Dear Detroit

Dear Detroit,

When I'd heard someone had set us up on a blind date, I was a little reluctant. Your reputation preceded you, all those images of smokestacks belching into the hazy sky, your burly autoworkers striking, a bastion of fervent American pride on the prairie. And then there's all I'd seen of you from the gossip pages - the bombed out buildings of post-apoc Robocop, racial riots, political corruption and the endless stream of horror stories about abandoned housing and squatters. My friends snickered, and I did my best to make sure our date was short.

I'm pretty ashamed of myself now. You were a gracious and generous date.

From the 53rd floor of my hotel room I could see the expanse of your bluest river, Canada just over there, facing the riverwalk. Children ran through the water sculptures, dogs padded hot paws into the cool drink, and folks claimed seats in the swampy midday heat for free music after sunset.

You are blessed with marble-faced art deco buildings, framed by chiseled-jawed giants, papered over and abandoned to the dust. Your red brick streets and empty lots are sets from movies we've all seen, but you come alive at night. An old speakeasy, run with ruthless efficiency by a glammed up grandma is presided over by a golden-thread weaving master, his stories of crime a con we all greedily fell for. Open only one night a week, we lucked into D'Mongo's and drank it all in from a cushionless banquette in the corner. Walking the streets at night, your curious monorail glided overhead, and spontaneous celebrations erupted everywhere. You made me feel safe.

Having drawn me in, the next morning you shared a secret with me. Rows and rows of produce, plants and people of all ilk trading stories and recipes. Your Eastern Market is abundant with midwest crops I can only dream of in July: corn, melons, peppers. It's also filled with community; all races, incomes, and ages, arms laden with meals yet to be made. Buskers played for the crowds, the odd mashup of Fiddler on the Roof, traditional Irish music, and blues peppered the air. Giant grills laden with chicken, pork, and beef, all cuts you can imagine - were crowded by picnic tables and a small stage. The perfume of charred meat is only a memory for me now.

But you weren't done. We drove through your poorest neighborhoods and saw the decay we knew was all around. Half-burned buildings standing two doors down from fire houses, adults and children standing everywhere. They were waiting and waiting, but I never knew for what. Stopping at the famed Heidelberg Project, my heart ached. Not for the art, but for the neighborhood, for the people sitting on their porches while DSLR-toting tourists descended from their air conditioned tour coaches, photographed everything, and left. If you sense scorn in my tone, you're right. I'm not oblivious to the fact that I did exactly the same thing. Protected by the privacy of my car, I wept, and like all the others, I drove away.

Somehow you knew that a salve for my heartache was food, and you delivered me thusly. Michigan Avenue shoots through town, from near-Cadillac Square past the vacant field that used to be Tiger Stadium. It is now overgrown with grass, yet I spied 3 old men sitting on a bench in the middle, overlooking their kingdom, a single flagpole topped with an enormous American flag. And on the curb, a man sat barefoot, his legs extended into the lane where cars once drove, his newspaper open wide.

A moment more and we'd arrived. Barbeque, which is like home to me, called from a place named Slow's. The tap list long and crafty, I sensed enormous pride in their pours, and in the pourers. Here I sat, elbow to elbow with people decked out in D-town shirts, families in their Sunday best, and hipsters and tourists alike. A hot plate of okra fritters arrived, tip toeing through a Tabasco-ey sauce. They went down too easy. Sliced brisket topped with smoked gouda and a pulled pork coleslaw sandwich were both juicy without being messy, a fresh kaiser roll soaking up the drippings.

At first thinking I was suffering heartburn, I realized that queasy feeling was one of longing and regret. I'd misjudged you, Detroit, and your people. What I mistook for American pride wasn't about making American products, it's about making products in Detroit. And those scrappy autoworkers, burned out buildings, and poverty? Yes, those things are all here too, and they are part of the fabric of the community, the DNA of its people, the things they will thrive in spite of. Detroiters, they are a proud and generous tribe, welcoming to strangers, proving with every kindness how their city survives in spite of everything that is true all around.

I left Slow's hopeful and renewed.

Knowing that you had won me over, you still chose to show me more. When you had money - Detroit had been the 8th largest city in the country at one point, and rich - your people invested in buildings and art. Your buildings still stand, visages worn, but bones solid, a testament to those designs. Your art rivals the best New York can offer. A vast collection from ancient Middle Eastern art to African American sculpture adorns galleries at the Detroit Institute of Arts, but your crown jewel is the Detroit Industry fresco series painted by Diego Rivera. Shocking in its detail and depiction of industry, medicine, war and the races, I found myself spinning top-like taking it all in.

One last stop, you promised. Avalon International Breads is right around the corner from the DIA. Appealing to the baker in me, you showed me community activists bringing old world breadbaking techniques to the neighborhood, and doing good all along. This place could be in Portland or Seattle, easy. There were no big boxes nearby - revitalization in Detroit happens when neighbors make it happen, just like at Avalon. Sea salt chocolate chip cookies don't hurt either.

When I got home, my friends all asked about our weekend. I gushed, I'm completely smitten with you. Just like all the Detroiters said, I tell them, 'Go visit, spend money, fall in love with it. And then tell other people about it.'

I miss you already.

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