Walking around the neighbourhood was very educational. It is a living example of urban neglect and how people on an individual basis try to make more of what they have. I traveled down many streets, across lush abandoned lots and through the rubble of abandonment. I witnessed new development sharing blocks with renovated and rebuilt homes, only strides from buildings caving in on themselves. In about an hour and a half, I took something near to 36 photographs and coverered an area of about 8-10 blocks in and around the Inn. My favourite spots were the pair of abandoned apartments, the Lancaster and it's much more dilapidated neighbour, the Wau-something-or-other. The latter's roof had collapsed into the third floor and great chunks of brinks were falling free from its eaves and trim. The former, of the same style, obviously was lived in longer and was more than likely housing homeless as it's door was ajar. It took every ounce of willpower I had, not to open the door and go in, though I did fully explore its stoop and porch. It had, on its door, a poster that read, "This building is being watched", in response to Hallowe'en arson. My other favourite building was the peeling, crumbling farm-style house that had a completely functional, well-kept dinner built onto its front. Talk about random.

Everyone I met on my walk was very nice, offering greetings and waving at me from afar. On one street, in very good repair, I met the ONLY white man I saw living in the area. He was mowing his lawn with a hand-push mower and had a very happy black and white dog and an equally pleased black and white cat, both watching him from his porch. Everyone else I saw was black, as the white population fled Detroit for the suburbs three decades ago. As a point of fact, though a slight digression, almost every white person I spoke to or met in Detroit was biggoted, right-wing, or utterly boring, coming into the city only for a ballgame. The lovely woman at the Aquarium on Belle Isle was impossible not to like, despite her unbelievable comment, in refering to not voting Republican this time around, as she almost always has before, "Lieberman is starting to look alright, even if he is a Democrat and a Jew."

And Jew? You mean people still think this way? Holy crap. And yet, the entire staff at the aquarium were black and clearly liked this woman, as did Mom and I, but... Wow. The desk girl on the last day of our stay at the Inn, had unfortunate ideas about Detroit's inner city problems and believed, coming from the Suburbs as she did, that if the city raised the prices, it would attract the 'right' element, rather than the people currently able to afford it. She said that the drug addicts buy the houses for cheap... I refrained from saying, "Why would they bother to buy them when they can just walk in and squat?" Some people absolutely have no idea about the real world.

Anyway, let me return to my previous account. I returned to the hotel room and regaled my mother with stories of the fascinating places I'd discovered and the amazing randomness of the devestation. Before we left Detroit the following day, I navigated our way through bits of my walk, with Mom at the wheel, to see some of the things I'd told her about. She was as amazed by it as I was.

Our major decisions while in Detroit centred on where we were to eat, as our purpose there was already worked out. On our first night, Tuesday, we spent a good deal of time consulting the little binder left in our room. It had restaurant recommendations and bits of info about the Inn, etc. It was hard to choose, though, and we hmmed and hawed for quite some time before I inadvertantly flipped to the back and found the room service menu. It was provided by a restaurant called Union Street and it caught our attention with not-unreasonable prices and a varied, interesting selection of foods. And that was just the delivery menu. We went into the main house to ask the woman at reception, Cheryl (who was a delight), what she recommended and we were taken in hand by the Inn's shuttle driver, Mike. He immediately said, "Union Street," and we said that sounded like what we wanted. He shuttled us there and told us what various buildings were, and when we arrived at the restaurant, it was like an oasis of vibrancy in an otherwise bare neighbourhood.

Jazz and eclectic music was playing on the sound system and many conversations rang like music in our ears as we entered. We were taken to a table near the back, beneath some great graphic prints, and were served by a bright, articulate, funny, charming waiter named Miles. He reminded Mom and I of our family friend, Robert, and, as it turned out, Miles was actually from Windsor, though he grew up in... Toronto. Keen. The friendliness and warmth of Detroit had rubbed off on him, though. He was almost as good as the food and the food... Let me tell you about the food ! Oh my GOD. You have not tasted calamari until you have tasted the calamari at Union Street.* It's in a creamy, garlicky sauce, with tomatoes and onions and I swear, it's better than just about anything. For our entrees, Mom ordered a Kung Pow chicken salad (enormous and very well balanced flavours and textures), and I had the salmon tortelini. I could not finish my entree, I kid you not, despite my best hoovering efforts. It was simply too rich and delicious. I also had a Bourbon (Jack Daniels) Sour that blew my socks off. Wow. We finished off that evening with a scenic tour with Mike, the shuttle driver who had nothing else to do acting as a very knowledgeable tour guide, and then turned in early because we were pooped.

Our second meal took us to Greektown, Detroit's tiny tourist neighbourhood in which is built the Greektown Casino. There were plenty of Greek restaurants to choose from and in the end, Mom and I took the one that looked the least pretentious, the most old-school one we could find. Mom didn't love her spanikopita and rice plate, but she doesn't love rice, whereas I scored pretty well with the cold appetiser plate. Among the goodies on my plate were marinated octopus, which was especially good with the potato dip, and the tsatziki. I had a glass of retsina wine, which is an acquired taste, and it was delicious. Before eating, we had the adventure of finding parking (no shuttle this time) and Detroit's various overpriced and creepy parking lots. Finally, car parked in a lot guarded by a strange, but nice, Sikh man, we headed for Detroit's people mover. When it was built, it was probably a good idea, zipping people through the downtown core like a little ell-train. Now, it seems sort of weird as it winds its way through the half abandoned buildings. On our return to our car, we encountered a homeless man who was in fine, chipper spirits. He asked for no money, chatted with us, and gave us the plastic bead necklesses he wore around his neck. We tried to refuse them, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. They're hanging now from Bernadette's rear-view mirror, mementos of our trip, odd symbols of a struggling city kept living by a weak, but warm heart.

More details to come.

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*Tanya, you MUST go to Union Street next time you go hear the Detroit Symphony - it's fantastic !! It's about a mile and a half up Woodward from the downtown, only seconds from the opera house.
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It was Anna's wedding this past weekend. I'll have details about that sometime soon, too. For now, suffice it to say, it was an eating wedding. We ate for three-and-a-half hours ! How very Italian. :)