If there’s a soft spot in my aggressive urbanistic tendencies, it’s well planned single family homes that tuck their garages in the back yard, boast luxurious front porches where wicker furniture languishes and stuff their front yards with droopy, vibrant trees. On the interior, enormous window panes usher in copious amounts of daylight. I’m constantly at a loss of whether I’d preferring to be stuffing my face with an omelette on the front porch, the back deck, or the lively kitchen table and sometimes I just want a sidewalk bench where I can take in the neighborhood’s charm offensive. I’ve been in D.C. for two days and lucky enough spend the night in two homes that live up to these standards, while further uphold my other personal pre-req of having easy access to public transit. Cars. Be. Damned.
I find myself feeling satiated on thoughtful community architecture and increasingly less hungry for stuffing my schedule with every cultural haunt. And right now I’m exhausted and alone and I don’t feel oppressed being indoors in Arlington and that scares me a little. How did I find myself in such a state where I cannot stroll around the District on a Saturday morning?
To the earlier points, my favorite days of New Orleans were spent wandering between Magazine and St. Charles, plodding and soaking and memorizing the Vietnamese restaurant, the outdoor patio seating cafe, the flower boxes and white shutters, and letting that muggy, muggy air permeate my skin and beguile my soul.
American cities I love you still.