An Urban Suburban

Last weekend’s travels brought me to the East Bay cities of Berkeley and Oakland. Whenever I cross the bridge, I’m reminded of how nice the weather is. “Are you going to say it, or am I?” Asked my friend as we locked up the car on Shattuck Avenue. “You can,” I replied. “The weather is so much better over here,” he said.

Moments later, we walked through the front door of a local delicatessen. Two Reuben sandwiches—one turkey, one traditional—and two potato salads filled a big brown paper bag. To drink, there were two housemade sodas: orange ginger and one celery. Baked goods were added to the order. “Let’s head to a park,” I suggested.

On foot, we headed north. Past the shopping center and the cars and the stucco houses with little yards and cats peering out of windows. It was just past noon, and the golden sun felt good.

Approaching the park, I spotted something familiar on the far side of the street. It was an early Suburban, perfectly patina’d and sitting low. The skirts, sun visor, and spotlight added a taste of bomb flavor, and the single exhaust pipe made me believe it was still running the original six. Instinctually, I walked into the street and shot just one photo.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Suburbans, and this one felt particularly approachable. It’d be a prime estate-sale hauler, and I wouldn’t mind taking it camping in the redwoods either. They’re versatile for all things, urban, rural, and, of course, suburban.

—Joey Ukrop