There’s a four-block stretch of road in my neighborhood that I’ve traveled on hundreds of times in the last 20 years. It connects my house with my church and, next to the church, the preschool the kids attended. I’ve walked or driven this road to and from church nearly every Sunday and, when the kids were in preschool, daily. Until recently, I thought I knew this road, its houses and its inhabitants, fairly well—or well enough. That changed, but more on that later.

There is something soothing about this stretch of road. It’s actually a zigzag of three different streets—Fresno, Sonoma and Colusa—and it cuts through the heart of our North Berkeley neighborhood, filled with charming bungalow houses from the 1910s, ‘20s and ‘30s. Each house is unique and long ago I picked my favorites. There’s the handsome wood-shingled bungalow with perfect symmetry–two big picture windows framing a lovely entranceway. There’s the formal-looking two-story stucco house with a beautiful stained glass window on the side. Then there are various gardens I admire with their carefully chosen native plants and flowers.

I flashback 19 years ago and I am pushing a brand-new little baby in a brand-new navy blue stroller up the street. It’s December and we are both bundled up. He’s all zipped up in a flannel onesie, white with blue polka dots. And of course, he has on a hat. I was always worried he would catch a cold. It’s almost Christmas and the neighborhood is especially lovely with all the sparkling holiday lights. Every Christmas since then when the lights go up in the neighborhood I think of the magical feeling of showing my new baby the world.

I flashback 15 years ago and I am chasing my toddler down the street as he rides his big wheel. Meanwhile I’ve got my new baby strapped to my back and I’m gripping my dog’s leash as he darts around. An older neighbor passes by and says, “good luck,” while another slightly younger and sweeter neighbor tries to engage my four-year-old in a conversation. “How old are you now?” “You are getting so big!” I welcome her cheerful interaction.

For the most part, my neighbors are friendly but keep to themselves. A few, those who I know from church, are good friends. Others I am content to simply say hello as they are tending their gardens or walking their dogs. Still others in my small radius I’ve perhaps never seen and wouldn’t even recognize on the street.

Fast forward to last spring and my teenage son begins dating a girl from his high school who happens to live right next to my little four-block stretch of road. She’s not exactly the girl next door, but close. Her family falls into the category of people I wouldn’t recognize. But it turns out they’ve been there for years. They live in a Mediterranean-looking white bungalow with a wide front porch. The view out their front window looks down on Colusa, the street I’ve traveled up and down so many times. The first time I was in their living room, looking out at that view, it felt strange to be on the other side of things. At the same time, I felt an instant bond with these people I was just getting to know. Their view of the world in our little corner of Berkeley has been similar to mine all these years.

Now eight months into their relationship, my son and his girlfriend’s romance is blossoming thanks in part to the very unplanned and unexpected way life unfolds. Both Miguel and Olivia chose to go to schools in New York City. They had already decided that when they met last spring, so what might have just been a summer fling limited to Berkeley continues in New York. They see each other practically everyday and over the past months at school have forged a new life in a new place. I often wonder how strange it must feel to them to walk crowded city streets all day and hear traffic all night outside their dorm rooms. The city is exciting and non-stop in a way Berkeley, especially our little neighborhood, is decidedly not. They enjoy it but also like to escape from time to time. Like seasoned New Yorkers, they’ve already made several weekend trips outside the city. This weekend they are in Amherst, Massachusetts.

As for me, I’m happy to visit New York once in a while; it’s thrilling to walk those lively streets. I can’t think of a better place to be as a young person. But at this time in my life, I’d rather live in Berkeley. And this time of year is especially sweet. The plum trees along Colusa are beginning to pop with pink buds, daffodils will soon make an appearance in various yards and the ferns in front of my house are a healthy deep green from all the rain. Between rainstorms, I like to get out and walk around the neighborhood. These days it’s just me, no kids or dog—I take him to the dog park instead—and often I’ve got my headphones tuned into music or an audiobook. Late afternoon is my favorite time to walk. I take in the aroma of coffee roasting down the street at Roma’s. I catch the red hues of the sun setting in the west, on the bay. I see the moon rising over the hills to the east. Occasionally I can hear the sound of the campanile chiming far off in the distance.

Love of place runs deep. I sometimes wonder if Miguel will return to Berkeley someday or whether his younger brother, not yet launched, will settle here after college. What memories will they carry forward of this tranquil neighborhood? Will they remember those frequent walks around the block we once took? Will they look forward to coming home? And what new discoveries might we all make in the meantime? This answer lies just around the corner…