Graystone Street is one such a place that, though buried within the heart of perhaps one of the largest cities in the known realm, it has an air all to its own that constantly reminds me of one of those small settlements at the fringes of civilization where people of all shapes, sizes, creeds, and cultures flock to. The result, of course, is that it has become something of a hidden gem sifted amidst ordinary stones, oblivious to the rushing torrent of a burgeoning city beyond.

Though little more than a circle of ten or so buildings suffused to one another's walls and huddled around a quiet cul de sac, there is, I think, more character to this tiny patch of tarmac than even the whole of the Temple District, which itself is often lauded as the preeminent choice locale for artists, playwrights, fashionistas and other such creatively minded souls.

Here, in this quiet, but charming little cleft of society, I dwelt largely unbothered by the turning cogs and winding ways of the world around me. To my discredit, as I look back on it now, it was actually quite a dull little existence in which I rarely left the comforts of my homely little apartment in the first red-bricked apartment building in the drive. That is, save to journey to and from work or to provision, or now and again visit the heart of our little neighborhood: a bakery which stood directly opposite the mouth of the street. And as fate would have it, that very vestige is where this story shall begin.

A squat, cramped little building that has ever sported the most alarming hue of yellow gold walls one will ever see, it neither compliments nor clashes with the rugged rust-colored slats which make its single-sided roof. Umphrey's Bakery was and still is our -- and when I say our, I of course mean all of Graystone's denizens -- most closely guarded secret. And this not just because of the beautiful baked bread wares that were lovingly hand-crafted by the place's titular owner. Nor was it due to the fact that it was the only place within twenty blocks that served my favorite apple spice tea.

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No, the true reason for it being such a fixture has less to do with its material bounty, nor its husky, effervescent proprietor. Rather it has all the more to do with the fact that the locale was a strange sort of societal void wherein whatever relationships or quarrels we all might've had with one another were seemingly forgotten at the door. It was as if the toll of the miniature bell which hung over the front entrance somehow held the power to cleanse stresses and misgivings from one's heart, making yesterday's adversaries today's confidants, and transforming obsessive lovers lost in one another's eyes into gregarious socialites who stopped to chat with every little person they met.

For me, additionally, it also provided a place from which I could conduct my early-morning readings of the local press -- usually no more than an article or two before starting off to my place of work. It was a simple, quiet practice that went a long way towards steeling my mind against the rigors of dealing with the public.

Incidentally, that day -- and I remember it with almost picturesque vividity -- I keenly recall leaving without taking my jacket, which I would quickly pay the price for. The autumn months had brought with them a somewhat deeper nip to the already cool mountain air, lending yet another reason to find oneself nestled in Umphrey's establishment since the heat of the stoves warmed the small lobby a far cry better than my pitiful excuse for a fireplace back home. And it did not take the twenty or thirty steps from my apartment door to the bakery for my teeth to begin chattering mercilessly.

For my part, I'd nestled into the corner lounge booth just inside the door and to the left. It was the only seat in the place with a window, which I would often choose so that I might watch the sky turn its morning hues.

It was surprisingly busy that day. Not the bakery, mind you, but the neighborhood, in general, was up and about in quite an uncharacteristic fashion, with residents and passerby's scurrying along the dimly lit street like mice dashing to and from cracks in the woodwork. Furry winter hoods raced ahead of petticoat tails, adding to the incidental euphemism. It all brought a small smile to my lips as I sat down my freshly steeped cup.