I had a peculiar experience a few days ago. I was running an errand for work in downtown Phoenix and ended up in an unfamiliar neighborhood as I made my way home. By and large, I have not been overly enamored of this city since I first moved here: it’s flat and weird and spread out, and everything seems like it was built in 1960 and then changed hands about four times.
But on this day, I ended up driving through something beautiful—an unexpected neighborhood of cute little houses with cute little yards; streets lined with tall, lean palm trees. The streets were quiet and empty of traffic, but it felt home-like there and I loved it.
And so it was on that day that I fell in love—at long last—with Phoenix. With the city. Now that I am no longer a suburbanite, the urban core of downtown Phoenix has provided me with a really beautiful metropolitan home. Everything seems to be at my fingertips: groceries, gym, bars, restaurants, parks, art galleries, movies. I see a skyscraper from my balcony but I don’t hear traffic.
I am making a home now.
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