One thing I cherish about my neighborhood in Paris is how close-knit it feels. When I need fresh produce, I go see Ahmed. Jean-Charles sells me cheese — and always cuts off a piece for my eager son. Robert, the pharmacist, fills any prescriptions I have. Magda sells me coffee that she and her husband Nir roast themselves.
In the French capital of 2 million people, this northeast corner feels like a village. Sure, that sounds a bit corny — rather like the theme song of the 1980s sitcom, “Cheers,” with its beckoning promise of a place “where everybody knows your name.” But it builds community and a sense of belonging.
Hawaiʻi used to be a lot more like this. When my mom was a child in the late 1960s in Wailuku, there were two dry goods shops just a few hundred feet from her house and a dozen other family businesses within walking distance. When her Popo needed flour or sugar, she’d send my mom up the road…