Capturing pictures of the everyday and mundane details of living in a place as odd as Berkeley’s Normandy Village means that I can look back to the little details. This maroon fire escape served as the back door to our apartment, but also easy access to the shared laundry room—and thus a route I frequently traversed, trying to find a time when the machines were free.
Down the tiny alleys, side streets, and driveways of Berkeley are all kinds of odd old garages. My favorite details of these structures usually come down to scale; the driveway tracks and garage measurements were clearly built to be just large enough for the cars of the period. As American vehicles have grown larger, they now appear comically mismatched with anything but a vintage car in the scene.
For this vintage Ford pickup to survive so long in the northeast, it would have to have been a carefully-tended-to garage-kept apple of someone’s eye. Rust is too cruel a monster otherwise. On the streets of Berkeley, by comparison, older vehicles seem to still be around simply because there has been no reason for them to ever stop being around. Though I suspect this is indeed a well-loved truck, nothing about its existence so formally requires that as the equivalent vehicle would in my new neck of the woods.