The conversation with my fellow traveler was breezing along as two frequent fliers compared notes on the American home. Here we were, separated by geography (north/south), work (public versus private sector), yet experiences with our own houses bore striking similarities, including the removal of trees recently downed in harsh weather. Where, we speculated, did nature present only a constant, benign face? The answer: England! Then with one sentence, the universe shifted. “Of course, I would never live there,” he observed. “They don’t allow handguns, and I couldn’t protect my home.”

Like a lightning strike, his observation divided us: We clearly saw the world in distinctly different ways. He sallied into the need for protection of hearth and family in a troubled world, describing how his own house lay nestled in four defensible acres of trees; I, by contrast, lived in Jane Jacobs land writ large, an urban oasis of brownstones and pruned street trees rendered defensible by congregate living. What particularly struck me, on reflection, was how I had managed to proceed through a lifetime of architectural involvement so far removed from the worldview articulated by the armed homeowner.