detroit

You finish the first day and those wings, they vanish like they’ve never been and you land, carefully, gingerly, in your sandals on your injured left foot. You call two of your oldest and most absent friends, who are in a genteel suburb a little to your west, and agree that dinner should be later rather than sooner.

You kidnap Cary, still wearing your belt, and drive north to a Lebanese bakery you have loved for years. You talk of marriages and travel and biking and programming before telling the person at the counter yes, you need six mixed trays of pastries and no, you don’t need a bag for that.

He gives your belt back to you at the hotel, and you have a few minutes to wait before the old friends arrive and it’s time to walk, walk, walk on that injured left foot again into the area of Greektown where, the night before, you were high-fived by strangers after the Red Wings won.

You are late. His photographic memory was of a Detroit that no longer resembles the Detroit of today, and the library is closed. There is no parking, and you are achingly aware that you are late. You are failing before you can even walk in the building, and the horrific sensation of falling is claiming your stomach even as you walk toward your classroom.

You have a classroom. That’ll be one square inch of stomach lining, please.

You are out of time, and you have fourteen students. They look at you with this expectant look. You flash the smile that gets you kindnesses from strangers, knowing full well this smile must somehow last for eight hours, and you reach in your camera bag for your laptop.

The car crash begins there.  You have over-planned, and you are about to pay for it.

It ends with a shiny new Detroit terminal, and the most expensive rental car you’ve ever arranged for. You pass the giant tire, a covered-up Ferris wheel that seems strangely metaphorical for this collapsing city, into one of the strangest urban areas your home country has to offer.

You are keenly aware that you are absolutely alone, and you know you have fewer than twelve hours to call this whole ridiculous set of shenanigans off.  You are not a teacher; you are the daughter of one, and you ran screaming from that profession as far as your geeky, chubby legs could carry you.

You are not a teacher, you repeat into the phone to someone who is. You are not certain whether you want reassurance, or a kick in the ass.  You get both. You pace your hotel room and stare out to the Detroit skyline, contemplating how you will fail spectacularly the next morning, and rehearse your apologies.

Start simple. A cherry limeade and tater tots will do, eaten in a silver car that quickly heads further south along a freeway very familiar to the both of you.

Dress it up. Put on your red shoes, your best pearls, your genie pants and go, go, go until you can’t walk, can’t think, can’t stay awake. Watch them say "I do." Say goodbye. Let your friends take you away afterwards, where you sleep in the car, lulled by the freeway, for nearly two hours.

The peanut butter and German honey sandwich you are given will be the last meal you eat in someone’s house for some number of days. You suspect this, and your drive to savor this last piece of house and home wars with your immediate need for food.

I’m in Detroit, teaching a class to librarians. Can we say ‘learning experience’? Here’s what I’ve been up to:

I’m in Detroit, teaching a class to librarians. Can we say ‘learning experience’? Here’s what I’ve been up to: