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There are many cities that are better. Paris never smells of fecal matter in the summer, Times Square shines twice as bright on any given night, and San Francisco has more diversity, but Petaluma has character. It was not a hub for excitement, or an important trade city, or the capitol of any state, but Petaluma has tradition. Others could argue that the city could be best appreciated from the cockpit of a plane or on the streets of the theatre district, but for me, the only place that can view the city at its best, are the green hills of West Haven.

On any given day, the West Haven hills are covered in green grass and wild trees as far as the eye can see. Joggers come and go at all times of the day to enjoy the scenery the peace and quiet that the hills had to offer. The West Haven hills were composed of paved walkways that crisscross between West Haven and the Victorian houses, and the particular place I stopped at was a crossroads, one trail leads down to the Victoria neighborhood, another leads to West Haven, and another was a long trail that eventually lead to D-Street and the theatre district. Upon these crossroads, there is a bench that marks the viewing point of the three sides of Petaluma.

One day, I snuck meekly out from the warmth of my home into the dismal depression of a cloudy day. The entire neighborhood looked as though a giant had poured an impossibly large bucket of grey paint onto the world. In a couple minutes I walked up the hill to sit upon the bench. Behind me, the sun was falling behind the horizon, and low, dark clouds were moving in to fill in the space the sun left behind. In front of me was a small valley of grass and little bunches of unhappy flowers. The only evidence of town life that could be seen was a small house on the other side of the little valley which had a little light creeping out of one window. Slowly as the light of the sun was swallowed by the clouds my attention slowly turned away from the hill, but towards eastern Petaluma.

To my left, the lights of eastern Petaluma are shining boldly into the shade of a dying day, distant honks and driving can be heard. As the sun fell farther and farther down towards the horizon, the streetlights and buildings seemed all the brighter. The grass on the hill that looked so green before faded away with the loss of light, but eastern Petaluma only grew brighter. Only the lights of modest economy streetlights could be seen in the darkness, there were no brilliant neon lights to be seen, but in the grim darkness, Petaluma shined like a mini-Vegas. The building that stuck out the most in the darkness was the theatre, which strode boldly from all the other lights with the only large neon light in town. The area around it contained the greatest density of light: the theatre district was set off from the rest of the town. As the day slowly turned to night, the commercial lights gained a harsher light to them, there was a lack of warmth, like that of a floodlight whose express use is for light: harsh, and definite in its use. Farther and farther away from the commercial lights, buildings and homes became farther and farther apart, until they separated into the west part of town.

The sun had finally set fully in the horizon, and I decided to turn my gaze towards the last, but certainly not the least, part of the picture. The west side of town was not the most frequented, but it had more elegant houses. The west side of town did not have shopping centers, but it had the only hiking trails. The west side of town was home to Victorian houses, which were comfortable to watch movies and have parties in; while the east side was home to the cut and paste California tract houses, which were very close to each other. The light of the west side reminded me of a light that would come from the hearth, while the light from the east was harsh and unforgiving. As I looked at the lights from the West Haven houses, I realized it was time to find my own light, and return home.

Cold, tired, hungry-- I felt all of these as I trudged home from the bench. I arrived. I took notes. I departed. Petaluma will never be as bright as Las Vegas, or as beautiful as Paris, or as active as San Francisco, but those things did not matter to me. Petaluma-- a jumble of industry and agriculture, paved roads and hiking trails, large houses and small houses-- is a great place to live.

Matthew J.