An unlucky walk through Potrero could easily remind one of the worst sorts of suburbs–vast oceans of homes devoid of parks or businesses. What Ellie and I found on Saturday was much more interesting.
On Kansas, a block long condo defies the neighborhood’s old rule: one home per structure, two if yer sneaky. Flat faces, plain windows and boring colors leave one thinking the architect had lost his will to live. Fortunately trees across the street cast a shadow on the west face, robbing its visage of monotony.
Rhode Island loves Gothic imagery, but fears commitment. Lions, dragons, gargoyles and assorted mythical hybrids guard doorways and gardens. The leafy monster above was growing up the side of an Inn. Farther up lions with gold mustaches shooed solicitors.
After winding around the beer mug shaped block, we found that the delineation of the projects was very sharp. Shitty cars with sparkling rims wove back and forth, a drunk (or crazy) old man howled and gesticulated wildly on a street corner, and crushed cans of OE littered the sidewalk. Not on hint of this was visible even 100 feet away, due in no small part, I assumed, to the nearby homeowners having popo on speed dial.
Hungrily we perused posted menus along 20th and 18th, settling on Goat Hill Pizza, wherein oldies chime from the radio, and even older pictures of the neighborhood decorate the walls. To work off cheap and tasty dinner, we chose the hilliest possible route home, and I bored Ellie with a half dozen walking stories.