He's seen too many dreams die in this squalid old town

I'm bummed, but not exactly surprised, to read that Paul is thinking of moving out of Richmond. Frankly, I think it's a legitimate response to a place where comfort and potential work like slow-acting poison.

Let's look at those tandem toxins, which affect hipsters and bluebloods alike. Comfort is considering local fame the absolute height of ambition. It's being defensive about institutions, regardless of their quality. It's creating a social hierarchy opaque to newcomers. It's retreating to Fulton Hill or Westhampton, angling to get your kids into Fox or St. Christopher's, and in both cases convincing yourself that Mama 'Zu and Edo's serve decent Italian.

Potential: Well, who here isn't potential's bitch? It's hard not to tamp down that old feeling when you cross Manchester bridge after dinner at Legends (shit beer, mediocre burgers, and buy a damn fryer already so I can have some proper french fries, but Oh! that deck) and see the James gleaming beneath you as the skyline looks somehow less bland in the evening light. "This place could...be so great," you think, but then you catch yourself. You've been thinking the same thing since you were in college ten years ago. It's still the same race-torn, dilapidated, half-decent-but-never-great place it's always been, and your choices are to either make peace with that and retreat, butt your head against the fact that you'll never be able to change it, or leave.

It's not a failure of idealism to choose the latter. Maybe it's even a triumph of optimism, the moment you let yourself think that life can in fact be better somewhere else. If you're wrong, hey, Richmond will always be here for you. Some things will never change.