Tucson is like a gritty gust of wind. It’s an outdoor paradise; homes and businesses, campus buildings, everywhere there’s an integration of indoor and outdoor living spaces. Elements of the outside inside, of course, but so much from the insides of houses outside them. Most perplexingly (as a Michigander by birth), washing machines and dryers outside against the house. But also luxuries like outdoor showers, hammocks, ovens and even full kitchens… (It’s one of my favorite things about this city.)
Up on the summit of the hill behind my place someone’s put a bench perfect for taking in the sunset against the Catalinas, and then someone else came along and added the usual graffito about revolution (maybe I’ve just spent too much time between Tucson and Ann Arbor, but it’s run-of-the-mill everywhere—not without reason, of course). But then someone else came along and added bonus life advice, or else they were bragging? Hard to say.
On one of the paths up to that summit a few days later I walked over this magnificent mess of graffiti. Warning: ‘mature language’ ahead!
That tiny sharpie advice is actually decent. Sucks that people are scrawling all over the rocks in a nature park, but that’s kids, I guess?
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