Four Texas couples who’d been best friends for decades built their own neighborhood so they could live next door to each other forever. They have four tiny houses all in a row, plus a larger community cabin with a full kitchen where they can all hang out together.
They haven’t been able to escape their lives and permanently move in yet, but they plan to retire there. When the owners aren’t visiting, ‘Bestie Row’ is rented out to travelers.
Later, I learned that the Santa Monica Police Department had dispatched 19 officers after one of my neighbors reported a burglary at my apartment. It didn’t matter that I told the cops I’d lived there for seven months, told them about the locksmith, offered to show a receipt for his services and my ID. It didn’t matter that I went to Duke, that I have an MBA from Dartmouth, that I’m a vice president of strategy at a multinational corporation. It didn’t matter that I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket. It didn’t matter that I calmly, continually asked them what was happening. It also didn’t matter that I didn’t match the description of the person they were looking for — my neighbor described me as Hispanic when he called 911. What mattered was that I was a woman of color trying to get into her apartment — in an almost entirely white apartment complex in a mostly white city — and a white man who lived in another building called the cops because he’d never seen me before.
This is an amazing story. Probably not a particularly rare one, but told with a riveting voice.