t very happy to see me!” I said. “You were completely sleepwalking.”

Back at camp, Jamie’s throat was sore after breathing in massive amounts of dust in the festival. She’d been laying in the tent alone for a few minutes before she heard the J Train return. She unzipped a corner of the door and rolled her head out.

“Hey J Crew, what are the chances one of you will put two ibuprophen in my mouth and pour some water in it?” she ventured, pitifully.

No answer.

“Are they high?” she wailed.

“Are who high?” Jill asked, hearing Jamie for the first time.

“The chances!” Jamie said.

“What?!”

Upon relating these stories again on the car ride home, we shared many laughs. But the weirdness wasn’t over.

We stopped along the way at a Wendy’s for Frosty’s. After debating over whether to split a small, get two kid sizes, or get two smalls, Kelly and I settled on two smalls.

“Oh, I immediately regret this decision,” I said, seeing how large the small is. As much as I love Frosty’s, I’m always full way sooner than I expect. Kelly shared my sentiments. Twenty minutes later Kelly looked at her half-eaten ice cream.

“I just really want this to be gone, but I don’t want to eat it, and if it’s in front of me, I’ll keep eating it,” she said. Then she took stock of our surroundings. “I really think I just want to throw this out the window.”

“Hey not the cup!” I said, conscious of littering.

“No, just this giant scoop,” she said, loading the spoon up with dripping frosty, and looking dangerous.

“I guess it’s not littering since it’ll melt,” I admitted, and consented. Suddenly, Jamie was all in. She prepared to catch the feat on video.

“Catapult it out of the spoon right into the grass!” she cheered. “But don’t hit the car behind us!”

Kelly rolled the window down, cocked her hand back, and slapped her elbow, launching the scoop of frosty flying out onto the shoulder.

“Woooohooooo!” we all cheered, as if we’d accomplished something spectacular.

Jamie just chalked it up to another ridiculous side effect of her personality.

We rolled back into Dayton with smiles on our faces and a week of eye-rolling, hysterical memories to keep us giggling for weeks.

Best cities to move to for craft beer loving 20-somethings

The #DaytonBoozenessJournal presents: a surprisingly scientific comparison of cool cities in the U.S. based on their relative affordability and cost of beer.

The other day I started wondering what a cross comparison of cost of housing, average salaries, and the price of a 6-pack in the top cities my friends have moved to after graduation would look like.

I googled it, and it didn't exist. So I did it myself, and was pretty surprised by the results. Twenty-somethings wondering about their next move would do well to take into account this subversive ranking of U.S. cities based on a new cool factor: relative affordability of craft beer.

Even if you're not into craft beer, this list is still a good way to see what cities will free up more of your disposable income for your hobbies and interests. The second ranking shows the additional income you can spend in each city. The first column shows, just for kicks, the rankings if you were to spend all of your additional income on beer.

Disclaimer: I only ranked these cities against each other. I did not take all of the top cities in the country. If a city is not on the list, it's not because it is more or less expensive than any of these cities, it just means I don't know anybody who moved there and didn't feel like it made the cut for evaluation.

I wasn't surprised to see Dayton come out at No. 3 on the list. But the other 4 in the top 5 shocked me!

Check out my thorough methodology below the lists.

Best cities for consuming the most beer per year: 

Rank	City	Additional Disposable Income	Cost of beer
1	Washington D.C.	$10,342.86	$8.89
2	Asheville, N.C.	$8,014.62	$7.53
3	Dayton	$7,700.00	$7.99
4	Portland	$7,718.46	$8.49
5	Oakland, Calif.	$8,629.27	$9.66
6	Cincinnati	$6,928.58	$7.99
7	Detroit	$7,155.73	$8.27
8	Las Vegas	$6,884.84	$8.32
9	Charlotte	$6,206.76	$7.68
10	Raleigh	$6,348.18	$7.98
11	St Louis	$6,207.34	$7.81
12	Phoenix	$6,184.39	$7.90
13	Greenville, S.C.	$6,303.52	$8.10
14	Seattle	$6,366.76	$8.59
15	Columbus	$5,744.81	$7.99
16	Atlanta	$6,369.56	$8.99
17	Memphis	$5,481.87	$7.90
18	San Diego	$6,238.97	$9.34
19	Denver	$5,280.46	$7.98
20	Miami	$5,287.70	$8.39
21	Birmingham	$5,459.55	$8.79
22	Nashville	$5,361.79	$8.64
23	Austin	$5,118.73	$8.48
24	Richmond, Va.	$6,081.57	$10.26
25	Boston	$5,122.53	$8.89
26	New Orleans	$4,171.28	$7.92
27	Pittsburgh	$5,026.68	$9.79
28	NYC	$5,333.00	$10.52
29	San Francisco	$3,294.00	$8.79

   

Best cities for having extra money for your hobbies: 

Rank	City	Additional Disposable Income
1	Washington D.C.	$10,342.86
2	Oakland, Calif.	$8,629.27
3	Asheville, N.C.	$8,014.62
4	Portland	$7,718.46
5	Dayton	$7,700.00
6	Detroit	$7,155.73
7	Cincinnati	$6,928.58
8	Las Vegas	$6,884.84
9	Atlanta	$6,369.56
10	Seattle	$6,366.76
11	Raleigh	$6,348.18
12	Greenville, S.C.	$6,303.52
13	San Diego	$6,238.97
14	St Louis	$6,207.34
15	Charlotte	$6,206.76
16	Phoenix	$6,184.39
17	Richmond, Va.	$6,081.57
18	Columbus	$5,744.81
19	Memphis	$5,481.87
20	Birmingham	$5,459.55
21	Nashville	$5,361.79
22	NYC	$5,333.00
23	Miami	$5,287.70
24	Denver	$5,280.46
25	Boston	$5,122.53
26	Austin	$5,118.73
27	Pittsburgh	$5,026.68
28	New Orleans	$4,171.28
29	San Francisco	$3,294.00

Methodology:
Housing cost: I took the average cost of a 3-bedroom apartment based on the first 10 listings for 3-bedroom apartments on Craigslist in each city, then divided by 3, based on an assumption of sharing a house with two roommates, as any 20-something trying to maximize his or her income for hobbies or beer drinking would likely do. I was unsatisfied with conventional housing cost calculators, because they don't represent mine or my fellow 20-somethings' most common living arrangements. Under this arrangement, I also assumed $100 per month would go to utilities. This will obviously cause my results to be slightly inaccurate in cities with a wide variation in utilities costs from the norm, but seemed a better solution than not accounting for utilities at all.

Salary: I started with an average college-educated entry-level salary in Dayton (where I live) of $35,000, and used Bankrate.com's cost of living calculator to adjust that salary to each city.

Cost of beer: I used Bankrate.com's cost of living calculator to record the average price of beer -- presumably your average 6-pack, although the website doesn't specify -- in each city.

Additional disposable income: Most budgeting recommendations list 35 percent as the national average for housing costs. Obviously a 20-something renting a house with two other roommates will likely fall below this average if they are making the average college-educated entry-level salary in that city, but the amount by which they can minimize this essentially frees up money directly for hobbies. So, using my housing cost estimate, I determined what percent of total income housing costs represented, and took the difference between the national average of 35 percent and each city's result as the percentage of additional disposable income. For example, in Dayton, housing only accounts for 13 percent of a base-level income, leaving 22 percent of income available for other interests. Or beer.

Food costs: Are not accounted for in this analysis, since relative cost of food seems to mostly reflect housing costs, so it is not likely to skew the results if I did include it anyway.

Let me know if you have any questions, comments or suggestions on my methodology! It was a fun analysis to do.