Showing posts with label Detroit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Detroit. Show all posts
Well Maybe Just Half a Drink More
If only the Coach Insignia, the restaurant at the top of the Ren Cen, was less boring-slick and more cozy-fancy. It's still a great stop on a birthday night (that was almost six months ago but I can still bring it up), and you can't beat the view in this part of the world. It's even better to have a Detroit expert with you, but either way you're so high in the sky and there are so many lights forever, because that's how this giant metro area works.
We were there on the weekend (two weekends ago already!) with Emma and Ali and Drew. Drew's friend joined us, taking a break from night three (?) of the anime convention taking place in the building. Why I didn't take photos, I don't know, but there were teenagers and not-teenagers in all sorts of costumes running all over the place. Not so much in the restaurant. We didn't see many people who were old enough to drink, and if you're doing it all weekend, you probably don't want to be paying Coach Insignia prices. Cocktails, all weekend! Nope.
Ali and Drew posed perfectly. It was their last dating anniversary—next year, they'll be married! I don't know why they wanted to spend it with us, but I enjoyed it. The photos with me in them failed, so I shall allow them to fade out of memory. Ali's drink was also pretty. It was pomegranate liqueur and champagne. Not as good as the nineteen-dollar Kir Royale I had once by accident (the accident was the price, not the drink). Drew passed up drinks for a huge, delicious piece of apple pie. Also not pictured, because I'm not used to keeping up with my blog.
Now comes the part where we think about winter.
My ice-cold indoor nose is not ready, however. I get that computers are hot, but do they have to air-condition the Fishbowl this much? Glühwein, anyone? Such a nice word. Glow-wine. Mmm.
Sundays In November When the Weather Bothers Me
I don't like Mondays, but this bright grey skylight Sunday has got to end. Unfortunately, it's going to end slowly with sweeping and scrubbing and mopping. Wanting money is a horrible motivator that gets you into bad situations, like working closing shifts four nights a week three weeks in a row.
The sky is glowing the worst glow it could, an oppressively bright grey, almost white but in no way reminiscent of snow. From my room, it feels like our attic is floating in a vacuum, just us and these ugly, naked weed trees. There isn't a break in the clouds in any direction, which is all too clear thanks to my three skylights. It's smothering, how the heavens are ceaselessly reminding us of mediocrity right now. I feel horrible about life, and it's not my fault. Sundays like this are the worst.
Emma just walked into my room: "The sky's so big. There's like nothing that would make me happy right now." If I didn't have to go to work in a few minutes, I could maybe have escaped this feeling today. There are cheerier places to work on your computer or read a book. It will get dark, and the Christmas lights that have been on the trees for three days will turn on. But I'll be in a kitchen, or at a cash register, and I'll miss it.
On certain Sundays in November when the weather bothers me, I empty drawers of other summers where my shadows used to be...
Thinking about the summer won't help. Nothing will help besides maybe a shower and getting lost in a good book and some candles to lighten the atmosphere. But here's a cheerier Sunday, two weeks ago, that I forgot I took pictures of. I was in Detroit, and an apartment-warming party took place that Saturday, and I baked caramelized apple upside-down cake, which I have baked so many times in the past five years, in a cute little old oven.
It doesn't normally look exactly like this—here it's capturing the afternoon sun. That weekend's Sunday sky was less bleak than this one's, even if the steam in coming out of this street in Midtown is a little ominous:
Here, now, in Ann Arbor, the clouds broke a little, but then everything just got darker.
Emma: Whatever you do, don't look up the weather for the next ten days. It gets worse. So much worse.
The sky is glowing the worst glow it could, an oppressively bright grey, almost white but in no way reminiscent of snow. From my room, it feels like our attic is floating in a vacuum, just us and these ugly, naked weed trees. There isn't a break in the clouds in any direction, which is all too clear thanks to my three skylights. It's smothering, how the heavens are ceaselessly reminding us of mediocrity right now. I feel horrible about life, and it's not my fault. Sundays like this are the worst.
Emma just walked into my room: "The sky's so big. There's like nothing that would make me happy right now." If I didn't have to go to work in a few minutes, I could maybe have escaped this feeling today. There are cheerier places to work on your computer or read a book. It will get dark, and the Christmas lights that have been on the trees for three days will turn on. But I'll be in a kitchen, or at a cash register, and I'll miss it.
Thinking about the summer won't help. Nothing will help besides maybe a shower and getting lost in a good book and some candles to lighten the atmosphere. But here's a cheerier Sunday, two weeks ago, that I forgot I took pictures of. I was in Detroit, and an apartment-warming party took place that Saturday, and I baked caramelized apple upside-down cake, which I have baked so many times in the past five years, in a cute little old oven.
Emma: Whatever you do, don't look up the weather for the next ten days. It gets worse. So much worse.
On to Phase Three
September
October
Starting tomorrow, we face November's fall. I can't say I'm pleased. November has a bad track record, the colors will all fade away, and though the heat in this building is finally on, I'm still shivering.
Homecoming
Disregarding the exhortation of the poem I translated and posted (Let's lead ourselves behind the light of the cold's written proof) and the homework assigned by my archaeology professor (Find someplace warmer than this), Emma, Cooper and I ventured significantly north for the first half of our vacation—to Montréal.
We drove the whole way, which was much cheaper for three people than the train would have been, and let me tell you, Ontario lasts pretty much forever. I don't know if it makes it seem longer or shorter that the majority of the rest stops heading west are closed temporarily, but it is a problem. (Today on the kitchen table I saw that Arizona just closed their rest stops period, which is horrible.) This required us to bring the rotisserie chicken and baguettes we'd purchased at the Marché Jean-Talon in Montréal into a normal McDonald's to eat. We had no other option.
As we neared Toronto on the trip home, we drove into the sunset, which became ever more spectacular until it faded away...in time for Toronto's buildings to sparkle in the darkness. As we left Toronto behind, the blackness settled around us and the highway became much emptier. More than four hours later, the twinkling peaks of the Ambassador Bridge came into view in the distance. Soon we could see Detroit's skyline. Everyone knows Detroit is in trouble, but Emma and Cooper wondered if everyone knows Detroit is better than Windsor. The conclusion reached: most people probably don't know Windsor exists, which is probably a victory, but also probably not true. Then Emma complained again about all the British names in Ontario.
Windsor and the Ambassador Bridge from Detroit's Riverwalk, July 2008.
On I-75, the Lodge, I-94, the roads were so well lit, and I could switch to any lane I wanted in an instant. Leaving Montréal had taken an hour, probably, because of a mishap with lane changes in the crowded tunnel that takes you from downtown and QC-720 to QC-20 (which in turn takes you to the interminable 401 across Ontario). We ended up across a bridge instead of on the way back home and found ourselves turning around in the casino's parking structure. It wasn't the last time we found ourselves at a casino on the journey home, either.
In Detroit, we dropped Cooper off at Wayne State and headed home. Emma stuck the Avett Brothers in the CD player and we sang along as loud as we could, while I enjoyed knowing just how fast would be all right. In the middle lane on 94, there was a van/bus/thing, lights on, attached to a smaller vehicle behind it. The van's back wheels weren't touching the ground—it was not pulling, it was being pushed by the smaller car. How did they see? We laughed, but sped ahead to avoid the accident Emma was sure would happen. Then off the highway and onto Alter and I made all the lights but one, and the inevitable one after you've entered Grosse Pointe. In Grosse Pointe, I worried about the headlights behind me and wished I was going less than four miles above the speed limit. To get a ticket a block from home would be horrendous. But we made it back safely.
Where are the photos of Montréal, you might ask. Or more likely, you would ask it without the accent aigu: where are the photos of Montreal? When are you going to write about Montreal? Why did you put that accent on it even though you are not douchey enough to pronounce it en français while speaking English? The answer, my dear reader, is that I am too busy playing the Sims and worrying about life to go through all my photos right now. And I like to put accents on things, although I'm feeling a little awkward about this one. Most likely, you aren't even asking any of these questions, because you aren't reading my blog. Oh well. But Montreal, and Mont-Royal, and taking a trip were all great. Whoever you are (besides faithful reader, commenter, and kindred spirit Ali!), just wait.
We drove the whole way, which was much cheaper for three people than the train would have been, and let me tell you, Ontario lasts pretty much forever. I don't know if it makes it seem longer or shorter that the majority of the rest stops heading west are closed temporarily, but it is a problem. (Today on the kitchen table I saw that Arizona just closed their rest stops period, which is horrible.) This required us to bring the rotisserie chicken and baguettes we'd purchased at the Marché Jean-Talon in Montréal into a normal McDonald's to eat. We had no other option.
On I-75, the Lodge, I-94, the roads were so well lit, and I could switch to any lane I wanted in an instant. Leaving Montréal had taken an hour, probably, because of a mishap with lane changes in the crowded tunnel that takes you from downtown and QC-720 to QC-20 (which in turn takes you to the interminable 401 across Ontario). We ended up across a bridge instead of on the way back home and found ourselves turning around in the casino's parking structure. It wasn't the last time we found ourselves at a casino on the journey home, either.
In Detroit, we dropped Cooper off at Wayne State and headed home. Emma stuck the Avett Brothers in the CD player and we sang along as loud as we could, while I enjoyed knowing just how fast would be all right. In the middle lane on 94, there was a van/bus/thing, lights on, attached to a smaller vehicle behind it. The van's back wheels weren't touching the ground—it was not pulling, it was being pushed by the smaller car. How did they see? We laughed, but sped ahead to avoid the accident Emma was sure would happen. Then off the highway and onto Alter and I made all the lights but one, and the inevitable one after you've entered Grosse Pointe. In Grosse Pointe, I worried about the headlights behind me and wished I was going less than four miles above the speed limit. To get a ticket a block from home would be horrendous. But we made it back safely.
Where are the photos of Montréal, you might ask. Or more likely, you would ask it without the accent aigu: where are the photos of Montreal? When are you going to write about Montreal? Why did you put that accent on it even though you are not douchey enough to pronounce it en français while speaking English? The answer, my dear reader, is that I am too busy playing the Sims and worrying about life to go through all my photos right now. And I like to put accents on things, although I'm feeling a little awkward about this one. Most likely, you aren't even asking any of these questions, because you aren't reading my blog. Oh well. But Montreal, and Mont-Royal, and taking a trip were all great. Whoever you are (besides faithful reader, commenter, and kindred spirit Ali!), just wait.
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