The absence of light signals nighty-night prayertime, but young ones now only bow before PlayStation. The dead, as always, fend for themselves. He decides to take a scenic cruise in the hills of Piedmont, the intra-urban municipality that grew up around the cemetery in the late 1800s. Mostly Old, mostly White California Money resides at this altitude, where the avenues are wide and green, the air carcinogen-free, and the land still echoes its bucolic roots. The self-contained community, less than three miles square, boasts its own police and fire forces, schools, parks and reservoirs.
Water runs clean from the tap.
Hugging the graveyard on his left, Pietro coasts up Moraga Ave along the district's perimeter. Turning right on Highland, the town's thoroughfare, his thoughts stretch with the street. Make way for the most extravagant of carriages, drawn by a team of Clydesdales. Victorian country quarters dead ahead. He takes in the sights.