I don’t know when I first became intrigued by gates and gated communities. Maybe it began because the only way to get to my childhood home was through two huge pillared arches onto a winding, fern-lined road that leads up and up to the top of the hill. Each twist and turn brings you closer to my house, but every fork in the road is a decision point. A random left or right brings you to another world, a different hill and a separate reality. Some hills are still rustic with crisscrossing fire roads and ranches, others are covered by suburban houses with ivy-carpeted front lawns and welcoming brick walkways, while most are graced by Mediterranean-style mansions where Hollywood movie stars live. My home was a two-story Georgian colonial on Somera Road, the last stop on the school bus-a dead-end street at the crest of a fifteen-hundred-foot rise where the ocean view is breathtaking on a smogless day.