Alabama St, 2012. I walk by this purple house sometimes just to make sure it’s still there. Gotta be vigilant, lest all the crayon box victorians and edwardians get painted respectable shades of slate, taupe, or dove right under my nose. This one reminds me of brand new doll hair, an icee, the cover of a Baby-Sitters Club paperback. Walking among them just makes me feel better, like a sidewalk gallery with all these signs of life spilling out the warped old double-hung windows. That isn’t where Ian and Lauren lived - they were at 1010 1/2 Alabama, up a tunnel of stairs, where they crammed as many books and plants and unwieldy art into their living area as I’ve ever seen. Ian used to hang out the kitchen window to smoke sometimes, sitting on the sill like a saddle, his foot dangling into the light well. I loved the smell of that apartment - this inherent city mustiness overlaid with Lauren’s perfumes. It smelled like a very seductive hospitality, very beguiling, like they had been there forever. But even if you are from the Bay, when you leave, you are a transplant when you come back... and as quickly as they came, they were gone again.