This from guest blogger, Chandur Murthi:

So we moved to Park Slope from San Francisco via Eugene five years ago this week. Why Park Slope? Well, my wife Elizabeth, my son Dylan and I were temporarily living in Oregon, where she was doing her MFA, and she "jokingly" made a Faustian bargain—if I were a good sport about living in that purgatory, Eugene (you have to realize I’m a big-city boy), we could move away from SF, which I’d gotten tired of. And I chose NYC on the dubious premise that I knew it well from, oh, about 20 business trips to Elizabeth, NJ (hmm, some karma there?) when I used to crash in NYC. And two ex-NY acquaintances (that is statistically significant, no?) in Eugene said Park Slope was the best place to be, especially with a preschool kid in tow. Further, Dylan, at two, would, given a chance to ramble though the lush and park-like University of Oregon grounds (it rains all the time there), would choose instead to sit on the concrete carstops of their parking lots to watch cars, bicycles and people. ‘Twas enough for me.

Indeed, after much travail, here we are, on Carroll Street, in the 321 district (little did I realize what a boon that was). The shenanigans of NY real estate were surely quite a revelation. Used as I was to the California/Oregon norms, the sheer medieval-ness of buying a house in NY was a shock. You see, in the big bad West of these United States, real estate (at least residential) goes through what’s called an escrow agent. This totally underpaid and underestimated individual ensures the honesty and timeliness of all transactions between the opposing parties and, in fact, practically makes certain of no contact between them. No attorney required. All communication electronic. The piece-de-resistance – no closing! At the pre-appointed time, magically, the electronic money spigot opens and all is done. Wow, and here I was in Brooklyn, frantically trying to forge my wife’s signature (ha ha, not) so I didn’t have to FedEx the daily missives to her (still in Eugene) to sign, to convince the attorney that yes, an out-of-town check is valid in the 21st century, and no, my only option to any misgivings was not to "walk away from the deal". Etc etc. But all’s well now.

I love Park Slope. It has much of the ambiance that I was used to, in some strange way so long ago, in Madras, India where I grew up. It gets hot and muggy. The neighbors on my street are just nosy enough to be reassuring (and helpful) but not too so. We have a great block party every September, reinforcing my preconceived notion that Brooklyn has a wonderful community spirit. We have, even at this later stage in (my) life, made some good friends. The help in the stores is unhelpful enough to bring back fond memories of "home"—in California, everyone smiles at you all the time; in Oregon, they feel free to comment on your ill-advised choices—here, trying to find "pesto" sauce in my local grocery store can be an comedic exercise in miscommunication (maybe it’s my accent.)

And, of course, the school’s great for my now 8-year old. Elizabeth is painting and web-siting away, and I cycle everywhere.

Chandru Murthi – recovering computer-ist and fresh environmental consultant.