The grandmother riding the Razer scooter — going the wrong way — down Brattle Avenue.
The sign in the women’s restroom at Darwin’s Café: “The toilet’s a bit wonky when you sit down. Ladies (or whoever you are), please sit carefully.”
The Cardullo’s Red Sox Chair Club in full swing — gathered on the sidewalk in front of the cafe, watching the game through the window on the large-screen TV.
Rastafarian school crossing guards.
Two Bob Slater’s Stationer stores within the span of six blocks. (School- and art-supply store nerds unite!)
Buskers who play the accordion.
Sunday nights when people put their trash out, including boxes upon boxes of books — textbooks, travel books, Michener books, Pulitzer-prize winning books, Spanish/English dictionaries.
Halloween with first-timers from South Africa, Venezuela and England who were “keen” to check out our traditions and wondered, when a friend of a neighbor came into our apartment and grabbed a beer from the Fridge, “Is that supposed to be part of it too?”
Yard sale tables with eight (or fewer) items to sell.
Do they call themselves Cambridgians? Cambridgites? Cambridgers? No. . . . They are Cantabrigians. From the Olde English. Of course.
Restaurants that don’t take debit cards. Huh?
Middle-aged dads with infants in backpacks flying down the street on bicycles with no helmets — and listening to i-pods. Also: Oncoming cars that turn right in front of you who are ALWAYS talking on their cellphones.
Self-serve (honor system) sidewalk book sales.
Free talks by Noam Chomsky, Orhan Pamuk and Laurie Moore — all on the same night.
Amazing Vietnamese spring rolls at the Porter Square books café, chocolate croissants from Russo’s and cool, cheap movie theatres that serve IPA on tap.
Invitation to a Wednesday night supper club that has met weekly for 35 years — and they all still like each other.
Accents that have absolutely no use for the letter R.
Time to talk, read and think and — damn — only seven months of this left.