I have a strong memory of the first snowfall after I moved to Massachusetts to go to college. I was coming from California, and had convinced myself (or been convinced) that I would hate the cold weather. I made jokes about it, but I was genuinely afraid that I would spend months being unhappy. And then fall arrived, and it got chilly, but fall in north-western Massachusetts is so famously beautiful that the weather really couldn't get me down. But still I thought—when the snow arrives, I will be miserable.
And then the first snowfall happened, and it was sublime. It was like a cloud of soft white feathers. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. I was transfixed, like that dumb scene American Beauty where the kid films the plastic bag blowing in the wind, except instead of one anthropomorphized object, there was a swarm little dancers joyfully spinning all around me. I told myself to remember the experience.
This week, Cleveland had its first snowfall of the season. And it was like a thousand tiny little daggers stabbing my face again and again.
Coming soon on Letters from Cleveland: Greg reports on the special hell that is the "Wintry Mix." They have invented a whole new form of weather here, that I had never heard of! It's going to be a long winter.
10 November 2007
06 November 2007
RAPID TRANSIT, SEGREGATION
So I'm back from a trip to Québec, where I spent most of the time explaining that Cleveland isn't really that bad and that my crippling depression really isn't that crippling. All in all, the trip was probably not worth the extraordinary expense.
But this blog is not about Québec or my not-that-crippling depression. It is about Cleveland! And my latest revelatory Cleveland moment was a my trip to the airport, my first encounter with the light-rail component of the dubious-award-winning Cleveland Rapid Transit.
The light rail stop that is walking distance from my house is at 120th and Euclid, which is essentially on the border between East Cleveland and Cleveland proper. East Cleveland has been systematically impoverished. (I have taken some snapshots which perhaps problematically aestheticize the picturesque urban decay and deprivation of East Cleveland.
The train came relatively promptly, and was relatively full. And I was the only white person on the entire train. More than that, I was the only non-African American.
Thinking back, I guess there were many times when I got on the (now defunct) #40 bus line from Oakland to Berkeley when I was the only white person, but then there were invariably Latino and Asian Oaklanders on the bus. I can't immediately call to mind occasions, before coming to Cleveland, that I found myself in entirely black spaces like this, although I'm sure there have been some (that fish and chips shop on Oakland's Grand Ave, maybe? Particular, rare moments at the Chicken and Waffle House?)
I have no particular insight about this fact, or how it felt—particularly because as soon as the train got past the University Circle station I was no longer the only non-black passenger, and by the time we reached Tower City the train was fully integrated. I only make the observation, especially since, like so many experiences so far in Ohio, it is a new to me, but only subtly so.
In related news, today is election day, and I'm not voting, since I never got around to registering. There is, apparently, a measure to fund the Cleveland Heights public schools better. (I heard about it on the radio; I'm too lazy to dig up a link to a news story.) It is predicted to fail, since all the white families send their children to private school, and won't vote to allow their taxes to pay for the consequently-mostly-black public schools. Ain't democracy grand!?
ETA! (Wednesday 7/11): The Cleveland Heights school tax levy passed, 5822 to 4723! Hooray for democracy! Or for noblesse oblige or whatever!
14 October 2007
A PARAPHRASED CONVERSATION
ME: I really love the clothes in your store.
SHOPGUY: Yeah, there's been a real explosion of great new labels recently, and they've been selling really well.
ME: I agree, especially in menswear.
SHOPGUY: Well, we can stock more interesting things for men here. Women in Cleveland don't know how to dress.
ME: What? Really?
SHOPGUY: Yeah. I can sell different, riskier, fashionable clothes to men here, but most of the women who come into the store just want things that are boring and cheap.
ME: That's... weird. You'd think it would be the other way around.
SHOPGUY: Trust me, I've been in retail for years. But just look around—Cleveland woman can't dress themselves.
ME: Why do you think that is?
SHOPGUY: I think women aren't doing well economically in this city, relatively speaking. I mean, when I do get a woman in the store who wants something good, nine times out of ten she says "I'll get my boyfriend or father to buy it for me."
ME: No kidding...
SHOPGUY: Yeah, there's been a real explosion of great new labels recently, and they've been selling really well.
ME: I agree, especially in menswear.
SHOPGUY: Well, we can stock more interesting things for men here. Women in Cleveland don't know how to dress.
ME: What? Really?
SHOPGUY: Yeah. I can sell different, riskier, fashionable clothes to men here, but most of the women who come into the store just want things that are boring and cheap.
ME: That's... weird. You'd think it would be the other way around.
SHOPGUY: Trust me, I've been in retail for years. But just look around—Cleveland woman can't dress themselves.
ME: Why do you think that is?
SHOPGUY: I think women aren't doing well economically in this city, relatively speaking. I mean, when I do get a woman in the store who wants something good, nine times out of ten she says "I'll get my boyfriend or father to buy it for me."
ME: No kidding...
06 October 2007
LAST RITES
I live across the street from a significant cemetery, the final resting place of a number of nineteenth-century notables, most famously John D. Rockefeller and James A. Garfield (Ephs, represent! Or, um, not!).
One day, as I walked to work, I saw a woman walking on the other side of the street along the cemetery walls. She seemed to be in something of a hurry, but she was a short, somewhat elderly woman, so I was keeping up with her. From a distance, at least, she appeared relatively normal -- not dressed in rags or visibly crazy. Except for the fact the she was carrying a dead raccoon by the tail.
On the one hand, I wanted to cross the street and get a closer look. On the other hand, I wanted to stay as far away from this woman as possible. For a block or so, it wasn't clear where she was going, but when the two of us had both reached the intersection where the ornamental stone gates of the cemetery are, it was clear: she was taking the dead raccoon into the graveyard.
The obvious scenario is that she was going to try to bury to the thing somehow. But there are other possibilities: maybe she was going to leave the corpse as an offering to her departed, roadkill-loving spouse? Or maybe she was going to feed it to the pack of wild dogs or cougars of something that roam the cemetery at night. Or perhaps it was just part of a black-witchcraft ceremony. Who knows.
In any case, I was so enthralled with the woman that, just as she disappeared into the gates, I almost ran headlong into in a young black kid walking in an oversized sweatshirt towards me in the opposite direction. He wasn't watching where he was going either, since he too was staring at the roadkill-undertaker. "Did you see that?!" he asked, as if to confirm the he hadn't just imagined it.
"That..." I replied, momentarily at a loss for words, "...was disgusting."
One day, as I walked to work, I saw a woman walking on the other side of the street along the cemetery walls. She seemed to be in something of a hurry, but she was a short, somewhat elderly woman, so I was keeping up with her. From a distance, at least, she appeared relatively normal -- not dressed in rags or visibly crazy. Except for the fact the she was carrying a dead raccoon by the tail.
On the one hand, I wanted to cross the street and get a closer look. On the other hand, I wanted to stay as far away from this woman as possible. For a block or so, it wasn't clear where she was going, but when the two of us had both reached the intersection where the ornamental stone gates of the cemetery are, it was clear: she was taking the dead raccoon into the graveyard.
The obvious scenario is that she was going to try to bury to the thing somehow. But there are other possibilities: maybe she was going to leave the corpse as an offering to her departed, roadkill-loving spouse? Or maybe she was going to feed it to the pack of wild dogs or cougars of something that roam the cemetery at night. Or perhaps it was just part of a black-witchcraft ceremony. Who knows.
In any case, I was so enthralled with the woman that, just as she disappeared into the gates, I almost ran headlong into in a young black kid walking in an oversized sweatshirt towards me in the opposite direction. He wasn't watching where he was going either, since he too was staring at the roadkill-undertaker. "Did you see that?!" he asked, as if to confirm the he hadn't just imagined it.
"That..." I replied, momentarily at a loss for words, "...was disgusting."
01 October 2007
I AM DUBIOUS
Okay, so apparently Cleveland has the best public transit in North America. This seems a little bit crazy.
Granted, I've only lived here for six weeks, so I'm hardly an expert. But... um... New York? Washington DC? Mexico City!? Cleveland has exactly three rail lines (Red, green, blue! Happy colors!) with a fourth to open next year (Silver! The color of old age and decrepitude!). The bus that goes by my house runs twice an hour—even during the period when I was dependent on the dreaded 37-Corbett I never had to wait more than fifteen minutes.
Unfortunately, until The American Public Transit Association posts the full announcement on its website, we remain ignorant of the exact formula used to calculate the rankings, and thus we can't really refute or be convinced by the data. Perhaps this wasn't a quantitative award at all, but more of an expression of general approval and encouragement?
Because here is the fundamental issue: it is impossible to live in Cleveland without a car. I lived happily without a car for years in both San Francisco and London. Granted, I lived the life of a graduate student and had to rent a car now and then for trips or moving furniture or whatever. That I (and pretty much everyone I knew) lived without a car was due to much more than a transit system that took us most places we needed to go with relative predictability—it's a question of the urban landscape and the urban lifestyle in its entirety—but how any transit system than doesn't allow one to go most places one needs to go with relative predictability can be called the best on the continent leaves me furrowing my brow.
(And I'm not the only one)
Granted, I've only lived here for six weeks, so I'm hardly an expert. But... um... New York? Washington DC? Mexico City!? Cleveland has exactly three rail lines (Red, green, blue! Happy colors!) with a fourth to open next year (Silver! The color of old age and decrepitude!). The bus that goes by my house runs twice an hour—even during the period when I was dependent on the dreaded 37-Corbett I never had to wait more than fifteen minutes.
Unfortunately, until The American Public Transit Association posts the full announcement on its website, we remain ignorant of the exact formula used to calculate the rankings, and thus we can't really refute or be convinced by the data. Perhaps this wasn't a quantitative award at all, but more of an expression of general approval and encouragement?
Because here is the fundamental issue: it is impossible to live in Cleveland without a car. I lived happily without a car for years in both San Francisco and London. Granted, I lived the life of a graduate student and had to rent a car now and then for trips or moving furniture or whatever. That I (and pretty much everyone I knew) lived without a car was due to much more than a transit system that took us most places we needed to go with relative predictability—it's a question of the urban landscape and the urban lifestyle in its entirety—but how any transit system than doesn't allow one to go most places one needs to go with relative predictability can be called the best on the continent leaves me furrowing my brow.
(And I'm not the only one)
24 September 2007
THREE-BUCK-AND-THIRTY-NINE-CENT CHUCK
At Trader Joe's in Ohio, Two-Buck Chuck costs $3.39. My cashier told me that Ohio has the most expensive Two-Buck Chuck in the country. Could this be true? Even if it isn't, I make a sad little face every time I see that $3.39 price tag.
At least I don't live in Britain, I guess. Oh, wait...
At least I don't live in Britain, I guess. Oh, wait...
23 September 2007
UNDERGRADUATE PARTY
Last night I went to a party with undergraduates, in a absolutely dilapidated house in Little Italy. Not everyone at the party was an undergraduate—I had been taken to the party by my wonderful graduate student neighbor. But here's what the party looked like: foosball in the kitchen. Good beer, vodka, and clam dip. A very cute eighteen-year-old knocked on the bathroom door, realized it was occupied, and so went outside to vomit in the trash can. When he returned, smiling, I had to point out that he had a little schmutz on his tee shirt.
Meanwhile, in the living room, everyone was sitting on futons and watching a cable channel that I was heretofore unfamiliar with: Nick GaS. More specifically, they were watching seven-year-old reruns of Family Double Dare. You could tell the reruns were that old principally because of the prizes offered (a huge DVD player! A Nintendo 64!), and secondarily by the moms' hairstyles (the "Princess Di 1988"!). No one, to my knowledge, was stoned—they were just really enjoying watching small children climb through vats of ice cream. I will admit: their enthusiasm was contagious.
My wonderful neighbor and I stayed a little less than two hours. While I had been getting sucked into a succession of slime-based "physical challenges," the drunk teenagers in the kitchen were getting increasing rowdy, leading to a pile of gropey making-out on the kitchen floor. At this point, my neighbor fetched me from the living room and told me in no uncertain terms, "we're leaving." As we walked away from the dilapidated house, she furrowed her brow and said, "I think if they were all models and had been doing lines off the kitchen counters, that might have been acceptable behavior. But they weren't."
However, for the purposes of this blog, I did learn one piece of crucial Cleveland-related information: one of the sloppy drunk girls made me aware of the existence of the Cleveland Shuffle:
I honestly did not know that there were hip-hop line dances. Two of the sloppy drunk girls demonstrated the entire routine for me. I'm reminded of when I learned, during my very brief contact with the world of gay country-and-western bars, that there are particular line dance routines, which to the untrained eye are completely indistinguishable from any other country-and-western line dance, but which are only performed in gay country-and-western bars. Who knew? But back to Cleveland: I enjoy the knees-up-mother-brown quarter-turn, but most of all the there's-no-place-like-home heel-clicking. What could it all mean?!
Meanwhile, in the living room, everyone was sitting on futons and watching a cable channel that I was heretofore unfamiliar with: Nick GaS. More specifically, they were watching seven-year-old reruns of Family Double Dare. You could tell the reruns were that old principally because of the prizes offered (a huge DVD player! A Nintendo 64!), and secondarily by the moms' hairstyles (the "Princess Di 1988"!). No one, to my knowledge, was stoned—they were just really enjoying watching small children climb through vats of ice cream. I will admit: their enthusiasm was contagious.
My wonderful neighbor and I stayed a little less than two hours. While I had been getting sucked into a succession of slime-based "physical challenges," the drunk teenagers in the kitchen were getting increasing rowdy, leading to a pile of gropey making-out on the kitchen floor. At this point, my neighbor fetched me from the living room and told me in no uncertain terms, "we're leaving." As we walked away from the dilapidated house, she furrowed her brow and said, "I think if they were all models and had been doing lines off the kitchen counters, that might have been acceptable behavior. But they weren't."
However, for the purposes of this blog, I did learn one piece of crucial Cleveland-related information: one of the sloppy drunk girls made me aware of the existence of the Cleveland Shuffle:
I honestly did not know that there were hip-hop line dances. Two of the sloppy drunk girls demonstrated the entire routine for me. I'm reminded of when I learned, during my very brief contact with the world of gay country-and-western bars, that there are particular line dance routines, which to the untrained eye are completely indistinguishable from any other country-and-western line dance, but which are only performed in gay country-and-western bars. Who knew? But back to Cleveland: I enjoy the knees-up-mother-brown quarter-turn, but most of all the there's-no-place-like-home heel-clicking. What could it all mean?!
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