The real perfectibility of man may be illustrated, as I have mentioned before, by the perfectibility of a plant. The object of the enterprising florist is, as I conceive, to unite size, symmetry, and beauty of colour. It would surely be presumptuous in the most successful improver to affirm, that he possessed a carnation in which these qualities existed in the greatest possible state of perfection. However beautiful his flower may be, other care, other soil, or other suns, might produce one still more beautiful.
Thomas Robert Malthus, An Essay on the Principle of Population
Stapleton, Palo Alto Florist
Stapleton’s. Except it’s not Stapleton’s anymore, it’s Michaela’s Flower Shop now. The original owners are gone, but the building? The building doesn’t give a fuck. It’s still here, faded pink paint chipping off in the downtown Palo Alto sun, surrounded by high-end specialty boutiques selling $400 candles and artisanal olive oil.
This rectangular relic shouldn’t exist. Not here, not in the middle of Palo Alto’s relentless march toward whatever’s next. But it does.
And I like it. I don’t know why, exactly. Maybe because it refuses to pretend. Maybe because in a town that’s bulldozed everything that came before in the name of disruption, this weird little time capsule with its peeling paint and vague smell of the Summer of Love is still standing.
Defiant. Anachronistic. Real.