Department of Estastic Gushing: My new neighborhood rocks

So this note is all about me. I promise to not do a lot of these all happy entries. In fact, I promise to keep myself to no more than one a month. So, here it is:
We’ve moved (back) to San Jose, California, to an area called Naglee Park that is a historic area developed starting in 1902, 20 years after his death, on the former estate of Brig. General Henry Morris Naglee, a Civil War veteran and California pioneer. (Interestingly enough, the General’s two daughters were the prime developers). Turns out this was the last big plot of land near the center of the city, so plots went fast–to university professors, but also to doctors, lawyers, and ” fruit men”–business people who wanted to be near downtown (sounds like today, huh?) and be near their orchards.
The houses are California craftsmen bungalows, Victorian gingerbread two stories, and half stone/half timber Robinson Jeffers wild houses that defy description. Many have abundant gardens, with brilliant red poppies, orange marigolds, blue flax, pink clematis and jacaranda, and large cypress and eucalyptus trees.
There street has many small children on it; including Marigold, a little blonde two-year old who pedals her pink trike furiously up and down the block as her 45 year olf blonde-going to grey grandma stands watch, and Prima, all of four, whose daily dress is pink tights, black leotard and a sparkly purple necklace. Each house has a (barking) dog, often of the Retriever/Laborador/Boxer persuasion, and most of them also have station wagons or SUVs parked out front next to the husband’s really good car: an Infiniti, Saab convertible, or BMW, the California state car.
When I tell people I just moved back from New York, they inevitably smile widely and say,”That’s great! Well, welcome back!” in this friendly way that only Californians have (and maybe only in this over-grown cow town I’ve chosen to move back to). The garbage-man half-hugged me today when I handed over my flattened cardboard boxes from the move (of course, I’d just slipped him $10, so that may have had something to do with it.). “You know there’s a good concert at lunch today in the park downtown,” he said, “And it’s free–you should go enjoy it!”
Gush, gush, gush…it’s not that it’s so perfect here, it is just so different that NYC..and probably fairly different than San Francisco. (End of perfunctory apology)
Postscript: Spencer’s cross-country road trip started last Friday am and he’s now West of Albequerque heading for Reno. After almost a week on the road, he’s become a pro, as has the dog, who sits in the backseat, but who likes to lay his head on the gear shift between the two front seats so as to get maximum benefit from the (turned on high) air-conditioning, their only barrier against the steady 100-degree heat outside.
PPS: Just do you don’t think I am all Pollyanna, I do have something to complain about–while this neighborhood is amazingly pretty and historic, it seems bereft of services–you can’t get Pizza delivered, there are no decent supermarkets within 2 miles, and the one Whole Foods is the one I used to go to down in Campbell, about 8 miles away. You have to drive across the downtown to get to my old neighborhood, the Rose Garden, and the highways that encircle the area, 101 and 280, don’t really offer any shortcuts through the core of the town. That is going to get old fast; I drove a good 20 miles today doing nothing but meaningless errands.