The View from #410

Our architectural yellow oddity,altering the face of this somber, gray, working-class neighborhood forever, was, quite literally, dropped from the skies and plunked down on a long, narrow parcel of rubble bordering the commuter rail line. Off limits to my own children growing up decades ago only a few blocks away, the land was sequentially brick factory, slaughter house and city incinerator. As I settle into one of our two new while metal chairs, I again ask myself if it can be true that Ed and I, parents of scattered, grown children, are really here, joining with others in this country's first large urban cohousing project. More walkers pass. Some stare shamelessly; others glance furtively, then ignore us. What's behind their grave somber gaze? Envy? Culture shock? Hope for friendship? Curiosity, resentment? A wish to join us? For many of our non-native passersby, in their countries the street was the center of life, but here, in this bewildering land, the street is for stealing glimpses of the public life of their strange hosts. An invitation to voyeurism. Laden with the ubiquitous assortment of plastic bags, the walkers are part of an endless and varied procerssion, for our street is a pedestrian route to and from the nearby Porter Square. It is the shopping and transportation hub, a station for both the metropolitan subway and the commute rail. One morning during breakfast on my balcony, I took a ten-minute time sample and came up with the startling calculation that, adjusted for the quieter hours, hundreds of people walk past our Richdale Avenue condo daily. "A little United Nations" as one friend dubbed the flow. How hard it is for our friends, even our family, to understand this move from our large, lovely house in an area of large, lovely houses. Not forced by adverse circumstances--unless aging falls into this category--Ed and I deliberately, thoughtfully, chose this move. In sharp contrast to the low-rent requirements of those who pass by our balcony, we had many choices. Going against the expected tide every step of the way, we are now aligned with this self-selected group that spurns suburban order and long commutes. In the eyes of some, we gave up assured privacy, serenity and amenities for the gambled-on promise of a supportive, vigorous community. The sound of voices explodes across the street, a wail here, a lusty shout there. The day-camp bus drops off its tireless, high-spirited kids who head for the dusty home-base and tell-tale patches that have obliterated the grass. The ascending decibel level is a blend of ball players' shrieks, exchanges between mothers at third-floor windows and their defiant kids on the ground, and rap music at top volume.