Our city is a palimpsest -- layer upon layer of construction, destruction, "modern" then and modern now. Never was this more evident than when we recently bought our first house, a brick rowhome built after the turn-of-the-century (20th, that is), and started taking down the walls.

Our plans for the kitchen involved white subway tile and wood floors. Behind wood wainscoting and three layers of linoleum tile we found...white subway tile and wood floors. We were astonished. As young people return to cities, it seems we are looking to recapture more than just the bright, fervent energy of urban life. In these uncovered treasures we see the cyclical nature of taste -- what we find classic and beautiful, others deemed old fashioned and worth covering up. We are living in an era that fetishizes the vintage, the "authentic," the rustic; all I want is a kitchen that looks like The Big Night. I don't know if that makes me feel good, or powerless against the overwhelming, insidious waves of cultural change. (We are resisting Edison bulbs at all costs.)

But of course I have to let myself off the hook a bit. Reuse, one could argue, is inherently good. In lieu of having tile manufactured overseas and shipped across oceans, we are paying more for (local) labor -- sanding and scraping and refinishing -- and reducing the environmental impact of our renovation.

It has been unexpected -- not only these hidden treasures but the emotional impact of discovery. We bought a fossilized egg and ended up with a dragon, something living, breathing and changing. I feel a deeper connection to Philadelphia. Heck, I feel a deeper connection to the whole idea of a city. Of a place that is habitually occupied by a series of people making small marks, even if it's just wedging a Vietnam-era piece of newspaper into a plaster wall (we found that, too).

Of course, we'll make our own additions and subtractions. The 1950s-era wall oven looked super cool, but it had to go for the sake of energy efficiency and modern sheet trays. A gift from the previous owners, a half bathroom off the kitchen, is a welcome bit of contemporary living. For the first time in four years, I will cohabitate with a dishwasher. But, to tell you the truth, it feels better (even better than clean dishes!) to preserve the old stuff. To rescue it. To rehabilitate it. To bring it back to life.

LEE STABERT is managing editor of Flying Kite and Keystone Edge. She secretly loves Edison bulbs.