After a week in Detroit, a little spot up in the northern part of the Midwest that most people told me was an armpit, I feel quite confident in making my own judgment about the Motor City.
It really doesn't deserve the harsh judgment everyone seems to so easily - without ever visiting - slap down upon it.
The greater Detroit area has shown me some of the most insane on highway tactics of anywhere I've been in the US. But then again, I'm told by locals that people here are car crazy.
They like to drive fast and have no patience for traffic.
So why not just turn around on the interstate and drive back up off the freeway on the on ramp?
After an afternoon walk through the unseasonably warm Indian summer air in downtown Detroit, the city itself seems starkly similar to that of the industry that supports it.
So why not just turn around on the interstate and drive back up off the freeway on the on ramp?
After an afternoon walk through the unseasonably warm Indian summer air in downtown Detroit, the city itself seems starkly similar to that of the industry that supports it.
Gleaming towers topped with the GM logo rise up above the downtown area from the waterfront of the river, looking over towards Canada while simultaneously watching over the city. The solid glass tower and surrounding buildings gleam in the warm afternoon sun like a beacon of hope and future over a town that seems to be poking its head out of a dark hole.
An hour drive north to Ann Arbor on a Friday night brings the youth of Michigan into the forefront.
The University of Michigan is home to the biggest collegiate football stadium in the country. On most Saturday afternoons in the fall flocks of people join the some 40,000 students in utter mass chaos.
The pounding music from run down college rentals starts at some point in the early morning darkness on Saturday morning and continues uninterrupted until nearly Sunday morning.
Gangs of kids decked from head to toe in Wolverine blue and gold pack themselves into front yards of beat down houses blaring music.
The bass makes a post graduate kid's head pound – the scotch, tequila, tasty regional beers and other various poisons ingested the night before bubble to the surface.
But beside the hangover, a twinge of nostalgic collegiate youth simmers up with the football fervor.
20 minutes outside Ann Arbor lies the 100 acre estate of Mr. Lou Ferris, a Detroit born city boy who made good in the finance business and built himself a small Midwest empire.
Lou is a master on the barbecue, and over a deliciously smoking pile of tenderloin with his sweet hearted German Sheppard guard dog Duke at his side he spins tales of the old days of Motor City.
The race riots, walking at 5 years old to the Lady on the Hill to place bets for his immigrated Lebanese grandmother and the gangsters who ended fights - in one way or another – on his childhood streets.
"I loved my neighborhood," Ferris said of his Congress St. downtown burg which now holds towering office buildings symbolizing his city's and his generation's successes.
Our gracious local hosts tell us that a day after our departure the weather is supposed to turn. Another Michigan winter will set in and push out the chewable humid air.
But on our way out we'll swing through our host barrio of Royal Oak, a chic strip of tasty cafes, pubs, breweries and - the reason for our departing stop - ice cream parlors.
While the Motor City may not be a symbol of style and grace, it is also not the armpit I was assured and in all honesty, I look forward to my next visit.
An hour drive north to Ann Arbor on a Friday night brings the youth of Michigan into the forefront.
The University of Michigan is home to the biggest collegiate football stadium in the country. On most Saturday afternoons in the fall flocks of people join the some 40,000 students in utter mass chaos.
The pounding music from run down college rentals starts at some point in the early morning darkness on Saturday morning and continues uninterrupted until nearly Sunday morning.
Gangs of kids decked from head to toe in Wolverine blue and gold pack themselves into front yards of beat down houses blaring music.
The bass makes a post graduate kid's head pound – the scotch, tequila, tasty regional beers and other various poisons ingested the night before bubble to the surface.
But beside the hangover, a twinge of nostalgic collegiate youth simmers up with the football fervor.
20 minutes outside Ann Arbor lies the 100 acre estate of Mr. Lou Ferris, a Detroit born city boy who made good in the finance business and built himself a small Midwest empire.
Lou is a master on the barbecue, and over a deliciously smoking pile of tenderloin with his sweet hearted German Sheppard guard dog Duke at his side he spins tales of the old days of Motor City.
The race riots, walking at 5 years old to the Lady on the Hill to place bets for his immigrated Lebanese grandmother and the gangsters who ended fights - in one way or another – on his childhood streets.
"I loved my neighborhood," Ferris said of his Congress St. downtown burg which now holds towering office buildings symbolizing his city's and his generation's successes.
Our gracious local hosts tell us that a day after our departure the weather is supposed to turn. Another Michigan winter will set in and push out the chewable humid air.
But on our way out we'll swing through our host barrio of Royal Oak, a chic strip of tasty cafes, pubs, breweries and - the reason for our departing stop - ice cream parlors.
While the Motor City may not be a symbol of style and grace, it is also not the armpit I was assured and in all honesty, I look forward to my next visit.
— AC
1 comment:
your writing makes me feel famous. detroit loves you.
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