He’d already dismissed the architecture as a clue.  He wasn’t close enough to determine what the buildings were actually made out of, and styles came and went, anyway.  There had been a time when it had been in fashion to build houses like these in America—although Americans usually omitted the lifting beam on the top floor and the thatched roof.  In his own neighborhood, homes ran the gamut from turn-of-the-century to the dreadful futuristic abomination on the corner that someone had built a couple of years ago after a long legal battle with the city zoning commission.  Maybe the ponies liked medieval architecture; maybe the melted-looking building was their modernistic eyesore.  Maybe it was an edgy modern-art museum.  If they had art.