There are times I wonder if I belong where I live, a neighborhood in which almost everyone who crosses my path has a life about which I can say, “been there, done that.” I’ve been young and not-so-young (though not, yet, terribly old), carefree and worried, single and married (and betrothed), bankrupt and cash-rich, pushing strollers and mourning the loss of babies, on my way to parties and on my way home from heartaches. But I want to be surprised. Tell me something I don’t already know, is what I think walking down Lincoln Avenue or skipping along the side streets or stopping at the fountain in Giddings Plaza or browsing for plump red cherries (and pickled mushrooms) at the farmer’s market by the “L” station. I’ve been waiting 20 years for something unexpected to happen, and it never has. It never will. A neighborhood won’t — can’t — change that. For now, discovering the names of the flowers on my street is enough. I think they are hydrangeas.