Summer in the city

I moved to Willy Street. I moved east to a neighborhood where people make a habit of talking to their neighbors, of growing sunflowers in illogical places, of leaving free bottles of Miller Lite on the sidewalk. I moved to an apartment where the rooms are not just one after another like they've been squeezed out of a toothpaste tube. I took a bunch of photos, but only to document what repairs are needed, what flaws my landlords might try to charge me for when I eventually move out. They have a reputation.

But rather than pictures of flaws in my apartment (I mostly can live with them), here is a list of thoroughly domestic perks:
* Two sinks in the kitchen, so I can dry dishes without taking up counter space. It occurs to me now that I had two sinks before, but the need for counter space was less urgent, and my drying rack, I believe, did not actually fit in the sink anyway.
* Laundry in the basement, rather than a place I have to drive to and read a book at. The dryer is broken, but we have a drying line and plenty of warm days left before fixing it becomes a matter of urgency. I can put a load in and resume cooking dinner or whatever other chore I like. Or read a book, but with a cat in my lap.
* I can walk for groceries, hardware, or liquor or several types of dinner and breakfast. I can walk to my friend's house. The bus system loves my neighborhood, so getting to work in the winter will be easy.

Neighborhood is important to me. Where I lived before, though I liked the quiet and the nearby arboretum and the owl hoots in winter and the occasional coyote eyes across the street at 2 a.m., my building felt like a refrigerator, and aside from garage sales, we didn't voluntarily talk to each other. My downstairs neighbor was the exception, and I'm sending her a postcard so she has my new address. We'd chat in the mornings as she gardened and I got my bike ready for the work day.

So far, I am optimistic about the Willy Street neighbors. There are hippies in the back apartment (they have names, but it's easy shorthand) and a slew of cohabitating bike mechanics upstairs. The hippies sell produce on the lawn on weekends--whatever's leftover from the CSA they help grow. They are ambivalent about being paid. The basement is full of home-canned vegetables and large bottles of dark liquids.

It's all so cliched and so iconically Madison. I should point out there are downsides, like the street is heavily trafficked, and someone nearby plays bongos when I'm trying to sleep, and the downside of people who talk to each other is that they also throw parties when you might plan to get up early on weekends, and I have weird feelings about probably being someone who is buying in to the gentrification and rising cost-of-living of a formerly working-class neighborhood (but then again, my income is really not gentry at all). And still, it's a time where my city feels just a bit magical.

Amelia came to visit and she took a picture of me. I think you can see her reflection.