I forgot to add this detail of the trip: We did Airbnb for the first time. As children get older, it’s harder to travel with them unless you’re a very rich person and can get a second room. When we’re in normal cities, we go for a two-room suite, but a destination city during season? We need an alternative. Airbnb it was.
We ended up with half a shotgun house in the Uptown neighborhood, and that part of it was great; you really do get a different sense of a city when you stay in a neighborhood. Ours seemed to be yuppifying from African-American to brussels sprout-eating hipster. The property next door was being renovated out to the lot line and up into a second floor, and the carpenters arrived at 8 a.m. every morning to BAM BAM BAM for a while, and then leave.
But the main thing was that it was a classic New Orleans shotgun duplex, which meant it was a) small (to live in, that is), and b) loud. Oh, so loud. Our neighbors the first night played their music at top volume, and I mean top volume. I was five minutes from knocking on the door when they went out, only to return at 5 a.m. and STOMP STOMP STOMP around their side for a while. As a means of not going insane, I reflected on other noisy lodgings of my life, both my own and others’. When Alan first took his job here, the paper put him up for a month in a furnished apartment in Royal Oak, where, he reported, the couple in the unit above had loud, scream-y sex every night at 11:08 on the dot; it lasted for just a few minutes and wrapped by 11:15 or so. I recalled neighbors whose arguments I could clearly hear through the walls, babies crying.
When I was a reading tutor, I had to meet my student at her apartment, in a subsidized-housing development in Fort Wayne. It was a warm night, and the overwhelming impression was of the thrumming noise — every window broadcast the sound of television dramas, music, domestic affairs.
I tried to think what it would be like to live next to the Hip-Hop Clydesdales all the time, not just for one night. It made me very grateful I don’t.
Pretty good read in Bridge today, about how a beloved ski resort in northern Michigan became a ruin. Laff line:
But anyone in Leelanau County who wanted local government to condemn and seize the long-shuttered resort faced an uphill battle. The seven-seat County Commission, controlled by small-government, Tea Party activists, expressed concern with Haugen’s efforts to inspect Sugar Loaf, with some citing United Nations conspiracy theories as a basis to thwart economic development plans in general.
Sorry for the late update today. Just flat ran out of gas last night. Fueled by coffee this morning, however, I wish you a great day.