I hate the term real estate. It's cold and business-y, everything that tends to make me hide under the bed. What I write about is space: homes, cafes, places where you can do work, pet the cat, and Google your next-door-neighbor from 10 years ago. I write about places. And I like to do it from a personal perspective.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Thrashing cars in Oakland

This isn't far from where I used to live.

I loved the eight years I spent off Oakland's Piedmont Avenue. Everything I needed was contained within a 10-minute walking distance. I was dumb enough to forget to lock my front door on more than one overnight occasion -- no problem. I often left my convertible top down, and the only thing ever stolen was an ashtray.

My boyfriend, who at the time we met lived ten blocks closer to downtown, had more problems. His convertible top was slashed. His car was rummaged through. Of course, his car was also rececently rummaged through outside our place in Berkeley, and he was vaguely insulted that they didn't find his music collection worthy of stealing.

Of course, what's been going on doesn't surprise me. It's part and parcel of urban life, especially in Oakland.

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