I grew up on a street of single family, single level tract houses... each centered on its own green lot...the exterior design and floor plan of every third house oddly identical save for a variation in paint color. The rooftops lined up like a horizon line of rocky tar paper interrupted occasionally by the bushy purple head of a Jacaranda tree that dared to grow taller than the others along our street. In terms of architecture, my neighborhood was a study in suburban boredom... a row of yawn-worthy, stumpy abodes except for one house that belonged to my friend Becky. Her house had a second story addition... one room accessed by a set of narrow, shag-carpeted stairs... in my tiny dust-speck of a world Becky's house was a mansion which is why, years later, I still insist that my future home be high above the ground with plenty of stairs...minus the shag-carpet.
Via all the mountains.