City Upon a Hill. Come Worship.

My friend called last night, suggesting that we do some shopping and maybe grab a bite to eat.

Shopping? Eating? I'm game.

The only thing I wasn't looking forward to was what I suspected would be her proposed venue for our rendez-vous. Since the Chestnut Hill Mall is located about halfway between us, I kind of knew she was going to throw it out there. Keep in mind, she's a very flexible person. If I told her that I abhor this place and more specifically, the people who frequent it, I'm sure she would easily have agreed to meet me elsewhere. But I couldn't think of anywhere else, and I wasn't feeling like taking the T all over creation, so I agreed to meet here there.

I know I have ranted about "Cambridge People" and "Brookline People" in the past. Let me just say, though, that after you've been exposed to "Chestnut Hill People", those other species look like harmless houseflies.

In Cambridge, where I'm clearly an outsider because I don't have a toddler suckling at my breast in public at all times, at least people will deign to speak to me. They might even hold a door open for me or say "thanks" if I do the same for them. Cambridge people like to be seen as non-judgmental and tolerant of lower life forms such as myself. Even though they are really practicing their humanitarian awards acceptance speeches in their heads when they let me get in line ahead of them at Whole Foods because I only have two apples (which sets me back roughly one month's salary), and they have four shopping carts of tofu, I don't mind. They aren't really looking to help me out, but rather they want their neighbors in the "Fromagerie" to see their act of kindness and bring it up at the next book club meeting. (Think Angelina Jolie traveling to the lowest pits of humanity with a full camera crew and makeup and wardrobe team in tow. Even though she's boosting her own image, and she'll eventually return to her 17 million dollar chateau in France, she's still done something kind for people who have far less than she).


Brookline people don't really care whether they appear to have any humanitarian tendencies. They slam doors in the faces of lowlifes like me. They stare blankly when I greet them. They seem not to be able to register the sound frequencies of the voice pitch of my species. They throw frequent temper tantrums about the 1/4 inch of foam in their latte, as opposed to the 1/5 inch they requested of the barista at Starbucks. Apparently in order to be a barista in a Brookline Starbucks location, one need's PhD in thermo-nuclear physics from MIT. The one thing that manages to salvage Brookline, in my book, is that there are still a few areas of town where people are keepin' it real. There are a couple of grimy spots. Plus the place is constantly infiltrated by Brighton and Alston dwellers, so they get that reality check. So although Brookline people are pretty frightening, and they have no inclination to demonstrate good will to their fellow man, I can still somewhat handle being there. Granted, I usually plan my route through Brookline very carefully so as to minimize my time there. I get in and out of the places I need to go and then retreat to Brighton as soon as I can.

Chestnut Hill is a whole other ball of wax, kids. If you do not personally have the purchasing power of a small, wealthy, Western European nation, you have no business here and your existence will simply not be acknowledged. Well, let me clarify that one. Nobody acknowledges each other's existence in Chestnut Hill. For to do so would be to admit that you are not alone in the world, and that there might be times when, gasp, other people might actually be entitled to do or get something before you. I don't think the people of Chestnut Hill have grasped that concept because it would be too earth-shattering of a reality check. If you venture to Chestnut Hill, you will be bumped aside, crashed into, cut in lines, stepped on, and bowled over. I guarantee that all of the above will happen.

The Chestnut Hill Mall is located on Route 9. I'm still terrified to drive on Route 9. Usually, on Sunday mornings, when I got to the gym in CH, I just walk there. Last night, I decided to walk to the mall.

What I kind of failed to take into account is that it is one thing to walk somewhere in the full daylight hours of a Sunday morning when nobody is around (And I really no mean nobody is around. It's not the CH version of "nobody around" when there really are a lot of other people, but you just don't see past your own nose to realize they're there), and another thing entirely to walk down a highway in the pitch black on a Saturday evening. Granted it was only 5:30 PM, but it might as well have been the dead still of the night.

There are sidewalks, but the side streets leading up to Route 9 were so poorly lit that I admittedly bumped into a few of the 15 feet stone walls that buttress the properties to keep slobs like me away. Then of course motion sensors activate lights and dogs start barking. God forbid a 36 year old middle school teacher walk down the street and accidentally make contact with your stone wall. They'll be sending the contamination crews out there today to delouse the areas of the fence where I had the temerity to make bodily contact.

When I got to Route 9, where there are also, thankfully, sidewalks, I was still kind of terrified. Yes, there are sidewalks, and yes, in other parts of the world that would signal to drivers that they should cede that space to pedestrians. But this is Chestnut Hill and damn it, if somebody wants to drive their BMW 7 series over a sidewalk, well, they just will.



I kept thinking that if I am going to meet my death on a sidewalk, it might as well be on the underside of a luxury automobile. Then again, in Chestnut Hill, a BMW 7 series is somebody's idea of a beater. They were probably driving so damn fast because they wanted to get home to their mansions and house these embarrassing vehicles in their bigger-than-my-condo garages before anybody in a Mybach could see them.

Whatever.

Then I realized that while a lot of the world is really geared more toward drivers than pedestrians, Chestnut Hill would prefer to think that pedestrians don't even exist. Why would anybody need to walk anywhere when they can take their Lexus?

Or maybe they just don't have street lights because it would only make the residents of Chestnut Hill uncomfortable to have to look upon any lowly creature who doesn't have the means to go get a new Rolls Royce for every day of the week, and is rather doomed to walking. Dude, even the #60 bus went by with the lights out! The headlights were on, but the inside of the bus was totally blackened. I could only see the outlines of the house servants, maids, and pool cleaners riding the bus. These folks can't even show their faces. Silhouettes only, please, domestic helpers. Thanks! I don't know who is more pathetic in the eyes of CH people, bus riders or walkers? Oh well, I've been both, so I'm an all around sad sack.

Whatever.

I get to the mall. Bloomingdales? No thanks. I did go into a couple of stores, but I didn't really find anything I liked until I got to Sephora. I found a little something for 9 bucks. I figured I'd pick it up. I was surprised at how long the line was. I hunkered down to wait. There was one general line feeding into the two open registers.



I realized that what was holding up the line was that as the cashiers were ringing up sales, the customers purchasing the items were going into neurotic rants about the items they had chosen AND customers who were shopping on the sales floor kept approaching the registers, asking questions of the cashiers. The cashiers in most stores in most parts of the world would likely explain to such intrusive customers, "Sorry, I'm with a customer here at the register. There are sales people on the floor whould would be happy to help."

But in Chestnut Hill, that doesn't work. As I've already said, each person in Chestnut Hill is the only person in the world. So, the woman who comes to the cashier (*) to ask a question cannot see that the cashier is with another customer, because that other customer simply doesn't exist in her world.

(*) The cashier and other service personnel do exist in Chestnut Hill. Why? Because they are there to wait on people. Amazingly, they have the ability to be seen by all CH residents, although I bet they'd be quite happy to be in possession of a CH invisibility cloak. (I bet JK Rowling got the invisibility cloak idea when she visited Chestnut Hill and realized that nobody could see her!)

Anyway, the cashiers have obviously learned that it is of no use to try to thwart these customers' interruptions, so now they are not only ringing up customers in the line, but they are fielding detailed, CH-neurotic questions about the entire store inventory.

Just as the cashier was finished ringing up the sale in front of me, and turned to me in greeting, some typical Chestnut Hill overly-wealthy, deeply dissatisfied matron lept in front of me, barrel-assed to the open register, and called over her shoulder, "I'm in a real rush here." The saleswoman looked at me, clearly distressed, and I encouraged her to wait on this asshole. What can you do? Anywhere else in the world, I may have stood my ground. But this isn't anywhere else in the world. This is Chestnut Hill. And like the wildlife conservationists always say, when you enter a creature's natural habitat, you need to respect their way of life. Such is the case with Chestnut Hill, I know. I went there willingly. It's like your passport. Read the State Department notification inside. Even though you have an American passport, when you travel to other countries, you are willingly subjecting yourself to the laws of that land.

I will say, though, that maybe there's hope for CH people. As I think of the woman cutting me yesterday, I'm encouraged that she thought to actually yell back at me, "I'm in a rush here." Granted, she did not ask if she could cut me. She did no apologize. She did not thank me when I allowed her to cut. But she must have at least seen me there. That's progress. Maybe she was born elsewhere and has moved to CH, and thus has some primal memories of a time when there were other people in her world.

Who knows?

All I know is that I was happy as a clam to get the hell out of there last night.

I do not belong in Chestnut Hill.

I do not expect people to grovel at my feet...



I dot not have money to burn....




And more importantly, I don't want to belong there.

See ya in Brighton!