Hamilton has a multiple personality disorder. I can go on and on about the little pockets of loveliness that can be found here and there. You can walk among looming trees, on quaint streets lined with centuries old estates. Take an afternoon to stroll the clique that has become James St. North and you'll soon wish there was an American Apparel to don yourself in hipster-esque clothing. Climb a set of stairs to the second floor Pure on Locke Street and forget all your troubles behind.
But man, are there troubles about. This is not a walkable city. Too many parking lots and long stretches of road with abandoned buildings in disrepair. Cars drive too fast and worry about other cars, not pedestrians. No inner city parks. Watch out for fucking motorized scooters, they own the place. Watch your step for phlegm on the sidewalk. Listen to a family argue over whether the dad can go to the "rippers" so he can "sink his teeth into some ass" while their child swings at the playground. It's pretty easy to feel disenchanted with the place that you so fondly called home.
Luckily, one sunny afternoon, we escaped to one of the aforementioned little pockets, a place near and dear to me, a mansion called Whitehern. My Mom had planned a March Break itinerary for the girls, which included a Wizard of Oz themed afternoon there. We toured the house looking for ruby slippers, ran through the gardens while following the yellow brick road, and made scarecrows in the old stable house.
But man, are there troubles about. This is not a walkable city. Too many parking lots and long stretches of road with abandoned buildings in disrepair. Cars drive too fast and worry about other cars, not pedestrians. No inner city parks. Watch out for fucking motorized scooters, they own the place. Watch your step for phlegm on the sidewalk. Listen to a family argue over whether the dad can go to the "rippers" so he can "sink his teeth into some ass" while their child swings at the playground. It's pretty easy to feel disenchanted with the place that you so fondly called home.
Luckily, one sunny afternoon, we escaped to one of the aforementioned little pockets, a place near and dear to me, a mansion called Whitehern. My Mom had planned a March Break itinerary for the girls, which included a Wizard of Oz themed afternoon there. We toured the house looking for ruby slippers, ran through the gardens while following the yellow brick road, and made scarecrows in the old stable house.
The creepiest Tin Man ever.
A nice view from inside the gardens.
Gold tinted windows.
A canning table!
Today we're off to the market and library, in search of cheese and a restored opinion of the potential for this city to be great. God help me if I get run over by a scooter.
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