12 years ago, I moved out of my parent’s house to live with my partner Hana.
Since then, we’ve lived downtown in two apartments, one townhome, and now our suburban home.
Our suburban experience is a stark contrast to our downtown experience. In all our previous living situations, we never once conversed with neighbors. Nor did our neighbors chat with us. Everyone seemed satisfied with the keep-to-yourself dynamic.
But here in the Northern Phoenix burbs? It’s different.
It could be the many windows into life outside of my house. Our previous residences were never so inviting. But here’s how living in the suburbs has differed from living in downtown apartments.
In the suburbs, people seem to kick their heels up. People are living in their homes, abiding by their rules. And it’s those rules that I find particularly fascinating.
For example, two blocks from me, an older woman greets the morning from a lawn chair in her garage.
She reads the paper while listening to oldies and sipping on what I assume is coffee. She never says hello, though it doesn’t stop me from saying, “Good morning!” My toy poodles don’t even evoke attention from her.
Across the street from me is a renovated Airbnb.
I make up stories for every new guest, but this one seems true. The most recent guests are a family from out of town visiting family who lives down the street. Hana came to this conclusion yesterday when we saw the mother carrying food to a house down the road in 110-degree weather (that’s commitment).
Next to the Airbnb is Rick, the biker.
Though Rick never seems to ride his hog. Instead, he turns on his bike every morning around 6:30 am, revs it many times, turns it off, and goes back inside. He’s curious indeed.
Both my next-door neighbors are interesting.
I’ve lost track of who is my northside neighbors. Five or more cars park there at any given time, including a service truck. Steve, who drives the service truck, guards the sidewalk parking space in front of his bedroom. If you park there, he’ll ask you to move. It’s important to Steve that he can always see his service vehicle from inside his house.
My southside neighbors are the original owners.
Mom bought the home in the 70s’ where she raised her family. Three generations live there currently. Mom is dying. I know this because, on move-in day, her daughter Stacey introduced herself to us and told us not to worry if we saw an ambulance in front of their house soon. “Mom’s on her way out,” she says. She also told us she hopes to buy her sister out of the house when mom croaks. Stacey gave us an absolute 4–1–1.
And then there’s Nice Guy Frank, who lives on 22nd street.
He’s a big 70s rock fan with long silver locks. He’s very nice (too nice). A few weeks ago, I walked the dogs down 22nd street. Before we passed Frank’s house, the girls did their thing. As we walk towards Frank’s house, he’s outside on the phone and starts hollering something at me.
“What?” I asked. He repeats it. Still, I can’t hear him. “What?”
“Give me the bag. Let me throw that away for you.”
“Wow. Okay. Thanks, Frank!”
Who the hell throws away their neighbor’s dog poop? Frank. That’s who.
Maybe it’s me, but I’ve never received this level of neighborly hospitality or entertainment.
Bless the suburbs.