Certain stories can only happen in certain places. I could never tell you a story about jumping the turnstiles and going uptown on the six train unless it happened in New York City. I could never tell you about driving up Mulholland into the Hollywood Hills to get a simultaneous view of the distant, hazy Pacific Ocean and the faded clapboard “Hollywood” sign sitting there below my feet and beyond it, the endless ocean of buildings in an immense valley unless it happened in Los Angeles. I could, however, tell you about going to an Italian bakery in order to get Italian bread and bringing it back to my best friend’s house whose family was from El Salvador. Next door was a family from Lebanon, and beyond that was a family from Cambodia. Windsor’s identity is in its patchwork identity.