While running a loop from our apartment to and around the Silver Lake reservoir, I noticed the above sign affixed to the awning outside a small shop on Silver Lake Blvd just south of Effie.
You know your neighborhood has been gentrified–and likely overrun with hipsters–when the smattering of coffee houses, restaurants and independently owned shops have been dubbed a “village”.
But if you’re honest with yourself, you probably already knew this a decade earlier when the family-owned Italian restaurant couldn’t afford to renew their lease and the funky ‘zine stand run by one of the neighbors in your rent-controlled apartment building went out of business. And then there was the bakery with the charming mismatched and hand-painted chairs and tables that had to move out to the low-rent suburbs; one of those informal breakfast spots in which you walk past the kitchen to get to the restroom situated between cartons of coffee and bags of flour.
I don’t begrudge the new merchants their day in the sun. It’s just that I miss Michelangelo’s–where my husband and I treated our parents to dinner after our wedding ceremony on the rooftop of the Beverly Hills courthouse–being walking distance from our apartment. I miss the thoughtful selection of journals and hand-made poetry books offered at ‘Zine-orama. I miss saying hello to the Backdoor Bakery pastry chef who made the tastiest almond croissants for miles around. I suppose I just find it ironic that a place that has been dubbed a “village” is far less village-like than it was before it was given that moniker.