(Written just before the 2020 pandemic changed life as we knew it.)
Sunland-Tujunga, CA — I walked down a stretch of Foothill Boulevard in La Crescenta yesterday that I have driven through countless times over the years. A tire service, a coffee place and a fast food restaurant were open, not much else. It was Saturday, and early.
I was reminded how different an experience walking by sidewalk shops is, as opposed to speeding by in a car. Although some of the establishments have changed façades and owners since I moved up here in 1983 from Santa Monica by way of Hollywood, most of the same buildings are still here. Still, I felt like I was seeing them for the first time.
I’m a native Angeleno (westside), but I’ve been living in Montana for 13 years now; I come back frequently for visits, so I’m not a stranger. While this whole area — the eastern edge of the San Fernando Valley — never really did feel like home, it’s deeply familiar. I raised a family, lived and worked here. Foothill is its main artery, a daily, inescapable fact of life. Unless you go “down the hill” into the City of Glendale proper, Foothill is where you shop for anything you could possibly need.
On this particular segment, there are no big box stores with huge parking lots. There aren’t many mini-strip malls. Most of the streetscape is an eclectic mix of stores, offices, and casual fast-food dining establishments representing a wide variety of ethnic cuisines.
It was a strange sensation to be a pedestrian on the boulevard, seeing cracks in the sidewalk, planters carefully tended and some that weren’t, and window displays up close. I noticed the street-side businesses had unique personalities. I’m not equating “unique” with “charming,” but I clearly discerned various, distinctly human touches in architecture, color, signage, landscaping, and types of business.
It hit me that these places would be found through advertisements, word of mouth referrals, and Google, not foot traffic. Not even on a weekday. Foot traffic is not a thing here, meaning what’s missing is the ability to casually discover and engage with proprietors and employees of the many small businesses hiding in plain sight — limiting the likely occurrence of fortuitous unplanned human-scale connection and commerce.
A long time ago I read a short book that has stuck with me, “Outside Lies Truth,” by John Stilgoe. I was the editor of a trade magazine at the time. The publisher prohibited the staff from personally keeping any of the review editions of books we received. But I claimed dibs on reading this one, probably because 1) it looked like an exceedingly light read (I was wrong); and 2) I could not make logical or grammatical sense of the title. I thought it might have something to do with false perceptions, outliers that countered conventional norms, and perhaps magic (metaphorically speaking). Since I was a kid reading Edward Eager and E.B. Nesbitt, I’ve never stopped being on the lookout for everyday magic.
As it turned out, “Lies” is used as a verb. “Outside” really does mean “outside” as in “outdoors,” and that is where, if we pay attention, we can see the “Magic” that powers and shapes our urban built environment behind the scenes. The book was an eye opener (pun intended).
Back in the early sixties, big box stores weren’t a thing yet, except for K-Mart, which was starting to emerge coast to coast. I grew up in the pre-mall era in Charlotte. There, as elsewhere, we had local and national department stores, and thriving commercial districts with plenty of small neighborhood businesses. The streets in these areas were meant to be walked, even if you had to drive a bit of a distance to get to them.
The new K-Mart was way out on the edge of town though, far from any other development. It was a destination with a huge parking lot, designed for one-stop shopping: you’d drive there; quickly choose what you needed at great prices from a selection of merchandise curated by a remote corporation; move through a checkout line; grab a hot dog and soda if you were hungry; and drive back home. It was a shopping experience neatly packaged and sanitized, prioritized for the convenience of the busy modern family. No time to stop and visit, or wander longingly by colorful window displays. No time to get to know anyone. The time we did have, we used for driving, and then traipsing through the aisles of far-flung departments. Even though social interaction was truncated, the experience was still time-consuming — and was tiring instead of energizing.
The Foothill Boulevard streetscape I’ve described isn’t uncommon. It’s the same as many across the L.A. area and the whole country. Billings, Montana for example, is a particularly egregious example of a grid built on a commerce model not designed for pedestrians. In small-town Eastern Montana where I live, 90 miles from the city, the relatively close-knit population fosters other opportunities for social interaction. It’s hard to be anonymous here, and neighbors helping neighbors is how we all survive.
Many cities are now paying attention to walkability, and there are also still pockets of quaint village-style shopping areas that have retained (or tried to re-create) a semblance of vintage character. The internet of course has changed the whole scene dramatically. You could argue that shopping is at best shallow as a life-choice and that we should aspire to other more lofty pursuits to sustain life on our planet, but trade has been one of the principal avenues for social connection throughout history. Without it, the world as we know it stops.
Quite by accident on my walk, I found an office for lease that may meet the criteria for an associate who recently requested my help in locating a suitable space. Had I not been on foot, I would have missed it. That was the “Aha!” moment that triggered these musings.
I’ve ordered a copy of Stilgoe’s book (Outside Lies Magic: Regaining History and Awareness in Everyday Places, 1999), and I’m anxious to re-read it. I’ll report back in due time.
— Adele
Adele Field is a writer and editor based in rural eastern Montana.