You might have read the title of this piece and thought I’d be off on another of my tangents, talking about how wonderful it was to grow up in Chapel Hill and spend time on Franklin Street; dropping into Sutton’s for an orangeade on a warm summer evening, or skipping first period in high school to go get a late breakfast at Breadmen’s. Downtown Chapel Hill is an easy place to love, and an easier place to write about, but I’m not returning to that particular (Old) Well today.
It’s hard to find parking on Franklin Street (and I’m bad at parallel parking, so I have even fewer options than most functioning adults).