Cafe Hitch-hike



Alternate titles for this entry:

Welcome to Detroit, where the weak are killed and eaten

Welcome to Detroit, now duck!

Tears on I-75


I left sunshine, the ocean, white sand beaches, southern hospitality, manners, sweet tea, ocean giggolos, and nicer folks only make my return to concrete, smog, fire sirens, Arabs, and widespead urban neglect. I thought I'd be cursing my return to this curse-ed city.

I expected the weariness in my mind to color my arrival back home. I dreaded having to return to the university library and told John, while on I-75 going through Ohio, that I was going to give the place my "Dear John" letter, regardless. I dreaded having to see the dipilated homes and roads of Detroit, the shrieks and hollers I constantly hear around the university. The coarseness and crassness that is the norm there.

But no.

Oh, yeah. I don't live in Detroit. I only work there. The grass and trees were greener than before. Traffic was low. The sky was periwinkle with wispy stripes of clouds.

I dropped John off at his place before I headed home (we took mine to Florida), and noticed how much more still my locale felt. There was no frenzy.

I unlocked the door to my upper flat and it smelled of dried wood with hints of attic.

We missed you, the living room said to me.

We missed you, too, said the bathroom.

My house looked beautiful to me.

My flat had a soft amber glow from the hardwood floors. My bedroom, with its red curtains and wall decor, also had that same glow.

It was so nice to be home. I sighed and smiled. This was my home.

I could only see things this way from being away for a while.

downwind | upstream