Settling in Pittsburgh's Morningside neighborhood was about two numbers: 4.4 and $86,000.

Five miles was the longest commute my medical student husband wanted to deal with, given his long days and nights at the hospital; Morningside slid under nicely at exactly 4.4 miles. The cost of the house, a stunningly low $86,000, made the mortgage affordable on a student's monthly loan stipend and my modest salary. So in the summer of 2004, we hitched our Toyota to a U-Haul and headed from Maryland to our first home, and our new life in Pittsburgh.

On a hot July afternoon, as my husband, Chris, carefully guided the moving truck onto Duffield's impossibly narrow street, neighbors waved from their awning-covered front porches. Later, as we unloaded boxes, some came by to offer a hand or to drop off a bottle of wine, gathering on our tiny front lawn like an impromptu party.

Each neighbor seemed to have a different accent, their English thick with Italian, Greek or Polish -- some accents I couldn't place, and some were so heavy that I could barely understand what was being said. I simply smiled and nodded my head, dizzy with the culture shock.

We knew no first-generation immigrants in Severna Park, the Maryland suburb near Annapolis where my husband and I were both raised. The only "ethnic" restaurant to speak of was a Chinese carry-out. Neighbors kept to themselves. I could tell right away that Morningside was going to be an adjustment.

That first night in the house, I woke at midnight to a strange sound drifting through the open window. I elbowed Chris in the ribs. "What is that?" I said, alarmed. We sat quiet for a moment, listening.

"That must be a train down on that track we saw by the river," he said. "I can't believe it's this loud all the way up here."

The sound of the nightly coal trains winding down the Allegheny River bank was just another thing I'd get used to in Morningside, like the front-porch gatherings, or the trouble finding a parking spot on a Sunday near dinnertime.

During that first week in the neighborhood, as we ripped up and carted out the old living room carpet, I met Mr. and Mrs. Kish, who lived across the street. A spry couple in their late 70s, they, too, spoke with an accent -- one of those I couldn't place. As we sipped iced tea on their front porch, an hour of friendly conversation under our belt, I asked them where they were from.

"We are from Europa -- Hungary," Mr. Kish thundered, and wriggled a necklace out from underneath his T-shirt, revealing a gold medallion that glinted in the late evening sunlight. "It's a Hungarian symbol," Mrs. Kish said to me, detecting my confusion at the connection of necklace and country. "He's very proud of that thing."

What I came to learn was that the Kishes, and the other families lining the claustrophobic street, were all proud people. Proud of the children they'd raised, who still made their way to Morningside every Sunday for dinner (that is, if they weren't already living a few doors down with their own families, as many did). They were proud of the postage stamp-sized front lawns they kept up, proud of their heritage, proud of the sacrifices they'd made to "make it" in America. Many families in Morningside had stories similar to that of the Kish family, who fled the Hungarian revolution and came to Pittsburgh because their church in Europe had arranged for them to stay with a local family.

He spent time bagging groceries and working in a bakery, teaching himself to read English by translating the daily newspaper with a Hungarian-English dictionary. Eventually, he opened his own bakery -- Kish's Bakery in Aspinwall, which he and his wife Val ran until they retired.

As Chris's time in medical school and our four years in Pittsburgh were coming to a close, Mr. Kish became ill. By the time the "for sale" sign appeared in our yard, it was evident Mr. Kish -- Francis--would not see us pull away in our U-Haul, as he saw us arrive.

As I stood at his funeral staring at the brushed silver urn, I felt that I hadn't heard enough of his story. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to be back in his kitchen, where he would tell me about the old country and his first days in Pittsburgh.

I never intended to fall in love with Pittsburgh, or my little neighborhood. It was a short stopover, our stay in Morningside.

But what I left with was a glimpse into life years ago, when people were content with what they had. When families raised four and five kids in 1,000-square-foot homes with no playrooms or media rooms to speak of.

They led -- and still lead -- simple, quiet lives, based on what's truly important.