Sidewalk Rating: Good
It was a city in which the very old and the awkwardly new jostled each other, not uncomfortably, but without respect; a city of shops and offices and restaurants and homes, of parks and churches, of ignored monuments and remarkable unpalatial palaces; a city of hundred of districts with strange names – Crouch End, Chalk Farm, Lear’s court, Marble Arch – and oddly distinct identities; a noisy, dirty, cheerful, troubled city, which fed on tourists, needed them as it despised them, in which the average speed of transportation through the city had not increased in three hundred years, following five hundred years of fitful road-widening and unskillful compromises between the needs of traffic, whether horse-drawn, or, more recently, motorized, and the needs of pedestrians; a city inhabited by and teeming with people of every color and manner and kind.[Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere.]
[A car2go parked on a Saint Paul street.]
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There appears to be one clear factor (though it doesn’t explain the entire drop): the Polar Vortex.
[here]
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“Setting fire to an occupied dwelling is tantamount to murder,” Zaccard said. “Whoever did this could have killed this young mother and baby.”
[here]
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