I live in a town of sixteen thousand people, mostly Euro-white and Latino, with a few visas granted to those who run and staff the handful of mediocre Chinese restaurants. People drive pickups or Priuses. We're on the border between redneck and California liberal.
Years from now I'll ennoble the railroad tracks, the empty lot with oaks and fearful housecats, the footbridge over the river. For now, though, my topophiliac thoughts drift to a bay, a financial zone, a Hyde Park playground viewed from a garage roof.
There are places that lift my spirits. Places are more reliable than people because it takes more to kill them, they're always there when you need them, they never say mean things. And there's a marvelous blend of the predictable and the chance: you know that if you walk along Battery between three and four the light will enchant, the architectural sculptures will cast handsome shadows, the flags atop the Embarcadero and a few other tall towers will be backlit; but you don't know which way the breezes will twitch, who will pass you in alligator boots, what unexpected Chinatown scent will slap you.
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