Dear New York/New Jersey, ... Love, Colorado

The umpteenth edition of "how things are different here."

(1) I'm walking through downtown to my eye doctor's for an appointment and I glance over at a man who has come out of his house to get the mail from the box. He sees me glance his way, beams, and calls out, "You have to come up here and meet my granddaughter." In his arms is a six-week-old infant. He proudly shows her off, explains to me about the hip dislocation she suffered at birth but how they're treating it with a brace and that she's going to be fine, gets choked up as he starts to tell me that he almost lost his own wife and daughter (this baby's mother) when his daughter was born, shares with me how the parents chose the baby's name, introduces himself, asks my name, then wishes me a nice day as I go on my way.

It's not that New Yorkers aren't equally friendly to strangers (plenty are)--it's just that they'd never assume you had that much free time.

(2) I'm volunteering at the local public radio station, answering calls for the winter pledge drive. There are only half a dozen calls during my weekend afternoon shift, so I'm spending the time getting to know the DJs and CC prof volunteering with me, while trying to decide whether I should switch over the full amount of our family's annual pledge from Philly's WHYY to our new local station, or whether we should split the pledge between the two stations. On the one hand, KRCC is the only public radio for hundreds of miles in some directions and I think that's critical, but on the other hand, WHYY produces "Fresh Air" and other big, nationally syndicated shows that I value.

Anyway, Tom and the girls eventually come to pick me up. At that moment the station manager is passing through the living room area (the station is in a converted Victorian house that still feels more house-like than broadcasting-studio-like), and she asks if the girls have been in the booth yet. No? Why not? She takes us upstairs, where we walk right into the room from which they broadcast. They're not on air at the moment--an afternoon show is playing--but when they cut back to the station, the guys at the mikes introduce Edith and Alice (and me and Tom) by name to everyone listening to public radio in southern Colorado and northern New Mexico, asks whether we've sampled the cake in the kitchen yet, and talks about which shows we like. Then the station manager shows the girls the rest of the station, wins Edith's confidence with a story about the birds in the window-unit a/c who sing to the radio, and gives the kids each a toy fish.

I leave having matched my WHYY pledge with an equal one to KRCC.

(3) This one is especially for our Hoboken friends--though those in Chapel Hill or Cambridge or probably even Madison won't find it irrelevant. It's how I know I'm getting soft.

Imagine a college campus located downtown in the center of a large city, where at any time of day there is ample, free, legal parking for anyone along residential streets around the campus (streets about the width of Fifth Avenue but with no lanes, because they don't have much traffic). I've never had to go further than a block from my office to find plenty of spots along the curb.

Then imagine feeling guilty that you're parking in these spots, because you've heard that the local residents dislike having cars in front of their houses that don't belong to them. It's not that the cars take residents' spots--many residents have driveways, and there is plenty of room for everyone--but residents just would prefer that the aesthetic of the neighborhood (a downtown neighborhood, adjacent to the central business district in a city of half a million, mind you) not be marred by, well, strangers' cars. And so you feel bad parking there every day.

But not bad enough to pay $300 to park in a campus lot. Yet.