Hey, Are You My Neighbor?
by Cathy Curtis
I've lived in my house in the Mount Washington neighborhood of Los Angeles for nearly two years, and I've met a few of my neighbors. But my encounters with most of them have been so fleeting that I'd never recognize them outside their native habitat.
I might be wrong about this — maybe too many '50s and '60s sitcoms have lodged in my brain — but wasn't there a time when neighbors were acquainted with one another? It's not that I need to borrow a cup of sugar, or get help with a barn raising. It's just that the fabled anonymity of the Big City feels odd when you live on a tree-lined street with Neighborhood Watch signs.
Sometimes I wonder: If disaster struck in our neighborhood — another major earthquake, say — would it matter that we're such strangers to each other?
I've been awakened by snatches of a heated argument that inexplicably moved outdoors at 2 a.m. Sometimes I smell somebody's barbecue fumes on a Saturday evening. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of a husband hurriedly rolling trash containers to the street as the sanitation truck lumbers around the corner. But . . . who are these folks?
During the walkthrough of my house, the previous owner gave me a quick sketch of my immediate neighbors: the Terrific Couple on one side, the Quiet Older Woman on the other side, the Wonderful People with Dogs and the Couple With the Baby across the street. I jotted down the names the owner could remember — she was a bit hazy about some of them — and looked forward to meeting everyone.
The TC, who are about my age, invited me to a big party even before I moved in, at which I met the gay couple who live down the street in a fancifully painted house. (Weeks later, when I walked by and saw them out front, praise for their colorful drought-tolerant landscaping led to a tour of the back garden and a plant-source recommendation.)
But I was surprised to discover that the TC had never met the WPD — an upbeat young Latino couple juggling distant jobs and a post-grad education — even though they're right across the street. Once, when the WPD spotted me putting out my trash, the husband walked over to tell me that he and his wife had seen a youth jump out of a car and try to open my (locked) mailbox. The WPD were baffled; they hadn't heard about the rash of mail thefts in our neighborhood, a fact I'd learned by chance at the local post office. I was glad to be able to warn them.
Meanwhile, the QOW on the other side remained a mystery. Months went by, and I never saw or heard her. The blinds on the one window that faced my house were always drawn. It occurred to me that she might be unwell . . . or worse.
Still, I hesitated. People in L.A., myself included, tend to be unwilling to open the door to a stranger. My house is perched on a hill; the small wooden gate at street level is equipped with a buzzer. Rex, my electronic dog, barks angrily (when he's turned on) at the occasional over-zealous canvasser who ignores the buzzer, climbs the steps and appears at my front door.
Finally, a mail mix-up — a bill for the QOW that I had received and opened by mistake — gave me an excuse to say hello. Torn envelope in hand, I walked up her long, steep driveway with an apologetic smile on my face. She turned out to be a vigorous (at 80) and gracious Latina; we exchanged phone numbers, and now we wave or chat at the rare moments when we spot one another.
Another first-time neighbor encounter was a bit more embarrassing. When a massive bougainvillea vine blew over in a storm, I had a huge pile of prickly branches, more than would fit in my green trash container. Acting on a tip from the WC, I figured I could quietly sneak the overflow into the green container that belongs to the two-doors-down African American couple.
As luck would have it, the wife pulled into her driveway just as I was closing the lid. She kindly encouraged me to use her garbage whenever I pleased and introduced me to her little dog, who snarled at me from the passenger seat. But I didn't catch her name, and I have only a hazy memory of what she looks like.
Same story with the Russian woman down the street in the other direction, who was getting out of the car as I walked by her house, soon after I moved in. We chatted a bit about our jobs and she fished in her purse for her esthetician's card. "Really call soon," she added, obviously aware that people in L.A. are notorious for empty social promises. But was she just hoping to get another client? I confess: I never did call. By now, her face is just a blur. If I think of it, I wave vaguely whenever I drive by and someone is outside.
Other than potential emergency rescue efforts, what I'm really looking for are some low-key local friendships, people who'd be interested, say, in hiking to the local park a couple miles away — so lushly inviting yet so deserted that it seems unwise to wander around by yourself.
I figure that if I'm unlikely to meet my neighbors at home, I should try to go where they go. We don't have a local café or bar. The dog-owners form a sort of cadre — I see them slogging past my house at 7 a.m. — but something tells me that even if I had a dog, or felt like hitting the streets at that hour, the conviviality level (on my part, at least) would be low.
So I've started going to open houses on Sunday afternoons, hoping to meet fellow lookie loos who live in the neighborhood. After leaving one of these under-populated events, I wound up on the curb, horning in on the Realtor's conversation with a frail-looking woman with an intriguing accent. In one hand, she held a cane, in the other, the leash of a patient dog and a bouquet nearly spilling out of a plastic bag.
When the Realtor finally gave up on us and walked inside, I asked her where she was from. She told me that she had come to the United States in 1969 to publicize Danish cheese, and never left. A longtime resident on that street, she pointed at each house in turn and recited the nationality of the owner: "Japanese, Mexican, Spanish, Armenian, just American — oh, sorry, I don't mean just American," she said apologetically, looking at me.
The bouquet was on its way to a neighbor, as thanks for watching her house while she was away for a few days. Delighted to meet a fellow walker (middle-class L.A. jogs but it rarely walks), she described paths I've never taken. "I have seen you walking here before," she said. And who knows, maybe we'll even see each other again.
by Cathy Curtis
I've lived in my house in the Mount Washington neighborhood of Los Angeles for nearly two years, and I've met a few of my neighbors. But my encounters with most of them have been so fleeting that I'd never recognize them outside their native habitat.
I might be wrong about this — maybe too many '50s and '60s sitcoms have lodged in my brain — but wasn't there a time when neighbors were acquainted with one another? It's not that I need to borrow a cup of sugar, or get help with a barn raising. It's just that the fabled anonymity of the Big City feels odd when you live on a tree-lined street with Neighborhood Watch signs.
Sometimes I wonder: If disaster struck in our neighborhood — another major earthquake, say — would it matter that we're such strangers to each other?
I've been awakened by snatches of a heated argument that inexplicably moved outdoors at 2 a.m. Sometimes I smell somebody's barbecue fumes on a Saturday evening. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of a husband hurriedly rolling trash containers to the street as the sanitation truck lumbers around the corner. But . . . who are these folks?
During the walkthrough of my house, the previous owner gave me a quick sketch of my immediate neighbors: the Terrific Couple on one side, the Quiet Older Woman on the other side, the Wonderful People with Dogs and the Couple With the Baby across the street. I jotted down the names the owner could remember — she was a bit hazy about some of them — and looked forward to meeting everyone.
The TC, who are about my age, invited me to a big party even before I moved in, at which I met the gay couple who live down the street in a fancifully painted house. (Weeks later, when I walked by and saw them out front, praise for their colorful drought-tolerant landscaping led to a tour of the back garden and a plant-source recommendation.)
But I was surprised to discover that the TC had never met the WPD — an upbeat young Latino couple juggling distant jobs and a post-grad education — even though they're right across the street. Once, when the WPD spotted me putting out my trash, the husband walked over to tell me that he and his wife had seen a youth jump out of a car and try to open my (locked) mailbox. The WPD were baffled; they hadn't heard about the rash of mail thefts in our neighborhood, a fact I'd learned by chance at the local post office. I was glad to be able to warn them.
Meanwhile, the QOW on the other side remained a mystery. Months went by, and I never saw or heard her. The blinds on the one window that faced my house were always drawn. It occurred to me that she might be unwell . . . or worse.
Still, I hesitated. People in L.A., myself included, tend to be unwilling to open the door to a stranger. My house is perched on a hill; the small wooden gate at street level is equipped with a buzzer. Rex, my electronic dog, barks angrily (when he's turned on) at the occasional over-zealous canvasser who ignores the buzzer, climbs the steps and appears at my front door.
Finally, a mail mix-up — a bill for the QOW that I had received and opened by mistake — gave me an excuse to say hello. Torn envelope in hand, I walked up her long, steep driveway with an apologetic smile on my face. She turned out to be a vigorous (at 80) and gracious Latina; we exchanged phone numbers, and now we wave or chat at the rare moments when we spot one another.
Another first-time neighbor encounter was a bit more embarrassing. When a massive bougainvillea vine blew over in a storm, I had a huge pile of prickly branches, more than would fit in my green trash container. Acting on a tip from the WC, I figured I could quietly sneak the overflow into the green container that belongs to the two-doors-down African American couple.
As luck would have it, the wife pulled into her driveway just as I was closing the lid. She kindly encouraged me to use her garbage whenever I pleased and introduced me to her little dog, who snarled at me from the passenger seat. But I didn't catch her name, and I have only a hazy memory of what she looks like.
Same story with the Russian woman down the street in the other direction, who was getting out of the car as I walked by her house, soon after I moved in. We chatted a bit about our jobs and she fished in her purse for her esthetician's card. "Really call soon," she added, obviously aware that people in L.A. are notorious for empty social promises. But was she just hoping to get another client? I confess: I never did call. By now, her face is just a blur. If I think of it, I wave vaguely whenever I drive by and someone is outside.
Other than potential emergency rescue efforts, what I'm really looking for are some low-key local friendships, people who'd be interested, say, in hiking to the local park a couple miles away — so lushly inviting yet so deserted that it seems unwise to wander around by yourself.
I figure that if I'm unlikely to meet my neighbors at home, I should try to go where they go. We don't have a local café or bar. The dog-owners form a sort of cadre — I see them slogging past my house at 7 a.m. — but something tells me that even if I had a dog, or felt like hitting the streets at that hour, the conviviality level (on my part, at least) would be low.
So I've started going to open houses on Sunday afternoons, hoping to meet fellow lookie loos who live in the neighborhood. After leaving one of these under-populated events, I wound up on the curb, horning in on the Realtor's conversation with a frail-looking woman with an intriguing accent. In one hand, she held a cane, in the other, the leash of a patient dog and a bouquet nearly spilling out of a plastic bag.
When the Realtor finally gave up on us and walked inside, I asked her where she was from. She told me that she had come to the United States in 1969 to publicize Danish cheese, and never left. A longtime resident on that street, she pointed at each house in turn and recited the nationality of the owner: "Japanese, Mexican, Spanish, Armenian, just American — oh, sorry, I don't mean just American," she said apologetically, looking at me.
The bouquet was on its way to a neighbor, as thanks for watching her house while she was away for a few days. Delighted to meet a fellow walker (middle-class L.A. jogs but it rarely walks), she described paths I've never taken. "I have seen you walking here before," she said. And who knows, maybe we'll even see each other again.
project
Occasional column for MSN.com
Occasional column for MSN.com