I love living on upper Queen Anne.

Look, I know it’s not as hip as Capitol Hill, or as happenin’ as Belltown. But that’s why I live here. When I first moved to Seattle from New York City, I needed the noise, the grime, the tightly packed apartment buildings of those beloved neighborhoods. And I still spend time in them both. I just don’t live there anymore. Now, I enjoy the quiet, the neatly kept homes, the large lawns of my spacious neighborhood. And even though there is a Queen Anne neighborhoodie, no one can wear it without a sense of irony. This place is just too middle class and middle aged to be cool.

But like I said, I like it that way. I’m both those middle ways now. And there’s something deeply satisfying about living in a place that feels like a sleeppy little village, instead of an urban center. I live off the beaten path of Queen Anne, six blocks away from the Avenue. Mine is the only corner with businesses in west Queen Anne. And it’s so darned convenient.

It’s 9:30 at night, and I’ve decided to make homemade hummus. Of course. But I’m out of lemons. And I’m sure that I’m going to want polenta pancakes in the morning, and I’m fresh out of cornmeal. What am I going to do? I don’t really have the energy to drive to a supermarket, and there’s something terribly lonely about a Safeway at night. Well, I just walk across the street to Ken’s Market, one of the few local, independently owned stores in Seattle. It’s small, but packed with juicy goodness. They have a spot of fresh produce, a small deli with lemon-pepper chicken and fresh salmon, and an impressive little wine section. Plus, I can buy contact solution, a baking pan, a loofah pad, and Fran’s grey-salt caramels, if I want. And believe me, that has sometimes been one shopping trip for me. They also rent dvds and have fresh flowers at the front. Best of all, I know all the checkers, who are always smiling. There’s something deeply satisfying about buying food from people who have talked with you ten times before. We’ve lost that, in this culture. That repeated human contact.

Plus, down the street is Macrina Bakery. Everyone knows my name there. I have whiled away more hours of writing and eating buttermilk biscuits there than I care to remember. Of course, now that I can no longer eat gluten, most of the delectable treats there are forbidden. But I can still have soy chai lattes there, and I do. And I can still take my friends. And my friend from France insists that Macrina’s apple tartelettes are the best pastry she has eaten in the US. I believe her.

Across the street is PW Kerr’s, an eclectic little decorating and luxury doo-dads store. The owner has impeccable taste, and I often feel mesmerized by the shiny objects, forcing me to leave the store with my wallet lightened and my neck glimmering with a new necklace.

Just down the street from that place is the fabulous Malena’s Tacos, super cheap and oh-my-god good. When I first moved into the neighborhood, I would wander down there for fish tacos or a side of guacamole nearly every other night. I restrain myself now, but some evenings the allure is just too strong. Fifteen minutes and less than $15 later, I have enough food to satisfy me that night and the next. A friend of mine who lived in New Mexico for years insisted that Malena’s has the best chile relleno he has ever eaten. I believe him.

And there is a yoga studio, several beauty salons, an art gallery, a mediocre nail place, a sailboat design firm (?) and more. All within one block.

Yesterday morning, I was walking around, gathering baubles and food at all of my neighborhood stores. Bicyclists waved. The woman at the counter in Macrina asked how I was. The sun was shining and everyone seemed happy. Granted, it was the morning of my birthday, so maybe I was exuding an energy that made the world respond as though I had Disney-animated bluebirds on my shoulder. But I don’t think so. That’s just the beauty of living in this sleepy little neighborhood.