I love my alley. My alley smells like Indian food and incense. Not always (it is an alley) but frequently enough. More in the summer.







Year-round, at all times of the day I can hear people checking the garbage and recycle bins: the periodic thump of the lids dropping back into place after they've been opened and peered into.



One of the trashier bars/clubs is two blocks away, and I can usually tell when it's around closing time. That's when the drunks are swearing (loudly) or arguing (loudly) or singing (loudly) or, once, being chased by a cop yelling "Get on the ground!" (that final thing I missed entirely because I was in the bathroom and jealously heard about it from my friend).






This shop is perhaps the source of the incense smell. Either that or the Indian restaurant.






So. It's been good, alleyway apartment. You've taught me the merits of slapping down an application and a deposit for a place I've never seen, and though the sentiment is probably somewhat misplaced, I feel more prepared to live in a big city having lived here.