Little Italy, San Diego

I love my neighborhood. We lived in the burbs for 13 years, in a fabulous home with many fond memories, but not much interaction with our neighbors. Actually, there were a few neighbors where that was a good thing.

Little Italy is a completely different enclave. I can walk to work and say Good Morning to half a dozen people before I reach the end of my two block journey. I feel completely connected to the community, and am invested in it.

Sure, it’s noisy. The trains hooting at god awful times in the early am, the gigantic 18 wheeler that brings a box of crullers to the corner coffee shop at 6:00am, the maintenance crew cleaning the sidewalks with a power cleaner, but somehow I’ve grown impervious to it. Hey, urban living is not for the faint of heart!

Little Italy is however, very quiet on Sundays. It’s a Catholic neighborhood you see.

It’s a wonderful thing to walk downstairs and have a lovely, long, lazy lunch with your friends at the fine bistro immediately below your condo. Watch the folks go by, say Hi to friends and acquaintances. Feel the warmth of the sun on your face, and the mellow contentment of the wine in your heart.

Life is very good in Little Italy.

There is vitality to this neighborhood that I’d wager you won’t find anywhere else in San Diego. And what a cast of characters: the old lady with the horrendous feet who sleeps all day at Piazza Natale, the guys in front of Pete’s Meats checkin’ out the girls all day long , the homeless guy with the trigger finger constantly walking, walking, walking. The 944 girls grabbing a decafsoytripleshot cappuccino at Café Italia; the ladies in the red hats, toodling behind Anthony Davi’s Little Italy tour, the tourists.

Did you know the restaurateurs know it’s going to be a good night when there’s a line out of Filipi’s Pizza Grotto.

Maybe tonight La and I will have a glass of wine at the Piazza Basilone and watch the sunset across the bay.

Life is grand.