When I acquired the property that would later become Casa Citron, the entry courtyard was not a place of arrival—it was a problem to be solved. Exposed wiring lay on the ground near a light post, a chain-link fence offered neither privacy nor security, and the entire space felt hazardous rather than welcoming. A makeshift wooden ramp and scattered stepping stones cut through overgrown weeds and dried plants, making the approach feel neglected and unsafe. The cleanup alone was a massive undertaking, requiring a complete clearing of what had accumulated through years of disregard.
The structure itself presented daily reminders of what needed to change. Aluminum awnings hung over every window, many of them incomplete, rusted, or literally falling apart. Some were positioned so low that you could hit your head simply walking beneath them. Instead of offering shade or protection, they created visual clutter and physical danger. The space lacked intention, flow, and dignity—everything I wanted to correct from the moment I stepped onto the property.
My goal was to transform this neglected zone into an enclosed entry courtyard that immediately establishes privacy and calm. This first courtyard now acts as a buffer from the outside world, redirecting guests toward their individual private rooms while shielding the pool deck beyond. I built a solid wood wall and gate that defines the threshold—once you pass through it, the environment shifts. The noise softens, the space becomes contained, and the sense of arrival is unmistakable.
At the center of the courtyard, I planted a mammee tree—my parents’ favorite fruit and one of mine as well. It anchors the space emotionally and symbolically, grounding the architecture in memory, heritage, and growth. What was once exposed, unsafe, and forgotten is now deliberate and protective. The entry courtyard sets the tone for Casa Citron: private, considered, and rooted in intention.