It gets a lot better than this. Each day of my weeklong reconnaissance visit to Whittier, I awoke to the piercing beep of heavy snow-moving machinery backing up in the dark down below. I'd venture into the bathroom, startled awake by the military-issue pink tiles. My daily shower commenced only after the bathtub faucet first spat out a few ounces of Coke-colored liquid, which I assumed hoped was some residual Cold War rust in the pipes. The hallways of BTI can resemble someone's parody of a suburban subdivision.
Neighbors gossip on the elevator while taking their dogs down for a stroll.
Here in this town there are no lawns, of course, unless you count the artificial turf in the 60-yard tunnel to the school. Here keeping up with the Joneses means acquiring the latest coveralls from Carhartt, or some really nice calf-length rubber boots. Whittier's answer to the swallows of San Juan Capistrano. It's like you know spring is finally here. The neighborhood even has its own scenic fish pond, also indoors, of course.