I walked into The Haven Pizzeria, as I fairly frequently do, to pick up some food to go. Cheri and I alternate cooking at home with “shopping” for groceries at one of our local restaurants. We live in a walkable neighborhood. Smaller houses for the most part, closer together. It’s about a mile from our door to The Haven.
As I’m sipping my Pinot Noir, awaiting my order, the manager and I chat. Arturo is a father and husband, as well as a good leader of the team at the pizzeria. His wife and very young boy attended one of our monthly gigs at The Haven. I’m in a trio called Blue Hooz. We do gigs around San Diego county, mostly at family-friendly locations. Our fan base includes kids and dogs. I’ll never forget our gig a couple months ago at The Haven when Arturo’s son stood on a booth seat for every song, pumping up and down with a permanent grin on his face, transfixed by the live music in front of him, for two solid hours.
Ana brings out my order, smiles, and asks me how my evening is going. Ana works here, and also at the Kensington Café a couple of blocks east. That’s another favorite “shopping” location for Cheri and I. It’s also my office. I regularly meet with clients and colleagues there, for breakfast or lunch. Business is so much more effective when you are discussing serious subjects at a sidewalk café, surrounded by good people. Authenticity increases, stress subsides. Delicious smells. Panting puppies slurping from the water bowls the café keeps out for them. The important things in life rise up to comfort us as we talk about hard problems in the world of business. Solutions are easier to see and courage to act blossoms in the fertile soil of the neighborhood.
Kensington was created as an early venture into subdividing a residential area with a plan and design. “Kensington Heights” arose in 1915. Lots were sold to individual builders, who had to follow guidelines much like modern homeowners’ associations have. Building progressed after World War I was over, until the 1929 stock market crash, followed by the Great Depression. Not much building went on until after World War II ended. By the early 1950s, Kensington was pretty much built out.
The people who live here typically are in for the long haul. Our next-door neighbor to the south is the granddaughter of the original owners who purchased the Spanish revival home in 1923. Another neighbor grew up in Kensington, then returned after raising her children in La Mesa. It’s common for homes to stay in a family for generations.
Every Memorial Day, a local group of people organize a parade that starts at the very north end of Kensington and flows southbound on Marlborough Avenue. It’s a bit over a mile, and ends at Adams Avenue, the east-west road where the shops, restaurants, park, library, salons, cleaners, medical clinic, grocery store, bank, pubs and ice cream shop are. Our band sits on the back of a truck, playing classic rock and blues as we pass by in the parade. People line the street on each side, set up with folding chairs, flags and smiles, waving to the clowns, fire engines, marching kids, dog brigades, dignitaries and us.
On Saturdays at Kensington Park, where the library and the toddler playground sit, a small sound system plays participatory songs for preschoolers as a bubble machine fills the air with rainbow-colored globes for the kids to chase. The parents relax a bit, thankful for this free fun that entertains and teaches their children while they can simply breathe easier for an hour, knowing their kids are safe and nourished in this community.
You see all flavors of people in Kensington. The alternative rockers at Club Kensington on Saturday nights. The people in my age range who are retired or (like me) semi-retired. Young families. People who came from all over the world. People who live somewhere else but drive to Kensington because this is a place they like to be. The locals welcome the visitors, who are neighbors because they want to be.
We look out for each other in Kensington. The streets are narrow. They were built for Ford’s Model T. The early homes had a one-car garage, suitable for that sized automobile, set in the back of the lot. When you are driving through the residential streets, you learn how to pull over to allow someone to pass. There’s a calculation that we all do, determining which of us can move over and which of us cannot. The first one to allow the other to pass “wins”. A quick wave of a hand acknowledges the kindness and we move along our journey feeling good about the other driver who knew how to be a neighbor on the tight roads.
When someone is laid up or experiencing a hard life event, we don’t pry. We do let our neighbor know that we are available if needed. When COVID hit in 2020, someone took the initiative to form a group called the Kensington Kruzers. They made a website. People signed up with contact information, acting as volunteers to support someone when called. We would do shopping for a person who couldn’t risk exposure, or whose family couldn’t come. We would walk an assigned circuit to check on people.
It’s not all sweetness and light in Kensington. Sometimes people have arguments. Drivers still do dumb things and provoke a horn’s complaint. A meal at a restaurant isn’t always phenomenal. The grocery store can run out of artichokes. Parking can get tight. These are reminders that no place is Nirvana. But we, the people who live here and come here, make it what it is. We get over the humps, together. And it is special.
Irrationally, but plausibly, I wonder why the world can’t be like Kensington? The world is just one big neighborhood, as Mr. Rogers taught us. If we look through the eyes of children, we might recognize our global neighborhood for what it can be.