On Leaving Capitol Hill

I haven’t lived anywhere but the Hill since moving to Seattle. I have always been walking distance from Broadway, at the most, about a mile, at the least, one block. I found my Seattle home here. I have not lived anywhere this long in my entire life. Not in my geographically tumultuous childhood or as an adult. In spite of the fact that I’ve had a bunch of different addresses here, Capitol Hill has been the only place that has ever really been “Home.”

Each apartment I lived in was no more than a mile from the previous one. I had a teeny shoebox of a place on Harvard managed by a man with a spectacular head of gray hair and a fascistic aversion to noise in the stairwell. I had a cute little courtyard studio on 10th where we climbed up on the roof to watch fireworks on the forth of July. I shared a swell low slung duplex on Olive with my best pal until the guy who we rented it from from returned from his travels, ruining everything by throwing us out. I veered to the outer edge of the hill when I lived in a sunny studio on Union, but I was still only a block from Broadway, so it was hardly “off the hill.” And finally, I bought the place I’m in now, up by Volunteer Park. What I’m saying is this: Capitol Hill is where I have, in Seattle , always lived.

I used to joke with our neighbors about never leaving the hill. Why would I? Everything we needed, groceries, hardware, dentists, parks, ethnic restaurants, discos, second hand stores, bars, everything, was no more than a 10 minute walk away. There was no need for a car, no need to go anywhere. North of the Montlake Cut? Sea monsters. Ballard? Like crossing the Atlantic by cargo ship to get there. With the occasional expedition into downtown or maybe Discovery Park when I was feeling beachy, I’ve been quite provincial for a city dweller.

And I’ve been supremely content. I’ve loved living walking distance to my neighbors. I’ve loved the “We’re making breakfast, come on down!” calls. I’ve loved the sheer convenience of Capitol Hill and my current neighborhood, by the park, is quiet and pretty with big trees and grand old homes.

But in the time I’ve lived here, things have changed. I’ve watched as the remaining small single family homes get purchased, torn down, and turned into “six townhomes with luxury appointments.” I’ve watched the apartment buildings go condo, renters displaced as their formerly affordable units get sold off “with studios starting at 200k!” There was an African American family in the house behind me – I used to wave at the parents from my kitchen window as they walked home in the morning after their night shifts at the hospital. They’re gone now and instead, I look out the window at the back of the renovated house where the new owners keep their boat. Parking has become increasingly difficult because as old neighbors move out, new neighbors move in with more cars – and bigger cars – too big for their little detached garages. Civil servants are replaced with lawyers, retail workers with Big Pharma managers, nurses with Microsoft evangelists, artists and writers with, well, we’ll see, I’ll let you know.

“Neighborhoods change,” says a friend of mine, philosophical and sad. He’s just returned to the Hill after living away for the last few years and I’m sure he’s disappointed that just as he’s getting settled in to his rental apartment, in a house that’s sure to be torn down and sold to developers in the next few years, his people are moving away.

He tells me that we are in the most expensive zip code in the city.* That explains why I’ve been unable to find what I want here: a little cottage house with suitable workshop space for painting. This seems not much to ask, but neighbors recently sold their tiny two bedroom cottage around the corner for 440k, well above what I can afford. Look at that number again. 440k for a 900 square foot cottage.

As I’ve told people about my upcoming move, I’m learning that I’m part of an odd sort of urban flight. I’m in the company of folks who really don’t want all that much – a modest house with a patch of yard – but can not bring themselves to pay half a million dollars or more to get it – if they can find even that. A friend who I consider to be quite well off told me how she and her husband were starting to question the wisdom of paying So Much Money on a mortgage.

Oh, it’s all a rambling mess of feelings and ideas all tied together. Maybe it’s not possible for a neighborhood to gentrify itself too much, there is always someone richer than you willing to take your place. Maybe I’m going to go make my next neighborhood unaffordable by the sheer fact of my moving there. Maybe it’s just a cycle and in another seven years, I can move back to the Hill. Maybe.

Barring unforeseen obstacles, I’m moving. That’s what I meant to say. I never thought I would leave Capitol Hill, but I am. See you in West Seattle.

* Note that I’m just quoting “some guy I know” not a reliable source. If you have a reliable source, link in the comments, please.
[tags]Seattle real estate[/tags]