Once upon a time, I lived on Phinney Ridge, at the crest of the hill. Man oh man was it delicious. The world fell away from my eyes, spreading out below. That’s how it was.
Phinney Ridge was the hill, it was the neighborhood. It was also, significantly, a singular street, Phinney Ave. A voluptuous street that ran down and through the eponymous neighborhood. For five years, chances were you could find me walking Phinney, up and down, admiring the roadway and its vistas. I took photos of it, the way one might a lover, when the light hits just so and all of a sudden you feel glad. By day, I strolled here and there with this street as my anchor. By night, there I was, at the top, gazing down Phinney at a world owned entirely by brown-eyed contemplation.
“The steppe does not belong to us. We belong to the steppe. It was here long before my grandfather's grandfather, and it will be here long after my grandchildren's children are gone.”
From the windows of my second floor apartment, from which could be seen both mountains and bay, I surveyed the street and everything on it. Phinney began at the top of the hill and whizzed past the zoo and came swooping across 45th and jogged once, smooth and sharp, before descending swiftly to the bottom of the hill: a sluice cradling water to an ample spout. I could watch it all day. On occasion, you could hear the tigers growl and the elephants trumpet from the zoo.
Phinney is old. I recall the year when a City crew came through and tore a hole all down the middle of the street, out of which they extracted the ancient water main. The pipe, big enough to stand inside, was made entirely out of wood and held together with large metal bands. Watching the concrete pipe replacement being lowered into the gaping hole evoked a strange sorrow. Phinney was built wide and generous: to accommodate the trolley that once ran through. It remains wide, to this day. But now, it seems somehow that Phinney is no longer as deep.
Seated on my living room couch, I used to study the mustard-colored building across from me. It was positioned right smack in the way of Phinney. The moment after Phinney crossed 45th, it danced a hard-right to avoid the building. And it could surprise a soul. I once witnessed a black Cadillac miss that turn and ram straight into the dry cleaners, the building’s sole occupant. I’ll never forget the sound of squealing tires and the impact, blam! That car disappeared its hood all the way into the façade, steam pouring out the radiator, giving the yellow building a touch of anger. That Cadillac did not love Phinney, otherwise, the driver would have slowed in making that turn, taking in the languid creaminess of the steering wheel, shifting right, then left, and straightening, the car cruising down the hill. I made visit to the street that day, to see the car close up, disdainfully strolling past.
I’m trying to tell you something… something personal. Though you may not think it so. You see, I’ve had a thing for streets and sidewalks, certain ones, certain aspects, for a long, long time. Ever since Phinney Ridge. Something in the way a street might hook and curve, or the momentum of the dividing lines. Or the way they cross each other. Or it might be their sidewalks, with people scurrying along, ordered rows and figure-groups hugging the curb-line. Sometimes it’s the arbor of trees, reaching over. Which is all to say, I once fell in love with a street. And have been in love ever since.
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Sometimes it’s the arbor of trees, reaching over. Which is all to say, I once fell in love with a street. And have been in love ever since.
