There goes the neighborhood
I just received a notification that a sex offender has moved into my neighborhood. Good to know. It's the second one that's arrived since we moved here a little more than a year ago. At this rate, by the time we move out, the place will be crawling with them.
When I lived in Australia, I watched a very bad soap opera called 'Neighbors' almost daily. It was the perfect stage, I gathered, from which to launch a pop career, as former actresses on the show included BOTH Kylie Minogue AND Holly Valance. Set on Ramsey Street in Melbourne, the show followed an unlikely group of friends through various bizarre plot lines. The theme song still haunts me occasionally, usually at inopportune times, such as when I'm trying to recall the finer points of the descending loop of Henle. It goes like this:
Neighbors, everybody needs good neighbors.
With some love and understanding, you can find a helping haaaaand,
Neighbors...should be there for one another.
That's when good neighbors become good friends.
Heartwarming sentiments, no? I can't say that the same attitudes have infiltrated my own condominium complex. While I have met several others of a similar demographic to myself and found them to be delightful, mostly people keep to themselves. One woman I started talking to at a bar not because I recognized her but because I recognized her dog. I met another couple through a friend of my sister's, and Bob and I often exchange pleasantries with the couple who lives above us. However, not one of these interactions has gone beyond the chance encounter, and I wonder why that is.
Birmingham's Southside is a funny place. Immigrants live in seedy apartment buildings a block or two away from stunning old mansions. Luxury high-rise condominiums are sprouting up not far from the low-income housing projects. I love to walk on Cliff Road, an address which shows that not only can you afford a hefty mortgage, you can also foot the bill for private school tuition. I marvel at the beautifully renovated houses overlooking the city and think, 'Maybe someday.' These discrepancies between people who live in such close proximity to each other make Southside a vibrant neighborhood, but I think it also makes people a little more suspicious of each other.
I rarely see the older man who is the groundskeeper for our condominium with a shirt on and without a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Another girl I've seen around the pool a couple of times is covered in tattoos. One day her friend asked her, 'What you gonna do with all that junk?' and she responded, 'Girl, I'm making a list.' So maybe that's why people at the Altamont patio are somewhat withdrawn and reserved. We're so afraid of encountering the oddballs that we limit our contact with other neighbors.
Sex offenders aside, I love Southside and wouldn't want to live anywhere else in Birmingham, at least while there are no school-age offspring in my life. I'll take my vibrant, quirky neighborhood over the oddballs anytime.
When I lived in Australia, I watched a very bad soap opera called 'Neighbors' almost daily. It was the perfect stage, I gathered, from which to launch a pop career, as former actresses on the show included BOTH Kylie Minogue AND Holly Valance. Set on Ramsey Street in Melbourne, the show followed an unlikely group of friends through various bizarre plot lines. The theme song still haunts me occasionally, usually at inopportune times, such as when I'm trying to recall the finer points of the descending loop of Henle. It goes like this:
Neighbors, everybody needs good neighbors.
With some love and understanding, you can find a helping haaaaand,
Neighbors...should be there for one another.
That's when good neighbors become good friends.
Heartwarming sentiments, no? I can't say that the same attitudes have infiltrated my own condominium complex. While I have met several others of a similar demographic to myself and found them to be delightful, mostly people keep to themselves. One woman I started talking to at a bar not because I recognized her but because I recognized her dog. I met another couple through a friend of my sister's, and Bob and I often exchange pleasantries with the couple who lives above us. However, not one of these interactions has gone beyond the chance encounter, and I wonder why that is.
Birmingham's Southside is a funny place. Immigrants live in seedy apartment buildings a block or two away from stunning old mansions. Luxury high-rise condominiums are sprouting up not far from the low-income housing projects. I love to walk on Cliff Road, an address which shows that not only can you afford a hefty mortgage, you can also foot the bill for private school tuition. I marvel at the beautifully renovated houses overlooking the city and think, 'Maybe someday.' These discrepancies between people who live in such close proximity to each other make Southside a vibrant neighborhood, but I think it also makes people a little more suspicious of each other.
I rarely see the older man who is the groundskeeper for our condominium with a shirt on and without a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Another girl I've seen around the pool a couple of times is covered in tattoos. One day her friend asked her, 'What you gonna do with all that junk?' and she responded, 'Girl, I'm making a list.' So maybe that's why people at the Altamont patio are somewhat withdrawn and reserved. We're so afraid of encountering the oddballs that we limit our contact with other neighbors.
Sex offenders aside, I love Southside and wouldn't want to live anywhere else in Birmingham, at least while there are no school-age offspring in my life. I'll take my vibrant, quirky neighborhood over the oddballs anytime.
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