Blame Canada!

Motor City, baby!

Could I have taken a worse picture of Detroit?



After leaving The Mecca O’ Ford, I made my way further into Detroit. I didn’t know what I’d find, and to tell the truth I was a little nervous given the city’s reputation, but I figured 3:00 in the afternoon was a safe enough time to visit. Actually, I really wanted to go to Ontario, just to say I’d been to Canada, and maybe get some pictures of Detroit from the Canadian side of the water. I figured the view would be nicer and the streets safer for walking, so I got in the lane to cross over into Canada, paid my $2.75, and off I went to another country. A country that has mandated health care. A country that has a lower crime rate. A country that wouldn’t let me in.

Seriously, they told me to "Get ooot, eh!"

The customs officer at the checkpoint asked me if I was carrying any mace or pepper spray. I didn’t want to lie. I said "Yeah, a little one." Bear in mind, she didn’t ask me if I was carrying a gun. Or a tazer. Or a bloody axe like that other guy they let cross the border. No, just pepper spray. So I said yes and she looked at me like a judge looks at a juvenile delinquent he’s seen for the tenth time, like, "Will you ever learn?", and sighed, "Okay, you’re going to have to abandon that."
That’s when I said, "Oh, hell no."
"You’re not going to give it up?"
"I can’t, ma’am. I’m traveling alone. It’s my only means of defending myself."
"What do you mean, defend yourself? You’re going to be in Canada!"
"Well, yeah, but I’m going back to Detroit in a couple hours!"
"Have you ever used it?" she asked, in a way that implied I was coming to Canada for the sole purpose of going on a reckless pepper spray shooting spree, just running up to people, unprovoked, and macing them with glee.
"No, ma’am, and hopefully I’ll never have to."
"Well, you can’t bring it into Canada. So I guess you can’t come into Canada."
"Fine! That’s fine," I said, then under my breath, "I didn’t want to come to your stupid country anyway."

She sent me over to a building that looked like a bus terminal, where I counted 22 armed customs agents lined up against a wall, sitting on benches and waiting, just waiting to get their hands on a rule-breaker. A young kid in a kevlar vest carrying a clipboard approached the car. I could smell the power trip the minute I opened the door. "Stay in the car, ma’am!" he shouted, reaching for the gun on his hip. Now it was getting ridiculous.
"Okaaaaaay," I sighed, in a tone that said, ‘You got me!’, putting my hands in the air. The 21 other agents were chomping at the bit to get in on the "action", probably hoping against hope that I was a terrorist. Or a pepper spray fiend.
"Why do you want to come to Canada?"
"I just wanted to take some pictures," I said.
He gave me a look usually reserved for child molesters. "Why do you need pepper spray to take pictures?" he sneered.

Oh. My. God.

"Just fill out the paperwork and get me out of here, okay? This is futile. This conversation is a waste of oxygen. I hate this country." Holding my camera to the open window I said, "Smile pretty!"
"NO PICTURES!" he screamed, again reaching for his gun holster.
"Fine. Fine," I said, as he placed a form of some sort under my windshield wiper.
"Now, you’re gonna show this to the agent over the bridge."
"Well, what if it blows away when I’m crossing?"
"It shouldn’t, ma’am."
"And if it does?" Of all the places I didn’t want to be, stuck in customs limbo between Detroit and this guy was at the top of the list
"It shouldn’t!" he shouted, exasperated at my logic.
"Fine!" I snapped back. Pulling away I shouted out the window, "And you guys wonder why you’re the red-headed stepchild of America!"
So I paid another $2.75 to cross a bridge back to the states. I never thought I’d say to myself, "Oh, thank god I’m back in Detroit!"

Driving the elevated highways of Motor City, I left Jen a voicemail. "Those god-forsaken, mullet-wearing, hockey-loving, meat-pie-munching, EH-saying Canucks wouldn't let me in, can you believe that?"

The rest of Michigan was nice, but uneventful. I stopped at a motel in a town called Coldwater and got some shitty, over-priced food at a diner, and two $3.00 bottles of wine at Rite-Aid, one of which I drank all of while writing on the porch. Two older British couples were in the rooms to the left of me, and they were sitting outside as well, drinking beer and chatting. I talked to them a little bit, just enough to know that they were from London and had been on a whirlwind tour of the northern states. I didn’t have the balls to ask them how they felt about the bombings. They seemed remarkably unfazed, totally unlike how I would have acted if a bomb had gone off in my city (again) and I wasn’t there.

I could tell they wanted to talk, and I wanted to talk to them, but I also knew I had to get a lot of work done, so I had to be anti-social. That’s completely unlike me, to shun making new friends, but the sheer volume of stuff that’s been happening warranted more attention than I’d been able to give to that point. Michigan was a welcome break from all the galavanting of Ohio, New York, and Pittsburgh. I made my way across the bottom of the mitten-shape, passing slowly through little towns and valleys.

The fun and frenzy started up again as soon as I got to Indiana. Okay, now try something for me: think of Indiana. What do you picture in your mind? Corn? Cows? Bob Knight? Well, whatever you picture, I bet you don’t imagine miles of beautiful beaches, warm blue water and lush, grassy dunes. I didn’t either, until I saw it. But I was driving into Indiana and saw signs for Indiana Dune National Park and just had to stop. There was a campground there, and I have a National Parks Pass, so I camped for the night. It was gorgeous.

There are a lot of entrances to the various areas of the dune park lined up along Rt. 12, which extends all the way into Illinois. I turned into one and climbed a set of stairs that led up into some thin woods. A path through the trees led to a cut between two huge sand dunes, each about the size of a two-story house, with marsh grasses and soft bushes growing up the sides. The sand was clean and white. Past the dunes, the path opened out onto a magnificent beach. The white sand met the pale blue of Lake Michigan in a smooth line that stretched miles in either direction. Small waves crested and broke, making the only sound besides the wind off the water and the shorebirds calling from the scruffy trees atop the dunes. "This is Indiana?" I kept
thinking.

There wasn’t the usual ocean debris clogging the shoreline, like driftwood or shells, or steep rift in sand that tide creates. There were no seagulls cawing, because there were no sandcrabs to chase into the soft, wet ground. It was so incredible, so unbelieveably pristine that I almost didn’t notice four teenagers in bathing suits, two boys and two girls, lined up behind me atop the tallest dune, about four stories high. The dune dropped off so sharply that walking down was impossible - one just had to step off and hope. Each of them lost their footing and slid down on their backs, one by one. They brushed the sand from their thighs and snapped their suits to empty what had collected as I climbed back up the smaller dune. It was difficult, the sand kept giving way under my sneakers and I’m out of shape, but I made it by singing the chorus of that rap song - "You can do it, put your back into it! You can do it, put your ass into it!" A little out of context but it worked.

The campgrounds themselves were fairly dialed-in. There were showers, electricity, dishsinks, and fire rings with grills on top. I was inspired by that and decided to grill some meat - I was splurging! I still had that cheap red wine that would go great with a tiny steak. Finding a grocery store was a little difficult - I had to drive all the way back to the Michigan border and swerve in and out of the one-way streets of Michigan City, but the prices were good and it was worth it. I got two nice cuts of steak for $2.00 - two dollars!!! When I saw that, I thought hell, I’m going all out, I’m getting a potato! Some tin foil and garlic salt later, I was singing happily, heading back to camp.

I had bought wood but had trouble getting a fire started, so I stopped for lighter fluid at the tiny gas station outside the campground entrance. There was an interesting array of buildings gathered at the intersection - a liquor store, the gas station, a train station with a pink neon sign that read, "Beverly Shores", an abandoned one-story, office-type building, and a two-story brick house with a small parking lot for a front yard. The house and lot bordered the gas station fairly closely. A bunch of grown-ups were scattered throughout the lot, drinking Coronas on their knees and coloring with chalk. A tiny boy of about 3 ran in between them, occasionally stopping to draw something himself. Strains of Rusted Root floated out the open front door. A big man with a bald head and bushy, salt-and-pepper beard saw me watching and smiled widely. "Come play with chalk with us," he said, smoothly. Another man in the lot, about 30 with long, light-brown hair and big blue eyes, waved to me as he was filling in a green balloon. "Come on over!"
"I would, but I left my fire going," I said, shyly. I wasn’t sure if I should just up and join the party, plus I had steak calling my name back at the site.

The lighter fluid helped immensely, and soon I was grilling my beautiful steaks and had stuck a potato in the coals, wrapped in foil. Everything was going great, until I went to flip one of the pieces and dropped it. In the sand. In the SAND! "Crap!" I said, as I reached for it and inspected the damage. Sand stuck to each side of it, but I hated to throw it away. I brushed it off and placed it back on the grill, thinking, "I bet the Indians dropped a piece of meat every now and then and didn’t throw a hissy fit."

But then - BUT THEN - just because I am so freakin’ smart, I thought, "Hey, I bet if I hold the steak in the flames, the sand will just burn off!"

And you’re thinking, "Yeah, Jessica, or just cover your meat in a thin sheet of glass, one or the other!"

So it was crunchy. Grainy, even. But damn, was it good.

Later on, recounting the story to my dad, he gave me a look that begged, "How did I manage to raise such an idiot?"
"If you put enough sand on one side, maybe you wouldn’t have even needed a plate," he said.
"Stop looking at me like that, Dad."

I polished off the steak and the entire bottle of wine while writing about Fredonia, then decided to take a walk and see if the chalk people were still at work. They were still hard at work partying, although the chalk drawing had ceased. "Hey, there you are!" the big guy waved, seeing me cross the street. "We were wondering when you were coming back!"

His name was Frank. The long-haired guy was inside, dancing alone to some jam-band music. His name was Chris, then there was a sweet, freckled lady named Tyka, a pretty brunette named Karen and a tall, dark-haired guy whose name escapes me. "Yeah, I couldn’t pass up a party," I said.
"Awesome," Frank said. "Would you like a beer?"
"Sure," I said, sending Frank into the house saying, "Chris, that girl is here."

We all sat outside and talked in that excited way that slightly buzzed people do, about work and traveling and love. After awhile, Frank and Tyka were dancing, Karen and Tall Guy went for a walk, and that left Chris and I to chat. He was a hippie if ever there was one. "Man, what you’re doing is right on! You can be as spontaneous as you want. Hey, I work in a glass shop down the street. Do you want to see it?"
"Right now? It’s, like, 1 in the morning."
"Yeah, but I have keys. Come on, it’s cool, let’s take a ride!"
"No, thanks," I said, Rule #4 from the How To Avoid Serial Killers book my mom made me read running through my head - "Never get in the car."
"What if we got everybody to come? Would you feel better then?"
"Maybe."

Karen and Tall Guy couldn’t come because they had "other plans", Tyka had to go home, and Frank had to stay home with little Max, the boy who had been running around the lot. He was asleep. That left just Chris and I again. Frank could see my apprehension, and when Chris went inside to use the bathroom, he came over and said, "Trust me. He’s harmless. You’re okay here."
For some reason, I believed this gentle giant, as though some good, peaceful, trustworthy vibe transcended the borders of being strangers.

When Chris came back outside, he asked, "You ready?" I looked at Frank. He nodded.
"Okay," I said, taking my pepper spray out of my purse and holding it strategically as usual.
Chris and I rode down to a large post-and-beam building by the water, going in the back door.
The smell of sage and dust hung in the air as he showed me around.

"This is what I do," he said, showing me a half-finished, gorgeous window hanging. It was a hummingbird; the beautiful colors were offset by the shiny silver rods in between the pieces. He showed me others - the one that struck me the most was a smaller hanging illustrating the caramel-colored head of a woman wrapped in a blue burka. Three thick black pieces of glass ran vertically through each third of the picture, giving the appearance of bars. The woman’s sad, dark eyes were the only feature visible, a giant black bar running in between.
"I like that one," I told him.
"Oh, man, you have no idea how many complaints we’ve gotten about it," he said. "One Arabian guy came up to us when we were selling this stuff at a festival kiosk and got in the owner’s face. He threatened to break it."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Eh, I guess people don’t want to be reminded of the faults of their own religions. Come on, let’s play some music!"

He skipped over to a giant CD rack and said, "Go ahead, pick whatever you want. It’s all good. Whatever you want. Actually, pick this one." He pulled out Bruce Hornsby’s latest album.
"Good choice!" I said, popping it in. The first piano melodies of "Changes Made" floated over the whole shop as Chris started dancing.
"Come on, dance!" he cried. "This is fun!"

Actually, it was. The great thing about hippie-dancing is that you never have to get it quite right, or impress anybody like at a club. You never have to be the sexiest girl on the floor, or have the hottest moves. You just move. It’s great. Who cares if you look like a drunken toddler, it’s all about having fun. I love it.

So here’s me and Chris, dancing like crazy hippies around a glass shop at 2 in the morning. Well, mostly we just jumped up and down, laughing at the crazy turns life can take. I mean, I certainly never thought I’d be dancing around a glass shop to Bruce Hornsby in Indiana in the middle of the night.

When we started to get muscle cramps from all that jumping, Chris showed me some more glasswork. I had lots of questions. When I asked one about how glass is beveled, he didn’t bother answering. He just said, "Screw it, I’m going to show you." He led me into a different room with four wheels. "These are grinding stones," he started, taking me step-by-step through the whole process. He beveled a small piece of glass to demonstrate, then put it in my hand. "That’s for you to remember me by."

Chris was very cool - we sat outside drinking beers, talking about families and our childhoods for awhile. He told me about his girlfriend in Chicago. I told him about my dad. The mosquitos feasted on my legs. I started to fall asleep and asked him to drive me back to Frank’s, so I could walk back to my campsite. That’s when things got a little weird.
"Why don’t I just come back to your campsite with you?" he said. "Y’know, we can just cuddle."

A whole bottle of wine and three beers hadn’t dulled me that much. "No, I’m fine by myself."
"No, really, please just let me go back with you! I don’t want to do anything, I just want to sleep next to you!"
My mind: "Yeah, right, ‘just sleep’. No fucking way."
My mouth: "No. No, no, no."
This went back and forth for awhile, and he admitted the reason he was so hell-bent on sleeping in my tent was because he was convinced he’d never see me again. I managed to reason that if he kept acting creepy and not taking me home, he could bet on never seeing me again. That worked, and I made it to my tent alone and unharmed.

The next day, I got a page from a number I didn’t recognize. It was Chris. "Hey, I really want to apologize if I acted out of line last night. I had a few too many. I’m so sorry if I was aggressive." Of course I forgave him. He really is a good person.

So, all in all, between The Henry Ford, the Rosa Parks bus, The Wienermobile, getting kicked out of Canada, eating glassy steak, joining a hippie party, and dancing around a glass shop to Bruce Hornsby at 2 in the morning, it was quite a couple of days!