illusions of greatness

I am currently sitting at the Satellite Cafe in Albuquerque’s “Nob Hill” district—about a mile-long stretch of Route 66 that runs from the intersection of Carlisle and Central to right around where the University of New Mexico starts.  For as long as I can remember, this relatively tiny span of our city has been home to a myriad of cool, quirky local businesses.  I’ve spent what probably amounts to weeks of time in this very cafe and have been roaming this corridor of Central before I even moved to Albuquerque.  It is a place that is near and dear to my heart, chock full of memories and stencil graffiti and homeless beggars.

With few exceptions, the area has been mostly occupied by local, non-corporate businesses.  When you walk down the street, there’s a very distinct sense of difference in the air.  Sure, the heat and pollution and all the classical city elements are there.  But it doesn’t feel the same as everywhere else in the city.  In most burgeoning neighborhoods—all over Rio Rancho, for instance, one of the fastest growing cities in the nation—you can’t spit without hitting a franchise: Starbucks, P.F. Changs, and McDonalds are planted every six or seven feet blocks.  Nob hill is different.  It’s not like that.  Sure, we have a Starbucks, but it took over the building owned by Arby’s.  And it is an exception to the rule.

In the past year or so, though, changes have been set in motion that threaten the very sense of place that sets Nob Hill apart from everywhere else.  A lot was bought by a developer and a massive construction project began about a year ago right in the middle of everything.  Business space on the lower story, with two or three stories of loft apartments above.  The lofts are priced in such a way that the demographic of the neighborhood is going to undoubtedly change.  It’s prime real estate, located smack dab in the middle of the quirky, funky Nob Hill area.  Any proud hipster would be happy to reside here, in the midst of this young, fresh neighborhood.

The problem is that this development, along with others that are starting to crop up, threaten to undermine the quirky, funky nob hill vibe that makes this corridor so appealing.  A sign was recently posted letting passersby know that an Urban Outfitters was going to occupy a space beneath the lofts.  Let’s just stop delaying the inevitable and plop down a WalMart, shall we?

I realize that I sound like an angsty Bohemian lamenting the inevitable flow of capitalism.  And I guess that, in a way, I am.  Outside of one store that will most likely be nailed by the presence of Urban Outfitters, called Toad Road, there are usually a couple of employees outside jamming on their guitars.  This is the essence of Nob Hill: the delightful combination of nuances that are unique to this one place.  You see things that you don’t see in subdivisions and planned developments here.  And I’m pretty sure that there isn’t a measure in the Urban Outfitters corporate handbook that allows employees to jam on their guitars outside of the store.

And that phenomena explains precisely what I’m going to miss.  The smelly hippies that haven’t showered for weeks will all be gone because they can’t afford to live here, as will the starry-eyed idealistic student activists and amateur cafe philosophers.  The flailing musicians that work in a shop to buy studio time won’t be allowed to loiter outside of their store with instruments because it’s against corporate policy.  The stores with the overpowering smell of incense creeping out of their open doors will shut down and reopen with chain stores catering to young girls that like to dress like Paris Hilton.  Real culture will be replaced with the much more profitable gentrified culture. The money will be great.  The neighborhood, though, will be gone.