Michigan with a side of Cleveland

If you’ve ever read the newspaper series called “Three perfect days in —,” you might not think that Ypsilanti, Michigan, and Cleveland, Ohio, would ever make the cut. But with just the right combination of events...

It all started with an invitation to a party in Ypsilanti, where we earlier spent a less-than-thrilling year. A former student of my partner’s was getting her doctorate and sent us an announcement of a celebratory party. The three of us had done some fun research and speaking together, and we had become good friends as well as colleagues. We have often said that we came away from Ypsi loving two things: this woman and the flan at a tiny Mexican restaurant there. (The two were not, of course, in the same category of “love.”) A chance to share in our friend’s celebration seemed like a good reason to go back for a visit. So there we were, against all odds, headed back to Ypsilanti.

We flew into the Detroit airport, which set me thinking. I’m always struck by the contrast between this expansive, modern airport and the sorrowful recent history of the “motor city.” Living here just before the recession officially arrived, we saw a small sample of the economic downturn of southeastern Michigan. We also got a big hit of how much that corner of the state is identified with what they call simply “automotive.” The sense of a nearly universally shared economic/vocational identity was so strong that even people whose work was only very incidentally related to cars thought of themselves being in “automotive.” The allegiance to this industry as the go-to job-maker persisted even when automotive seemed to be leaving the state high and dry. When we lived there (2004-5), sales of American automobiles were already on the skids. Plants were laying off, even closing, with whole sections of towns like Flint simply shutting down as a result. Yet, when the state had some money designated for development, they chose to invest in another car manufacturing plant instead of diversifying an economy that looked to be in death throes even then. The automotive industry has seen a bit of a resurrection of late, although the airport still seems deserted, way too big for the volume of passenger traffic it carries. Maybe the city will come back, grow into its airport.

Anyway, back to our “three perfect days …” After a grand, long, leisurely dinner with our friend on the evening we arrived, we were footloose until her party. My partner was trying to arrange a research interview in the area, and once that was settled, we headed off on a field trip to Cleveland.

“Cleveland?” you ask. 

Yup. 

Just three hours down the road and home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!

It was a nice day trip, three hours of rolling through the farms of the heartland. The radio stations we happened onto offered the latest hog prices and wheat futures, interspersed with country music, religious programming, some contemporary stations, and even an occasional hit of the rock and roll whose story we were about to explore in depth. It was a lovely spring day, the fields were beautiful—dark, damp soil (though without the red of Colorado fields) just showing green shoots. Cows, horses, and sheep were scattered in the fields and barnyards—though we didn't see any of those hogs they mentioned on the radio.

We cruised into Cleveland late in the morning, thinking this would give us plenty of time before the museum closed at 5:30. Wrong. You know how museums are—especially for a deeply devoted music aficionada like my partner and a curious neophyte like me. Except for a very short lunch break, we perused exhibits and watched documentaries (with lots of music included) right up to closing time. I was especially intrigued by a short documentary that sketched the evolution of R & R. It showed post-WWII “American” music—i.e., the music of white, middle-class America, Perry Como, Doris Day, “Your Hit Parade”—juxtaposed with the less visible (to most of us) genres of Black music, jazz, the blues, the spirituals, and white country and bluegrass music—a combination of which gave birth to rock and roll. 

I knew virtually none of this, and now my curiosity is piqued. In order to see the half of the museum we missed entirely or skipped over far too lightly, we’re hoping for a return trip—she for further immersion in an art form about which there is always more to learn and plenty to appreciate; I for another introductory lesson.

Ypsilanti Water Tower, 1890

With the time we had left before the big event, we actually hung out. During these "perfect days," we slept in, with the “Do not disturb” sign on the door. Then, we filled our time with gentle meandering. We cruised around Ypsilanti, driving past our old house and snapping photos of the water tower, pictured here. (Not surprisingly, this water tower has been the brunt of many a joke. It was once draped in a very large sheet of plastic for World AIDS Day, and a nearby pizza shop named “Dick’s” uses the tower for a logo.)  We hung out in coffee shops, my partner working, as is her wont, and I reading We Need to Talk about Kevin—excellent and disturbing. We ate at favorite restaurants: the vegetarian restaurant in Ann Arbor remains superb; the Mexican restaurant in Ypsi was out of the flan we love, a deeply disappointing moment. 

And we serendipitously happened onto the Ann Arbor film festival and grabbed tickets for “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” at the Michigan Theater, one of those old, refurbished theaters that grace many towns—this one comes complete with an old organ and live pre-show organ music. "Marigold" is a must-see film, especially for people who are old, people who feel uncomfortable about old people, and people who will someday become old.

The three perfect days closed with a really nice party for our friend, hosted by her mom and attended by about 70 of her closest friends, plus her two kids and her husband. She’s a wonderful person, so the number wasn’t surprising, and the energy was proportionally high. We got to watch her older son and 8 or 10 other kids playing everything from “perch too many kids on the plastic climbing structures” through “see how much pizza you can fit in your little mouth at once” to “pound each other on the back and see who complains.” The adults had their own pastimes—talking in little knots or around large tables, sipping wine and munching on nuts or balancing plates of food on their laps, firing up the karaoke machine for some homemade entertainment. Another form of music I know too little about.

Now, this may not sound like an exciting vacation, but it was, in fact, perfect. A delightful combination of good friendship, a fun and educational field trip (with bonus information on agricultural prices), good food, a chance to catch up on sleep, a spontaneous movie, and quiet, unencumbered leisure time.

Three perfect days in Ypsilanti, with a side of Cleveland.