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desperanceWe had an old friend staying, and I walked her around the neighbourhood and at some point for some reason asked if she could actually see me settling into life in Sunnyvale.
No, she said.
And yes, I do see her point. I am inner-city boy to my core, and English through and through (except where Scottish, obviously), and this place is relentlessly suburban. As witness, my regular Saturday walk to the Farmer's Market:
Our house!
Our street!
Native foliage!
The church on the corner!
When I was a kid, a trip to the flyover...
...was a great excitement, because one could see all the traffic on the way to everywhere...
(Indeed, I even wrote a story about it: "Quinquereme of Nineveh", published in Nature magazine a while back.)
The parks around here are really dull: no contours, no texture. Though you can book a table and a barbecue pit.
This is an ore-crushing machine, or something; there used to be gold in them thar hills, apparently.
Native foliage!
I want to call this a water-tower, but I don't really know:
This is called a level crossing. A grade crossing. Hell, it's a railroad crossing.
Hills, see? With gold in. What make this a valley...
It's historic. It says so. Yes.
This, too.
This is what we're here for! Every Saturday morning:
...and so on. I spare you; I have mercy. Also I have eggs'n'broccolini'n'dragon's-tongue beans'n'shelling beans'n'fava beans'n'salad leaves with edible flowers'n'kale'n'corn'n'I can't remember what-all else.
Mac, on the other hand, fits perfectly:
And I came home to a letter from Homeland Security, giving me details of next month's appointment for my Green Card interview with the immigration folks. So I guess I fit perfectly too. I must do.
No, she said.
And yes, I do see her point. I am inner-city boy to my core, and English through and through (except where Scottish, obviously), and this place is relentlessly suburban. As witness, my regular Saturday walk to the Farmer's Market:
Our house!
Our street!
Native foliage!
The church on the corner!
When I was a kid, a trip to the flyover...
...was a great excitement, because one could see all the traffic on the way to everywhere...
(Indeed, I even wrote a story about it: "Quinquereme of Nineveh", published in Nature magazine a while back.)
The parks around here are really dull: no contours, no texture. Though you can book a table and a barbecue pit.
This is an ore-crushing machine, or something; there used to be gold in them thar hills, apparently.
Native foliage!
I want to call this a water-tower, but I don't really know:
This is called a level crossing. A grade crossing. Hell, it's a railroad crossing.
Hills, see? With gold in. What make this a valley...
It's historic. It says so. Yes.
This, too.
This is what we're here for! Every Saturday morning:
...and so on. I spare you; I have mercy. Also I have eggs'n'broccolini'n'dragon's-tongue beans'n'shelling beans'n'fava beans'n'salad leaves with edible flowers'n'kale'n'corn'n'I can't remember what-all else.
Mac, on the other hand, fits perfectly:
And I came home to a letter from Homeland Security, giving me details of next month's appointment for my Green Card interview with the immigration folks. So I guess I fit perfectly too. I must do.