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Home
Your home is your castle, goes the adage. You are safe in your home. It is a shelter. It is protection not just from attack, but also from prying eyes, from any form of invasion of your personal space. So where is home?
In my teens in Budapest we lived in an upscale residential area composed of villas in gardens. Crime was rare those days. It was perfectly safe to walk alone late in the evenings, even for girls alone. There were no shopping malls or fast food restaurants so we hung out on Margaret Island on the Danube, a large park connected to the City by bridges. Paved walkways snaked the length of the island with manicured hedges partially hiding benches every few steps. On summer evenings these benches played the role of the back seat of cars so central in the life of American teenagers. And us guys cruised on foot along these walks hoping to come across girls not yet tangled with a partner on one of the benches.
While it was quite safe to be out late, at home we were always very careful to lock the front door and any ground floor windows. Even though we never had a break-in, locking up was a sacred ritual, never questioned and never neglected. Finding the same practice later in New York and New Haven, after escaping from Hungary, suggested that this was the norm everywhere.
My brother did not want to migrate quite as far as I did and settled in Basel. We corresponded regularly, describing our new lives in minute detail. So I was completely amazed learning that he biked to the bus stop from his apartment, leaving his bike leaning against a tree, and found it waiting for him day after day on his return. Without it being locked up. Astounding. My bike was stolen from the basement of my dormitory where it had been chained to a heating pipe, leaving only a severed, heavy chain for me to keep.
Years later in New Haven, married, and after our children were born, we had an exciting and exasperating burglary experience in the middle of the night. This inspired us to install a security system and we tightened up the usual lock-up routine.
A pleasant surprise was waiting for us on arrival to Stanford in 1971. We had only one set of keys to our new house, so I asked the neighbor where I could have duplicates made, only to be met with a blank stare. “Why would you need more copies?” she asked. “We never lock our doors.”
Wow. I never imagined Palo Alto was more like Basel than New Haven. What a concept! But it was true! Walking around the neighborhood I saw that cars were parked with the windows down, often with the key in the ignition. Bikes were just leaning against trees or fences, not a bike lock in sight. And knocking on neighbors’ doors usually resulted in a friendly holler “Come right in!” instead of the sound of a key turning in the lock.
All this helped evaporate any trace of anxiety we had had about moving across the continent into new and unfamiliar territory. This was a warm and safe environment. A few years later, when the kids started going to school, we had no hesitation about letting them walk the two blocks or so to Nixon School, holding hands and skipping along, care free and happy. We were truly home.
During our thirty or so years on the Stanford Campus a gradual process of metamorphosis occurred. It evolved into something much more like New Haven than Basel. My bike got stolen from in front of the Medical School. Keys dangling from the ignition became a thing of the past. News of occasional burglaries inspired the adoption of locking-up rituals, reminiscent of Hungary. And finally a burglar hit our house one evening, cleaning out most of our valuables. Saddest of all, the small fry in the neighborhood no longer walked to school on their own. There had been a few kidnappings in the city, so children were no longer seen on the street alone any more. We all had to rearrange our routines focusing on self-protection and security.
Eventually I retired, we had more time on our hands, and in 1999 we launched into a novel experiment, a house exchange. Letting a family move into our house and changing places with them. This was an invitation for further evolution of our relationship to a home. A physicist, his wife, and three daughters took over our house, the car, and the two black Labs, Teera and Meesu. In exchange we moved into their huge house of five bedrooms, swimming pool, and rose garden outside of Toulouse and took possession of their car, cat, and dog. Having the animals there made us feel at home right away. The view of the Pyrenees from the garden, the Ping-Pong table, and perhaps more than anything else, the fantastic food in even small, everyday bistros erased any lingering home sickness we might have had.
We drove a lot and got our fill of improbably scenic, photogenic villages perching on hilltops, medieval monasteries teetering on the edge of cliffs, eleventh century Romanesque chapels surrounded by oceans of vineyards. It all seemed like Paradise, an improbably wonderful corner of the Earth. Early in our explorations we connected with Anne, a long-lost friend, a painter who, after her divorce in Massachusetts, settled in a small village near by. She was in the midst of renovating two farm buildings into a spectacular, California style residence with acres of windows. Anne, a Francophile par excellence, turned out to be a superb information resource for us. She had encyclopedic familiarity with the Languedoc and Provence regions, and gave us reliable references to things to do and see -- museums, churches, galleries, restaurants, flee markets, etc., etc. On top of her list was for us to go see and walk around in Uzes, one of her very favorite towns not too far away.
The next sight seeing drive we planned took us to Pont du Gard for the morning, then on to Uzes in the afternoon. Pont du Gard is truly one of the wonders of the world. We were fortunate not to find a crowd and had the monument largely to ourselves. We drove on toward Uzes full of reverence and wonderment. Anne’s detailed instructions took us to the parking garage and via a short walk to the main square of the town.
As soon as we emerged from the garage I was aware of something different, something unusual in the environment. It took a few minutes before I could put my finger on it. It was the light. It was early afternoon, perfect weather, blue sky, bright sunshine. We were walking in a narrow alley between 16th century houses. But, somehow, everything looked a little different. A little more three dimensional, more plastic, if that is even possible. I remembered reading Van Gogh’s correspondence with his brother after moving to Aix-en-Provence, saying that the quality of light is different there. At the time I thought that was only artist babble, how could there be such a thing? But here I was seeing it for myself. The visual experience, in this special light, was extraordinary. It felt like we were seeing the real texture of the stone and stucco buildings for the first time. You didn’t just see, in the ordinary sense, you could almost see deeply into the substance of the stone. There was a nearly tactile component to the visual experience.
Passing a number of charming boutiques and the spectacular 12th to 16th century Duchee we finally reached the main square. Large, imposing, a medieval fountain commanding it from the middle, surrounded by cafés around its periphery. Just the thing – we thought we could use a drink. There were lots of people, without the feel of being crowded. We picked a small table, ordered an espresso and a tea, and settled into people watching mode.
There was a peaceful, happy atmosphere. Groups engaged in discussion on one side, just relaxing happily on the other. A pair of elderly ladies, dressed elegantly, one sipping Perrier, the other tasting ice cream at a table for three. The third chair occupied by a small and very well behaved dog who did not take his eyes off the ice cream bowl. The lady occasionally would let him lick her spoon before she continued to help herself. The little dog seemed content.
There were other dogs, sitting or lying under tables, quietly waiting for their masters’ next move. But after a few minutes we both started noticing and watching another phenomenon. A small boy suddenly appeared at the table of a group of adults deep in discussion. He stopped next to a young woman, apparently his mom, who was not paying attention. He just waited politely till she turned to him when he quietly asked something. She nodded and he took off like lightning. We watched him run to the center of the square, to the fountain, where one of the bigger kids gave him a boost to the lip of the fountain, too tall for the little one. Holding the hand of the bigger boy for balance, the little kid happily skipped along the edge, all around the fountain. There were several other children at the fountain. Some were playing catch, some were riding bikes, some were splashing in the water. Occasionally one or another would run to the café to consult with a parent, then would run off again.
What was new here was that none of the parents seemed the least bit concerned about the children. They did not tell them to stay close, or not to run around too far. We realized that this scenario just could not be taking place in Palo Alto or in New Haven any more. Parents would be concerned about the children’s safety and would not let them get out of sight. This city was safe. Safe! There seemed no reason to be worried about the children here – nothing was going to happen to them here! This city, where we had never been before, suddenly started feeling like home. That evening, sitting at that café, we decided that we were going to look into buying a house here. Somewhere close to our newly found home base.
Your home is your castle, goes the adage. You are safe in your home. It is a shelter. It is protection not just from attack, but also from prying eyes, from any form of invasion of your personal space. So where is home?
In my teens in Budapest we lived in an upscale residential area composed of villas in gardens. Crime was rare those days. It was perfectly safe to walk alone late in the evenings, even for girls alone. There were no shopping malls or fast food restaurants so we hung out on Margaret Island on the Danube, a large park connected to the City by bridges. Paved walkways snaked the length of the island with manicured hedges partially hiding benches every few steps. On summer evenings these benches played the role of the back seat of cars so central in the life of American teenagers. And us guys cruised on foot along these walks hoping to come across girls not yet tangled with a partner on one of the benches.
While it was quite safe to be out late, at home we were always very careful to lock the front door and any ground floor windows. Even though we never had a break-in, locking up was a sacred ritual, never questioned and never neglected. Finding the same practice later in New York and New Haven, after escaping from Hungary, suggested that this was the norm everywhere.
My brother did not want to migrate quite as far as I did and settled in Basel. We corresponded regularly, describing our new lives in minute detail. So I was completely amazed learning that he biked to the bus stop from his apartment, leaving his bike leaning against a tree, and found it waiting for him day after day on his return. Without it being locked up. Astounding. My bike was stolen from the basement of my dormitory where it had been chained to a heating pipe, leaving only a severed, heavy chain for me to keep.
Years later in New Haven, married, and after our children were born, we had an exciting and exasperating burglary experience in the middle of the night. This inspired us to install a security system and we tightened up the usual lock-up routine.
A pleasant surprise was waiting for us on arrival to Stanford in 1971. We had only one set of keys to our new house, so I asked the neighbor where I could have duplicates made, only to be met with a blank stare. “Why would you need more copies?” she asked. “We never lock our doors.”
Wow. I never imagined Palo Alto was more like Basel than New Haven. What a concept! But it was true! Walking around the neighborhood I saw that cars were parked with the windows down, often with the key in the ignition. Bikes were just leaning against trees or fences, not a bike lock in sight. And knocking on neighbors’ doors usually resulted in a friendly holler “Come right in!” instead of the sound of a key turning in the lock.
All this helped evaporate any trace of anxiety we had had about moving across the continent into new and unfamiliar territory. This was a warm and safe environment. A few years later, when the kids started going to school, we had no hesitation about letting them walk the two blocks or so to Nixon School, holding hands and skipping along, care free and happy. We were truly home.
During our thirty or so years on the Stanford Campus a gradual process of metamorphosis occurred. It evolved into something much more like New Haven than Basel. My bike got stolen from in front of the Medical School. Keys dangling from the ignition became a thing of the past. News of occasional burglaries inspired the adoption of locking-up rituals, reminiscent of Hungary. And finally a burglar hit our house one evening, cleaning out most of our valuables. Saddest of all, the small fry in the neighborhood no longer walked to school on their own. There had been a few kidnappings in the city, so children were no longer seen on the street alone any more. We all had to rearrange our routines focusing on self-protection and security.
Eventually I retired, we had more time on our hands, and in 1999 we launched into a novel experiment, a house exchange. Letting a family move into our house and changing places with them. This was an invitation for further evolution of our relationship to a home. A physicist, his wife, and three daughters took over our house, the car, and the two black Labs, Teera and Meesu. In exchange we moved into their huge house of five bedrooms, swimming pool, and rose garden outside of Toulouse and took possession of their car, cat, and dog. Having the animals there made us feel at home right away. The view of the Pyrenees from the garden, the Ping-Pong table, and perhaps more than anything else, the fantastic food in even small, everyday bistros erased any lingering home sickness we might have had.
We drove a lot and got our fill of improbably scenic, photogenic villages perching on hilltops, medieval monasteries teetering on the edge of cliffs, eleventh century Romanesque chapels surrounded by oceans of vineyards. It all seemed like Paradise, an improbably wonderful corner of the Earth. Early in our explorations we connected with Anne, a long-lost friend, a painter who, after her divorce in Massachusetts, settled in a small village near by. She was in the midst of renovating two farm buildings into a spectacular, California style residence with acres of windows. Anne, a Francophile par excellence, turned out to be a superb information resource for us. She had encyclopedic familiarity with the Languedoc and Provence regions, and gave us reliable references to things to do and see -- museums, churches, galleries, restaurants, flee markets, etc., etc. On top of her list was for us to go see and walk around in Uzes, one of her very favorite towns not too far away.
The next sight seeing drive we planned took us to Pont du Gard for the morning, then on to Uzes in the afternoon. Pont du Gard is truly one of the wonders of the world. We were fortunate not to find a crowd and had the monument largely to ourselves. We drove on toward Uzes full of reverence and wonderment. Anne’s detailed instructions took us to the parking garage and via a short walk to the main square of the town.
As soon as we emerged from the garage I was aware of something different, something unusual in the environment. It took a few minutes before I could put my finger on it. It was the light. It was early afternoon, perfect weather, blue sky, bright sunshine. We were walking in a narrow alley between 16th century houses. But, somehow, everything looked a little different. A little more three dimensional, more plastic, if that is even possible. I remembered reading Van Gogh’s correspondence with his brother after moving to Aix-en-Provence, saying that the quality of light is different there. At the time I thought that was only artist babble, how could there be such a thing? But here I was seeing it for myself. The visual experience, in this special light, was extraordinary. It felt like we were seeing the real texture of the stone and stucco buildings for the first time. You didn’t just see, in the ordinary sense, you could almost see deeply into the substance of the stone. There was a nearly tactile component to the visual experience.
Passing a number of charming boutiques and the spectacular 12th to 16th century Duchee we finally reached the main square. Large, imposing, a medieval fountain commanding it from the middle, surrounded by cafés around its periphery. Just the thing – we thought we could use a drink. There were lots of people, without the feel of being crowded. We picked a small table, ordered an espresso and a tea, and settled into people watching mode.
There was a peaceful, happy atmosphere. Groups engaged in discussion on one side, just relaxing happily on the other. A pair of elderly ladies, dressed elegantly, one sipping Perrier, the other tasting ice cream at a table for three. The third chair occupied by a small and very well behaved dog who did not take his eyes off the ice cream bowl. The lady occasionally would let him lick her spoon before she continued to help herself. The little dog seemed content.
There were other dogs, sitting or lying under tables, quietly waiting for their masters’ next move. But after a few minutes we both started noticing and watching another phenomenon. A small boy suddenly appeared at the table of a group of adults deep in discussion. He stopped next to a young woman, apparently his mom, who was not paying attention. He just waited politely till she turned to him when he quietly asked something. She nodded and he took off like lightning. We watched him run to the center of the square, to the fountain, where one of the bigger kids gave him a boost to the lip of the fountain, too tall for the little one. Holding the hand of the bigger boy for balance, the little kid happily skipped along the edge, all around the fountain. There were several other children at the fountain. Some were playing catch, some were riding bikes, some were splashing in the water. Occasionally one or another would run to the café to consult with a parent, then would run off again.
What was new here was that none of the parents seemed the least bit concerned about the children. They did not tell them to stay close, or not to run around too far. We realized that this scenario just could not be taking place in Palo Alto or in New Haven any more. Parents would be concerned about the children’s safety and would not let them get out of sight. This city was safe. Safe! There seemed no reason to be worried about the children here – nothing was going to happen to them here! This city, where we had never been before, suddenly started feeling like home. That evening, sitting at that café, we decided that we were going to look into buying a house here. Somewhere close to our newly found home base.