I grew up in a hardware store. My grandfather started it as a hay and feed store at the turn of the century and in the late 50's my father turned it into a wholesale contractors' supply business. But to me it was always a magic place, full of everything imaginable: penny nails, house paint, pyrex, light bulbs, and other wonders too numerous to mention. God, I loved that place...right up until the heartbreaking end. Once in a while I still find a local hardware store that is cluttered and smells wonderful and it makes me want to cry. On the left is grandpa and on the right, my father, when he still had hair, in the 1930's. He starting losing his hair in his 20's and I never knew him any way but bald. (But I digress.) We owned the building, which was built early in the 20th century, when it housed a dance hall on the second floor - with ticket window, a coat room and a stage for performances. The third floor was a big loft space that I would kill to have now. 180 was (and is) on the main street, in an urban area not far from the railroad station, away from the expensive shopping area of town. I suspect that my fascination with found objects, old buildings and graffiti as well as my urban sensibility (although I grew up in the 'burbs)came from my love for and memories of that hardware store and somewhat gritty neighborhood. Last week I read a review of a new restaurant in town -cuisine of Trinidad and was shocked to see that it was at 180. On Thursday night, after attending a wake around the corner, I suggested, with mixed feelings, that we try it for dinner. For 20 years, it has broken my heart to drive by that building which we no longer own --but I wanted to try that food. I am so glad we went. The food was delicious (akra fritter appetizer) followed by curry, Caribbean style. The interior of the space is no longer recognizable (unless you know it intimately as we do) and the former ugly laundromat that occupied it after us has been replaced by a bright, clean space where I could just feel the good karma. I feel that space is happy at last. In Jewish tradition, you walk around the block to signal the end of the mourning period and the beginning of moving on with your life. After 2 decades of mourning that building, I believe that meal was my walk around the block.