It takes time to understand the soul of a city. A certain quiet, patient affection and the desire to explore that which is not obvious. Its a sensual, intimate process – like exploring a human body, caressing a human mind. Linger long enough and both reveal themselves, and sometimes you will fall in love and find that you are home.
So perhaps I have simply not cared deeply enough. Or possibly I have not looked long enough. Whatever the reason, the suburban town I’ve lived in for two years now is as strange and unloved today as she ever was. Hugging a university that beats with vibrancy and life has led her only to retreat further within. Even the metaphor rings false, failing to capture the blandness and superficiality that this little piece of California stands for. A beige snake eating its own tail and the choice of a cliche is the real description here.
I suppose it takes something extraordinary for the whole to be so much less than the sum of its parts. For the interesting, rich and successful to come together in a tepid, pasty porridge of good school districts and farmer’s markets. All busily fighting a grim battle against the east, against unpleasantness and against public transportation (for are not the sweaty hordes outside just waiting for this chance to invade?). Appreciating the soul of Palo Alto (there I said it), is like trying to connect deeply with the business class lounges at Detroit airport.
This is the strangest place I’ve lived in.
