We are so living in the anti-Nick bizarro world.

In our continuing quest to examine the nine thousand and twelve eateries in walking distance, tonight we hit Brix. As we were ordering our foods, we got an unexpected “yoohoo” from a woman who was vaguely familiar looking. I had that confused stunned deer look for a second as I looked into her face. I searched for words while my mind scanned why I knew her and raced through any number of neighborhood moms calling out the door to come in to a pack of kids as the streetlights came on in a distant Braintree past.

Very hometown to have a mom-looking chick hailing you.

It was our new landlord’s wife, who we met when we picked up the keys. She wanted to be sure we met her husband and to say “Hi.” We exchanged pleasantries, discussed the nearness of every possible convenience in the new ‘hood and went our separate ways.

We strolled back through a peaceful evening passing coffeeshps and restaurants and the locals. Of particular note to me is that on the main drag one always sees a range of bicycles from Shwinn to custom mountain bikes.

I notice the wheels, because here in Mayberry, one doesn’t lock one’s $500 mountain bike, while sipping a latte at Peet’s.

In Nick-land, a locked car was no obstacle to crime. And, rather than exchanging pleasantries, Nick was telling me in that first month or so about the type of people ruining the neighborhood. I’m about 99.999999999992 percent sure he meant Mexicans.