ThomasLitchford

I stumbled on this really excellent article in Travel and Leisure about Newport, the city in which I live. It’s a few years old, but still rings true in its assessment of the place:

Now downtown works as a model of New Urbanism, obeying all the pedestrian-friendly, mixed-use laws of that development movement without the unsettling perfection of its brand spanking new neighborhoods. A short walk from the harbor is the Point, a time-warp section of town with absolutely no tourist-driven establishments. Many of the simple houses and perfect little gardens are named after their builders—the Elliott Boss House, 1820; Hunter House, 1748—and feature carved pineapples, a seaport symbol of hospitality. The more lavish waterfront properties on Washington Street yield to the slightly funkier ones on Second Street, and on the weathered front porch of an old house converted into apartments, a group of neighbors have gathered for a barbecue. Theresa Wosencroft is enjoying the soft dusk as the host, Artie Jenkins, laughs and hands me a beer: “You’re in the ghettoized section of Newport,” he tells me. “We don’t have yards, just porches. Stay awhile and have some dinner.” Earlier in the day, I spent an hour at the Bellevue Avenue house of an acquaintance from Miami and wasn’t even offered a glass of water, despite the presence of a hovering butler. Newport is always good for a social lesson or two.

Then I found this New York Times article about a famous house that sits on a rock out in the bay. Oh, Newport, what a crazy place.