It should have been obvious to me that given my love for exploring bar culture when I travel, the UK would be a divine experience. But I always skipped it because it felt a little like traveling internationally to a place too similar to the US. Sometimes preconceived notions and misguided thinking can obscure good decision making. And sometimes I’m just dumb and wrong. So, I feel fortunate that a wedding forced me there this summer.

While there’s ease traveling in other English speaking countries, there’s still unending uniqueness that keeps it properly foreign. What I leaned into in the UK was not the wildest of contrasts, but it left its mark. The Brits have married two beautiful worlds — the dark seclusion of pubs serving low abv beer with the warm hug of Indian and Southeast Asian food. The why and how that came to be is layered with some ugly history, but the result is an absolute win. The United States needs to adopt this pairing. And fast.

Pub culture in the UK is in a class unto itself. Whether it was London, Newcastle, Edinburgh, or Glasgow, the pubs had great energy, both to relax with a pint at 1 p.m. or to get loud with the post-work crowd. Most are older than our infantile country, giving them an inherently communal vibe with decades more wear for that broken-in bar feel. They’re adorned classically – hanging plants rest outside windows, modest chandeliers and pendant lights drop from the ceilings, and along the edges, crown moldings mix in a little flare. But they mostly let the worn wooden bar tops, floorboards, and booths do the talking. The warmth they have is like an intrinsic trust. There’s comfort within those walls.

If Americans caution that nothing good happens after midnight, I think the British might say nothing good happens after 9 p.m. Nearly any bar I’d pass in the late morning or early afternoon would have some characters on display out front with a pint. There was no shame in this. The day drinkers might be football fans awaiting an early start, suits out to lunch, parents with a sleeping baby in a stroller, or an 80 year old reading a paper. Having a drink is part of the culture and celebrated.

There are many reasons, real or perceived, that might point to why Brits have a healthier relationship with alcohol and greater acceptance of it, but one was very evident for me: low ABV beer. America not only loves liquor, cocktails, and wine, but our craft beer scene is built on boozy beers, mostly IPAs. And while the craft beer scene is growing in the UK, the classic mid-strength beers still dominate. Cask Ales, Pilsners, Lagers, and Stouts are omnipresent. And they usually sit between 3-5%, that mid-strength range that Britain knows so well. Ain’t no one getting offended by someone taking the edge off with a 4% ale in the afternoon. That’s just Tuesday.

Drinking earlier with consistently low-ABV drinks means you can get your extended bar time in – socializing, detaching, relaxing, what have you – and wrap up a few hours before midnight. It’s a set up for success (Worth noting that I still managed to get pretty rocked a couple times abiding by this schedule). Outside of a few pubs with the draw of an excellent whiskey selection, I saw very few people swapping pints for anything else.

Now, if you make it to a pub with food, that’s when things get interesting. Sure, I enjoyed grabbing some traditional pub fare. I learned the simple satisfaction of a Toasty (basically a grilled cheese) served as a snack at select spots. The toasty’s service as a hold-over before mealtime was appreciated. And the proper meals of fish and chips or a meat pie with potatoes and peas tapped into some bygone farmer genes within me. Those are heavy meals though, and fairly bland, not something I crave multiple times in a week.

Enter the Southeast Asian and Desi Pubs of the UK, an experience that takes these already excellent pubs to a landmark tier of greatness. With the spices, heat, and variety of Asian food mixing with traditional beers, I felt as satisfied as I ever have at a bar. Bury my ass at the local pub that serves Anglo-Thai food, I’m perpetually content there.

After a 10 hour flight in which I only played with my airline meal (how and why do so many people devour that mockery of even the basic elements food?), it took another 90 minutes to get into the city and check into my hotel. But finally, I was free to explore and experience London, which inevitably begins with eating and drinking. I walked 20 minutes to a pub I’d already mapped out only to find out that they no longer served food. After a beer there, the same sequence repeated. The irritability and jetlag were setting in and the pressure mounted to find a good meal before I sabotaged my first night. I was 16 hours into a travel day with two drinks on board an empty stomach, the desperation was visceral. I never want to start a vacation off with a dispiriting meal, but I couldn’t wander aimlessly any longer, the next pub had to serve me my dinner.

I’d already walked by The White Hart, near the south end of Brick Lane, it seemed a little grungy and nondescript. They had some Jack the Ripper history noted outside the pub which made it feel gimmicky. But it was not a tourist trap and they had food. I was expecting traditional British pub fare but was handed a Thai menu. I knew London was known for its global food-scene but wasn’t expecting it at pubs. Certainly not this one. I looked around for a glimpse of someone else’s plate, but no one was eating, just a few people nursing pints. I felt the scales tipping towards my first tourist mistake — ordering food at a pub that locals never dine at. The bartender told me the kitchen was open but I’d have to order my beer and food separately, he’d get someone from the kitchen while I looked over the menu. When an older Thai woman came to take my order I immediately perked up. I ordered some version of a Pad Kra Pao dish.

What came out what a steaming brown stew of vegetables and chicken, surrounding a symmetric dome of white rice. Perched on top was a perfectly fried egg. I was desperately hungry, but trust me, it was spicy divination. The peppers, onions, and green beans kept a slight crunch and freshness, the chicken was tender, and once cut, the egg yolk flowed slow, like honey. The sauce had good heat, but the basil and garlic shined through the richness. Say what you will, but the pillowy smoothness and mild bitter from my Guinness was a perfect counter to the spice of the Thai food. It was a harmony I hadn’t known existed. I was hooked and already thinking about my next Thai pub dinner.

Upon finishing, the man one stool down from me asked how my food was. I confirmed it exponentially exceeded my expectations. He said he only ever came by for a pint and never tried the food, but after seeing my plate it sounded like that was going to change. I encouraged him to do so. After this first meal, I started to see the crossover everywhere. This was not a unicorn of a pub but a celebrated adaptation. I ended up eating at the White Hart once more and a handful of other pubs with Asian menus. I was tempted to enter each one.

Though the origins of Southeast Asian and Desi Pubs happened separately, and a couple decades apart, neither was random luck. Desi Pubs have existed since the 60’s, the earliest report was in 1962. In pubs at this time, people of color were often served in different rooms than white people, or not welcome at all. Amidst this segregation, Indian landlords began to open pubs to offer an option to their compatriots. These Desi Pubs operated just like any other pub, but to make their patrons feel at home, they would serve Indian curries and grills rather than traditional fare (depending on where you look Desi means local, native, land, or country. In every case, fitting).

Despite the Race Relations Act of 1965, which outlawed discrimination in public places, many white landlords continued the practice of segregation. When licenses at these non-law abiding pubs went up for renewal, the Indian Worker’s Association would report them, and sometimes they’d lose their license. This allowed for those same Indian landlords to take over and create more Desi Pubs.

Desi Pubs provided diversification in these spaces and a safe, home-away-from-home for Indian immigrants. And it’s not home without the comfort food of the motherland. In turn, these safe havens introduced their food to a new, white audience – it was a revelation that saw Desi Pubs become a staple subset of London pub culture, and now throughout the UK. That’s the gist, but the full history of the Desi Pubs (and which are the best to visit) is worth diving into and it’s best told by the incomparable David Jesudason, a beer writer of the year winner and author of the book, “Desi Pubs.” (h/t and for steering me to him).

A few decades later, Anglo-Thai food began its own integration into UK pubs. This first began at the famous Churchill Arms back in 1988. A customer of the pub, who was a chef at a Thai restaurant, wanted to cook there and to start serving Thai food, and with some persistence he got a trial run. It was an immediate success and word spread.

While the Churchill Arms served as the blueprint, a larger, second push came at the start of the 21^st century, thanks to the Thai government’s gastro-diplomacy campaign. If you’re not familiar, it’s exactly what it sounds like, a nation uses its cuisine to build its international presence and cross-cultural understanding, the goal being to increase tourism and economic growth. While this hit the US too, the pub integration happened in Britain. The success of the established Desi Pubs and the Churchill Arms likely helped the Thai campaign to take root in pubs, but an undeniable factor was simple economics.

We all know the service industry operates on razor thin margins, so if you’re looking to start a restaurant, but certainly if you’re doing so as an immigrant far from home, why open yourself to more economic risk than necessary? Who needs a whole brick and mortar space if you can take the under-or-un-used kitchen of a bar? Since much of the dishes are street food, a sprawling or well-designed kitchen isn’t needed. Having enough room for a few woks, spices, and fresh ingredients will likely suffice. The chef pays a fraction of what it would cost to lease their own space, and with a bar’s established clientele built-in, it’s an easy sell. Meanwhile, the bar owner gets help with their lease and a secondary element to draw in more customers. And of course, we the patrons, get a great meal at our favorite bar. It’s win-win-win. In this scenario, everyone eats.

Which brings me to the United States. I’ll be the first to say that no one in my city of Portland, Oregon can complain about our bar food. We have consistently great classics like wings, burgers, sandwiches, fries, and tots, as well as pizza, salads, and exceptional vegetarian and vegan options. You’ll find it at our dives and cocktail bars alike. And when a spot doesn’t serve food, there’s usually a good food cart or pod nearby. But most of the US does not hold their bar food standards to the heights that Portland does. And even still, there is always room for improvement and variety. There are plenty of bars here that only serve mediocre food or none at all. We all have a watering hole like that

In my neighborhood rotation of haunts, there are at least three spots offer bad or no food. You know the drill, you’re a little pickled, and you either skip eating entirely, or you eat simply because having some food is better than no food. Either way, you don’t leave satisfied. But imagine walking into that same place — neighborhood bar fully intact with cold high life bottles and PBR cans, a local IPA on tap, hefty pours of whiskey, and $5 high balls — and then being greeted by a menu full of Naans and Curries? Or Pad Thai, Kao Soi, and Fried Rice? Shit, why stop there?

I’d like to see tacos, burritos, and sopapillas surface on menus across town. Imagine! Legit street tacos discreetly appearing at dive bars around town. What could be better than a drinker’s bar that suddenly has an inconspicuous menu filled with century old recipes passed down from someone’s Abuelita?

I want to wander into this achievable dream of the spice-dive — a world of cheap drinks and far-flung flavors. I want to be handed my 4^th pint as my wandering eye catches a glimpse of a never seen menu full of flavors from a world I know little about.

The Desi Pub is a beautiful thing that was born out of deep-seated racism and segregation in Britain. Could the spice-dive (this is the unofficial name until someone comes up with something better) spring from the current era of US ultranationalism and gross overreach from ICE? Instead of denying life here, what if we provided one more small opportunity to make one? Why not lower the barrier of entry to starting a small business, one that can provide a steady income, and help someone achieve the American Dream? In return, unused spaces and under-utilized amenities are given a new life, existing establishments receive a secondary dimension that help keep the lights on, and patrons get better variety and more reasons to stay longer.

Let’s get on with it already and match two things that have always belonged together: cheap drinks and legitimate street food. Bring the concept of Thai & Desi Pubs to America! And of course, fuck ICE.

My first evening in Cleveland I wandered The Flats near downtown, watching the Goodyear Blimp fly over Progressive Field as the sunset danced off the skyline and peopled filled downtown for a July 4^th fireworks show. It was the most American setting I’d seen in years. Not in some patriotic way, it just had a classic nostalgia. There are certain things that feel American at their core, and this scene had all of it. Baseball, skyscrapers, fireworks, and the goddamn Goodyear Blimp. But it was everything else too — 100-year old art deco architecture mixed with lifeless new builds and remnants of an industrial past rotting alongside the Cuyahoga River (famous for catching fire 14 times) that is in a decades long restoration period. Everything felt perfectly American — the good, bad, and the ugly — there’s history, decline, and resilience here. And it’s the reason Cleveland feels like the single best distillation of our country.

Like so much of the Rust Belt and Midwest, Cleveland is a city that helped build this country only to be left by two thirds of its population and become an afterthought to the rest of the nation. It is one of the poorest cities in the country with consistently high rates of violent crime (always take these stats with a grain of salt) and longstanding urban decay. All of which is comically at odds with the city’s motto – Progress & Prosperity. But as of late, people are coming back (the population loss is now a trickle not a torrent), the crime rates are on a consistent decline (a 46% decline in homicides since the new Mayor took office in 2022), and the decay is being reimagined (Edgewater Park is now the place to be). When you get to meet the people here, and see some of the ongoing revitalization projects firsthand, that motto really is a through-line for where this city sees itself in the not too distance future. And I have to say, I’m a believer.

How fitting then that my first stop in Cleveland was the welcoming Prosperity Social Club in Tremont. It’s an old-school tavern, originally named after and owned by the Dempsey family (from 1938-2005), but in continuous operation since the beginning, with only 3 different owners. Little has changed since it became the Prosperity 20 years ago – vibe and décor remain intact, down to the original tables and chairs. I arrived at 6 p.m. on Friday, a perfect spot for my first sip of beer and a meal after a long travel day.

I ordered a P.O.C. Pilsener which, depending on who you ask, stands for the Pride of Cleveland, Pleasure on Call, or Pilsner of Cleveland (I like them all). In a new city, you must always worship at the altar of the regional cheap beer. It is a divine experience and a great way to ingratiate yourself into the culture. However, that’s murky here. The original Pilsener Brewing Company brewed P.O.C. and made into the blue collar staple of the city for the 20^th century. But the company was sold a few times before P.O.C was officially out of circulation in 1984. Luckily Double Wing Brewing Co. started their own version of the original in 2019. Despite it not being the mass produced cheap beer I hoped for, it hits on a 90 degree day with 80% humidity (I never did find the true regional budget beer).

Prosperity has an eclectic clientele where you might see 3 generations of a family enjoying brunch at 11 a.m. and rowdy karaoke for the 21+ crowd 10 hours later. It is a place for all of Cleveland, and the menu reflects that. They offer standard hits like burgers & fries and fish fry; traditional Hungarian and Polish (large immigrant populations here) dishes like stuffed cabbage rolls, pierogis, and potato pancakes; and even vegan options like tofu wings and heart of palm fish fry. First generation immigrants and dietary restricted Gen Zers can both get down at Prosperity. Hell, all three of the people I met up with in Cleveland suggested we rendezvous here. That’s about as good an endorsement as a bar can get.

Before meeting up with Leslie and her partner, Brian, we had been chatting for a few weeks. She serendipitously stumbled upon my little Substack and works for the tourism board. She was quick to offer tips and connections, and offered a great introduction to the city on my first night. They are Cleveland to the core, born and raised in the city, and here to stay.

They were a library of facts about the bar, neighborhood, and city, plus unending anecdotes about the rock and punk history of Cleveland. Brian played in the Unknown, Beatnik Termites, and Bluto’s Revenge, all staples of the Cleveland scene. With the former, he opened up for Green Day on the Dookie tour in ’94, an infamous Blossom Music Center show that saw the lawn torn to shreds. Stories of the Dead Boys and REM were peppered in amongst tales of the scene then and now.

Grabbing dinner and drinks with me on a Friday basically meant Leslie worked overtime (give the woman a raise!), and on a holiday no less. Prior to landing at This Is Cleveland she had worked in restaurants and bars, co-authored a book about the history of Cleveland beer, and was, along with Brian, owner of the original Cleveland Brew Bus, a company offering brewery tasting tours. That track record made her not only overqualified to speak with me, but an ideal fit for a tourism board in a city pushing themselves as a destination.

Meanwhile, Brian played in bands crucial to the underground scene here, making a name for himself in a bonafide rock and roll city. Oh, he’s also a retired firefighter of 27 years and former bus mechanic for Cleveland municipal schools. The passion for the city and music scene was explicit in conversation, without ever being mentioned. They’re lifers that know how to enjoy the fruits of their city with the same gusto in which they rep it. We had several rounds with ease before splitting ahead of the July 4^th festivities.

Leslie & Brian’s firsthand accounts of the music scene gave me context for the rock and roll heritage the city had. I obviously knew that the Rock Hall is here, and yes, I knew Ian Hunter’s, Cleveland Rocks. But I didn’t know that the song (which was reintroduced and popularized on the Drew Carey show by the President’s of the United States of America), was written in 1979. Or Hunter’s inspiration, “goes back to the old days when people used to make fun of Cleveland. Cleveland was ‘uncool’ and LA and NYC were ‘cool’. I didn’t see it that way. Lotta heart in Cleveland.” That quote rang true throughout my visit.

And it only takes a cursory search to see the rock roots go deeper than that – with 50s disc jockey, Alan Freed, popularizing the term “Rock and Roll” on his radio show and putting it firmly into the mainstream consciousness. In the 60s, the Agora Ballroom became a premier club to play in the US, bands like ZZ Top and the Talking Heads grew to national prominence shortly after playing there. They even became the first ever venue with an in-house recording studio. Yes, Cleveland is a rock and roll city through and through.

When I finally visited The Rock Hall on Sunday, the rock culture hit me right in the face. Not the museum, but the unknown band on a festival stage just outside it. It was 5 teens, fronted by a girl. The crowd was minimal, but they were rippin’. I pulled up as they finished a song, she told us they had one more – it was by Rage Against the Machine. I perked up but expected a hit like “Bulls on Parade.” To my delight, they went with a deeper cut, “Freedom.” And they crushed. Most of their friends in the front new the words too. It’s hard to imagine this city not faring well when that’s what you encounter from the youth.

The museum itself was somewhat of a disappointment. Don’t get me wrong, the collection is insane and covers everything. But that’s also part of the problem. When I see Prince, Jimi Hendrix, and Chuck Berry’s iconic guitars, Beatles’ clothing, Michael Jackson’s glove, and Neil Young handwritten lyrics, all back-to-back in an hour, it all starts to lose meaning. None of it has a chance to breathe or standout. It’s sensory overload to the point that I wasn’t awed by much. I suppose the same could be said of any museum. Regardless, if you’re in Cleveland, you should still go.

Having split from Leslie and Brian, I headed towards downtown, but the city operated in that small town way, by mostly shutting down for the July 4^th fireworks. It seemed every spot I wanted to hit – Hotz Cafe, Hooples, Little Johnny’s, B & G Tavern, and Happy Dog, all closed to let their employees have the day with friends and family. I love the family holiday vibe, except that as an outsider, I was hopeful those bars would be my family for the evening. But I take what the city gives, and it handed me a full 8 hours of sleep without a hangover.

I started my next morning with a drink from Duck Rabbit Coffee and a walk to the West Side Market. My breakfast? A $4 Italian Sausage Sandwich from Frank’s II. Why? Because that price is insane and Cleveland is the most tubed-meat friendly city in the country. This would be my first of 3 meals that day containing some form of sausage. Not by plan, by the sheer overabundance on every menu I crossed.

This was a good stroll to check off tourist must-sees. The West Side Market, in operation since 1912, is your typical indoor market monstrosity – wide like a warehouse with high arched ceilings, and a dozen rows of vendors, clogged with gawkers and tourists. Most stalls served meat, foreshadowing how many interpretations of the tube steak this city would offer. But a visitor can only do so much with raw provisions on vacation. So, I window shopped and contemplated some meat sticks for the road.

In 85 degree heat I crossed over the shadeless Hope Memorial Bridge to see the Guardians of Traffic statues and make my way downtown. If you wondered why Cleveland’s MLB team was renamed the Guardian’s, it’s cause of these 43-feet sandstone behemoths. The Art Deco guardians each hold a different vehicle in hand, from stagecoach to truck, to “typify the spirit of progress in transportation,” according to the bridge’s engineer, Wilbur Watson. Weird and cool.

Now downtown, I checked out the Cleveland Arcade, built in 1890 and considered the first indoor shopping center in the US, and financed by some of the city’s wealthiest residents, including John D Rockefeller. While today the Hyatt Hotel operates the towers and upper floors, there is still retail and food courts on the lower two floors. Despite the reality of now being a sad mall and odd hotel, the original structure is a beauty. It’s a giant indoor courtyard with a domed, 100-ft high skylight that spans 300-ft, filling the center with light, while shops line the edges of the ringed balconies. If every mall from my childhood had these marble floors, brass elevator doors, and intricate balconies they might still be around today. It’s food for thought.

My second point of contact was Chuck – drummer in Brian’s band Bluto’s Revenge, script writer & movie director (check out Madtown), former college runner, and current HS XC coach. Not one to shy away from knocking a few back, he was a natural fit as tour guide. And he took the idea of Second Rate Cities very literally, much to my excitement, and offered to take me on a running bar tour of the city.

We began in Edgewater Park, an epic stretch of Lake Erie beachfront surrounded by green park space, with the Cleveland skyline as a backdrop. For anyone who’s not been to Cleveland, I guarantee your thoughts of it as a Midwest afterthought will be turned upside down when you get the full view of Cleveland masquerading as a sexy summer destination. My brain struggled to process it. White sand beaches, clear water, and a skyline backdrop? How?

We cruised for about a mile before landing at our first stop, the Whiskey Island Still.

This is a love-hate kind of spot for me. On one hand, the place is a Jimmy Buffet Bar which makes me want to peel my skin off. It’s 1 p.m. and the house band is already playing Margaritaville and hundreds of people are lapping it up (Chuck noted this was nothing compared to nighttime). On the other hand, it’s an outdoor bar on a beautiful beach… on a hot summer day… people are already day-drunk … and we’re in the fucking Rust Belt?

With apologies to Chuck’s and my punk past, Whiskey Island rocked. We may have only kept it to a beer before moving along, but truthfully, I’d have been fine to get sloppy there in my running shorts, watching the day slip away. And now I sound like I’m trying to recreate Buffet’s lyrics. Damn it. He really did tap into something, didn’t he? Who am I?

We zigzagged off the beach, across the Old River via the Willow Road Bridge, through the West Bank Flats, and mostly vacant streets, to the Harbor Inn Café. It’s the most hyped of the Cleveland dives, with the distinction as the longest continuously running bar in Cleveland (established 1895). Its location meant that, decades ago, it was a prime spot for dock and factories workers after their shift. It was mostly dead at 2:15 p.m. on a Saturday, but our bartender, Amanda, brought the attitude that gave it life. She was so Cleveland it almost felt staged. And Chuck was there to prime her.

After incessantly ribbing us for being runners, she started in on our appearance – skinny, red, and sweaty - while simultaneously sharing about her family, and scattering in random facts. Now, if you don’t know, Cleveland stretches east to west on the lake, meaning there’s not a north side of town, only Lake Erie. So, you’re either from the Eastside or West.

After she mentioned she was from Parma, which is rarely acknowledged as it’s South of the city core, Chuck quipped, “So do you consider that East or West side then?”

Her eye roll felt like the twist of a knife, “If you have to ask, go fuck yourself.”

Amanda is the best. I only wish I could’ve seen her in her true element, late at night in a packed, disorderly Harbor Inn Cafe.

Continuing along the flats, Chuck dug deep on the running and race history in Cleveland. He discussed a brief world record from the Cleveland 10K in 1996 (a 27:20 from Joseph Kimani, which Kimani then broke a mere 2 months later), a race in which he helped with course set up. He jokingly credited his cone placement. He opined that the world is cone-centric, cones keep the world in order. He was half joking, but I could sense some roundabout truth. We noticed a few cones on our route, directing traffic or barring pedestrians from off-limits areas. Once you pay attention, you realize they’re everywhere, like the rubber bands and duct tape of our cities, just enough to keep us from sliding into total disarray.

We hit Brick & Barrel for a beer before passing Hooples, which was still closed. We crossed the Cuyahoga on the Columbus Road Bridge and went back up into Tremont for our final stop at Edison’s. This is a classic neighborhood joint, with pizza available next door from Lil Ronnies. With 5 miles, 3 beers, and a great inner Cleveland tour under our belt, I was feeling good and ready to knock a few back. Chuck said he wasn’t sure if he felt great or awful, the true sign of a successful day.

Between a few slices and pints, I heard more about Chuck’s punk past, like trying to get booked at CBGB’s in the early 90’s. Their booking line was only open for an hour each day and he could never get through. His solution? Send a care package to the venue, with his number. This was a gesture so unheard of that he got a call back and an eventual gig opening for Henry Rollins. His first encounter with Rollins was seeing him digging through trash behind the venue. Apparently Rollins liked to bring New York trash back to LA and make art with it. New punk facts for ya, friends!

Our hang ended with Chuck’s teenage son picking us up and dropping me off as they headed home to pack for a Chuck-chaperoned cross country team camp-out. Had he turned down the beers on our run, it would have made sense. But I’d already learned that this city was filled with good-hearted party people, so it was only natural that Chuck towed that line despite having real obligations.

I rolled right back to Tremont that evening to explore the delights of the Rowley Inn, a food forward neighborhood bar. While they close at the very modest hour of 11 p.m. on weekends, it’s worth noting they open at 7 a.m. for your drinking (and eating, read: daily brunch!) needs. They also happen to be famous for sitting caddy corner from the “A Christmas Story” house. You can sit at the bar, eat a Polish Boy, and stare leisurely at leg lamp. And that’s exactly what I did.

Oh, what’s a Polish Boy? Besides my second meal of the day containing meat in tubed form, it’s also the staple sandwich of Cleveland. It’s a Kielbasa (usually) in a bun topped with French fries, bbq sauce, and coleslaw. It’s a worthwhile regional sandwich that one must meet with an intense appetite.

Content and full, I made it to Hotz Café and it felt like home. It’s a corner building with the corner entrance (always a nice touch), and a brick facade. This bar is pure history, cheap drinks, and good vibes. Founded in 1919 and family run (currently in its 4^th generation of family bartenders), it’s seen Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Ty Cobb pass through, as well as a pre-President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Hotz is the joint you wish your neighborhood had. It has the finer touches of a true dive – the middle of the bar top is a glass-plated Hotz logo, backlit with a soft red light. There’s also shuffleboard and a juke box. It’s so neighborhood that two separate birthdays took place there that night. And low and behold, when it’s your birthday, you must wear a cone on your head and dance (was Chuck omnipresent?).

I knocked back gin and tonics and high life while talking to the bartender Sheila. She was one of two older women behind the bar, each working with the hustle equal to any 20 year old. Sheila is a 3^rd generation bartender here, serving drinks for the past 27 years with no sign of stopping. Her husband’s grandfather started the bar, and the 4^th generation bartenders? Well, those are her kids.

She told me she knew everyone’s name in the bar. And after seeing a loud man in an American flag cowboy hat, who might otherwise be considered a disturbance, lean over the bar and kiss her on the cheek, I believed it. Shortly after, a woman walked behind the bar, gave her a warm hug, and planted another on her cheek. Throughout the night she asked how everyone’s 4^th of July was, getting answers like “Yeah, we rode the 4-wheelers. I’m a little sore. A lot hungover.” She kept our conversation going throughout the night too and twice placed an empty plastic cup upside down next to my beer, signifying a buy back.

Even the worst part of the bar — the blasting of new era pop-country music — wasn’t bad. Sheila kept coming back to me and apologizing —

“I’m sorry, we’re not a country bar, and not this country, it’s just one of these girls at the party has taken over the juke box.”

That she was embarrassed by it, and could sense my recoil, made the place that much more endearing. As with any spot of this caliber, I wanted to settle in and end my night here. But having been shut out of so many places the night before, I made my way to Parkview and Happy Dog.

Just as Hotz is an eternal classic, Happy Dog seemed to be the staple of the new era. It just had that vibe – it books cool local and occasional national acts, has a wild menu, and is chock full of artists and hipster types from the scene. It’s the bar that has the cool reputation and actually delivers. It felt like a place to hook up with a stranger, take a date, have your band play their record release show, or go see that band that’s eventually going to blow up (like King Gizzard playing here back in 2014). The bar here is a massive horseshoe, so there’s basically 360 degree seating, while the stage is just a sliver of space against the front wall, overlooking an open floor and tables.

I missed the music that evening, but the spot was still hoppin’. Without trying, I’d stumbled onto my third tubed-meat of the day, settling in at the bar with a beer and their ludicrous menu of 50 toppings for hot dogs. The most famous topping is also the dumbest — Froot Loops — but many others are super fun like pimento mac n cheese and Brazilian chimchurri sauce. My topping choices were an attempt at good health while ordering a hotdog drunk. Don’t ask me, drunk-brain does what it does. But actually, the combination of mustard, sliced cucumbers, diced tomatoes, and alien relish was perfect for a midnight snack.

From eating drunk hotdogs alone at midnight to an illuminating noon brunch the next day with Phil Kidd, the perspective shift I had was literally night and day.

So, what praise can be heaped on Phil that hasn’t been lavishly doled upon him before? He is the personification of love for, and change in, Cleveland. With every personal encounter I had to this point, I felt a palpable connection to the city, and Phil was the full embody of it. Working at The Mayor’s Office of Capital Projects, he runs the Complete & Green Streets (CGS) program as well as trail projects for the City of Cleveland. He does everything from project management and grant writing, to project development and partner organization work. Broadly, his goals are to de-pave the city and repurpose unused or underutilized space for public use. Think making the city more sustainable & green (roughly 45,000 tress have been planted citywide since 2015, through a coalition of partners), and creating a pedestrian & bike friendly environment. He has a clear focus to create the change the city needs while preserving the past.

It should be noted that he’s working in the office of a mayor aligned with those goals. Justin Bibb is the young (just 38) black mayor of Cleveland, in the same city that had the first black mayor in US history (Carol B Stokes, 1967). While liberals across the country see Zohran Mamdani as the new hope in politics (this is not a slight, go Mamdani!), Cleveland elected their own homegrown agent of change back in 2021. And the city has had momentum since. Bibb has overseen a modernization of the mayor’s office, a 46% reduction in homicides, creation of alternative response models to emergency calls, land clean up and reuse, and neighborhood and waterfront revitalization and development.

Phil, originally from Western Pennsylvania, has been in Ohio for more than two decades, and in Cleveland the last 6 years. During the pandemic he started a blog, Every Street Cleveland, in which he intends to run, literally, every street in Cleveland and document it (he’s completed more than 1,000 miles of streets and over 60% of the goal). He groups his posts by neighborhood and details the runs noting history, current pain points, new developments, key businesses, prominent figures, and any other bit of intrigue. It’s a voluminous and growing body of work that touches on nearly everything within each section of the city.

100 years from now this will be the time capsule that people refer to when trying to understand what Cleveland was like in the early 21^st century. It’s thousands of miles and moments in time stitched together by a single set of eyes, making a permanent memory of Cleveland. Who better then to take on reimagining the public spaces and streets of Cleveland than someone who’s spent time on every last one?

Prior to this, Phil had already cemented his status as a Rust Belt legend with his work in Youngstown, Ohio. Phil lived there for more than a decade, transitioning from a student to an activist and organizer in the city. Many evenings during his early days he could be found standing on a downtown corner holding a sign that said, “Defend Youngstown.” It was, at first, a mere slogan to help the city reignite its own self-worth, but it grew into a full-fledged marketing campaign. It led him to more civic engagement in the community, to start Youngstown Nation (a Youngstown gift shop selling all things Youngstown – both merch and made-in town items), to being hired by Mahoning Valley Regional Organizing Collaborative, and helping the city go from 18 to over 50 neighborhood organizations.

So yeah, grabbing Sunday brunch with Phil at Prosperity was eye opening. Eating pierogis, sipping a bloody Mary, and learning about Phil and his work in Cleveland simply energized me. During our conversation I kept thinking, “Man, every city could use a few Phil’s.” I later found out that the Chair of the Cleveland Planning Commission had said the same thing, “We need to figure out how to multiply you,” when referencing Phil. Yes, Cleveland is lucky to have the one and only. The OG.

Earlier that day I had run past the beaches of Edgewater Park and into the Lakewood neighborhood (as ritzy an enclave as you’ll find in any American city). On the way back I took a dip — my first ever Great Lake swim and a bucket list summer experience. The sand was soft and fine, and the water remarkably warm and clean (or at the very least, clear). I asked Phil about the beach and he dove into the history. The beaches used to be state run and neglected. Like any decaying city park there was a buildup of trash, glass and needles riddled the beach, and drugs use was the only regular activity, if you saw anyone at all. Chuck too had mentioned how he’d been running there for decades, miles of park all to himself, until one day it became a destination for all Clevelanders.

That day only came after the state turned management of the park over to Cleveland Metroparks in 2013. The first change was the notion that Cleveland could be a lakefront community. Then, after more than a decade of public involvement and volunteer efforts, city partnerships and development projects, Edgewater transformed into what I saw that weekend – an urban waterfront that everyone wanted to be part of.

Finishing brunch with Phil, I mentioned I was on my way to the Rock Hall. I was curious if he had any neighborhood recs for my last evening.

“Based on what I know about you, I think you should go East and check out Collinwood…

Wait, you know what? I have my bike on my car! Take my bike to the Rock Hall, afterwards you can ride the lakefront path, it’s 8-10 miles along the river straight to Collinwood.

I just moved over there, I’ll meet you and we can grab dinner. Plus, you’ll see the lakefront airport and why it’s such a waste of space.”

That’s just who Phil is. And that’s what I did. I rode the 9 miles sandwiched between Lake Erie and I-90, on Marginal Road. It’s one part bike path, one part seldom used road that looks at acres of misused prime real estate that might one day be reimagined in Phil’s vision – more public lakefront space that’s easily accessible. I rode through Bratenahl, a bizarre wealthy suburb, closed off from Cleveland by the freeway and lake. Up to that point I had ridden through a shadeless scene of deteriorating asphalt and concrete, with the freeway humming in my ear, but now I was enveloped by a tunnel of lush trees, springing from the manicured yards of sprawling mansions.

Eventually, the outstretched lawns and high, wrought iron fences of Bratenahl faded back to the more common Cleveland scene of vacant lots and corner stores. Some of this felt like modest living, but much of it felt depressed and lifeless. Though years behind the revitalization of neighborhoods like Tremont and Detroit-Shoreway, the seeds for rejuvenation have been planted in North Collinwood, on Waterloo Road.

While only a three block stretch, in area and surrounded by what appeared to be a languishing food desert, Waterloo does appear from the abandonment like a welcome oasis. There’s Doink’s Burger’s and Citizen Pie, a coffee shop, a record store, a vintage shop, and a tattoo studio. But most importantly, there’s three uniquely iconic spots on this strip – The Millard Fillmore Presidential Library, The Beachland Ballroom & Tavern, and the vacant lot at 15805 Waterloo Road.

The Millard Fillmore Presidential Library – This is actually a bar in “honor” of our 13^th President who established the White House library, but who does not have a presidential library himself. And he still doesn’t. But he does have a bar full of presidential photos with fake quotes and cheap American flag banners. Serving some good local beers on draft, it’s a much needed watering hole in Collinwood. And while I never saw a food menu, a couple guys ordered hot dogs and I snuck myself onto the order before our bartender went back to boil them. Tubed meat anyone?

The Beachland Ballroom & Tavern – This venue has been bringing shows to this far-flung neighborhood for 25 years. In front of the tan brick façade with its elegant neon sign was a cobalt blue Volkswagen van parked out front, an image that transported me to another era. I would’ve stuck around all night had there been a show. Even without music that night, I could feel the magic emanating from the place, a venue that must lend itself memorable performances.

15805 Waterloo Road – This is just a vacant lot next to a mural that says “Kaboom.” It caught my eye but I didn’t think much of it. Turns out this spot is the former apartment of Danny Greene (Infamous Cleveland Mobster who helped give the city the title of Bomb City, USA). He was here when a bomb intended to kill him went off, destroying the home but leaving him with only minor injuries. That was in 1975, he died in 1977 (a car bombing), but the lot has remained a vacant ode to him.

Heading to the Airport the next day, and making small talk with my driver Pat, I mentioned being in Collinwood and seeing the mural. But of course, Pat grew up in Collinwood and shared his own slice of Cleveland history.

As a 7 year old kid he was walking down Waterloo when a friendly Danny Greene, who he’d never met, approached him with some money.

Kid, take this money and grab me a pack of smokes from the corner store and bring them back here, he said. And get yourself something too.

Pat did as he was told, grabbing the cigarettes, plus a pop and bag of chips for himself. He returned to Danny and gave him his smokes and change.

Danny gave him a mob life lesson right there – What the hell is this, kid? If I give you money to buy something, you don’t come back with change, you keep it.

Danny gave the money back and young Pat returned to the corner store and spent it all right there on candy. When Pat came home with a big bag of sweets, his mom asked where’d gotten all the candy. He told her the story and she immediately marched Pat into the street making him point out this Danny character. When they found him, his Mom ripped into Danny right there on the corner. Pat says she and Danny ended up becoming friends.

And this is why you talk to your bartenders, drivers, wait staff, and really any stranger, where possible.

While the legend of Danny Greene lives on (don’t bother with Kill The Irishman, it is a terrible movie that whiffed on an amazing story), so too does his bloodline — his son Danny Kelly is now a city council member. Over pizza and beer at Citizen Pie, Phil told me about more projects and his general high hopes for the city. With his vision working in tandem with Mayor himself, this hope is not in vain.

I departed Cleveland on a Monday afternoon, and because I was working remotely that day from coffee shops, I had little time for exploring. But I had yet to visit a Cleveland fixture, one that I could not allow myself to miss — Slyman’s Deli. By the grace of god, they’re open at 7 a.m. Monday through Friday, so I opted to make my morning run one to the deli. It was already 80 degrees and 85% humidity at 8 a.m. when I rolled in sweating and out of place. Despite my appearance, the woman at the counter was happy to help me, and somewhat fascinated by my spectacle. I of course ordered the Corned Beef sandwich on rye, their prized item.

I ran the 4 miles back home with my sandwich, past strip clubs, gas stations, and windowless industrial buildings. My corned beef behemoth, tightly wrapped in paper, bounced around a plastic grocery bag with each stride. The corned beef aroma continually wafted to my face, a confusing sensory experience when on a morning run in the July heat. But one must try the classics, circumstances be damned.

With no other food back at my place this sandwich became my breakfast and I have no regrets. Despite the mountain of corned beef disproportionately outweighing the other ingredients 10:1, the flavors were remarkably coherent. The thinly sliced beef had a way of tenderly melting away, evening out flavors and making the fist-sized meat stack feel more manageable with each bite. It was the right way to end my stay.

Make no mistake, like other Rust Belt cities, Cleveland has been hollowed out and continues to lose population. The city itself has gone from its 1950’s peak of 915,000, to roughly 365,000. The greater metropolitan area meanwhile has remained relatively flat at just over 2 million. Among a variety of factors and nuance, this is the result of two worlds colliding. The American dream of suburbanization and the interstate highway system meeting the American reality of industrial job loss and divestment. It’s a situation that’s played out in most of the Midwest and Rust Belt.

Yes, Cleveland still has the textbook stretches of desolate streets that are common in our legacy cities. The hip neighborhoods of Tremont and Detroit-Shoreway still felt far from bustling. But in nearly every establishment that I stepped into it was more than just a place, it was a living institution. Cleveland not only preserves these, but they remain local favorites, well trafficked, and eagerly shared with visitors. That cultural guardianship along with the reimagining of the decaying landscape is creating the rebound underway. The people of Cleveland have the love and devotion to do it, and now they have the right city government to fully realize the turnaround. It’s a decades long task, but with the progress from the previous ten years already proving it’s a worthwhile effort, it shouldn’t feel far-fetched. And thanks to the determined pride of Clevelanders, it’s slowly becoming a reality.

My love for the bar scene came as an 18 year old, before I was legally allowed to be in them. See, I went to undergrad in New Orleans where drinking is woven into the fabric of life. Fake IDs of the lowest order were regularly accepted across town, not just at the college bars. And after Hurricane Katrina (which hit just before my sophomore year), most places were just happy to have patrons in them, so IDs were an afterthought. The bars that quickly won the hearts of my friends and I were the sweatbox music venues and the dives. And one became the dark, degenerate sun for which our world orbited. It was The Club Ms. Mae’s.

Ms. Mae’s sits on the corner of Magazine and Napoleon, at the border of Uptown and the Garden District. It’s far enough away from Loyola and Tulane that it would never be suffocated by college kids, instead it’s centrally located allowing for easy access for all types of people from several different neighborhoods. It’s a prime locale where crowds from the legendary venues Tipitinas and Le Bon Temps Roule would pregame or post-funk at. It’s a key intersection where several Mardi Gras parades (like Babylon and Druids) begin, where you might see an on-duty police officer pop in for a drink while doing crowd control on the streets (it happened with regularity). It’s the place where former defensive coordinator of the Saints, Rob Ryan, occasionally held court post-win (after my era) buying drinks for all the patrons.

But on your average day, Ms. Mae’s was a place for cheap drinks and easy fun. It’s a basic set up, cash-only, with bar seating and a few tables and chairs. In my era it was windowless and had no A/C. There was a pool table, foosball table, an air hockey table (at some point), a few video poker machines, a jukebox (often playing metal), and of utmost importance, the staple $1 singles and $2 doubles. It attracted all walks of life with the common denominator of tying on a cheap buzz. Black or white, rich or poor, fashionista or scrub, cop or drug dealer, 18 or 89 years old, anyone who wanted to get blotto walked through this bar. And since it’s a 24-hour bar, they did so at all hours. Oh, and back then, you could smoke in there. We did, and so did everyone else. It was a magical time that seemed a lot closer to 1986 than 2006.

You could get lost in drinks, cigarettes, and conversation here; play foosball and pool for hours on end; get sucked into the vortex of Deuces Wild and Polly Poker, where winning $15 or $100 both meant you were drinking free that evening. You were constantly sliding between your friends and strangers, suddenly spending an evening with people you’d never interact with otherwise.

We knew Beckhouse the doorman and bartenders Marc, Frog, and Jason who seemingly never took a night off. We knew their tics, and if it was hour 12 of their shift and the bar was packed, we could reliably get a drink without agitating them further. They were the best breed of bartenders – surly with an occasional smile and wildly efficient. No bullshit, just slinging beers and high balls all night.

We got into plenty of trouble here, but we always played by the important rules – don’t enter top 40 songs on the jukebox, if you win at video poker tip your bartenders, and if you won enough, get drinks for your fellow players too. Don’t set drinks on the pool table or foosball table, don’t smoke without an ashtray. We spent an inordinate amount of time there. I demanded we get drinks there at 6 a.m. before heading to our graduation and went there when I completed my final class. Whether I needed to sulk or celebrate, Ms. Mae’s was always my first choice.

Many nights at Mae’s were just routine fun that all blurs together, but these are some memorable, and sometimes shameful, stories that show the full spectrum of a place that felt like my favorite broken home and a microcosm of the New Orleans I love.

#1

Up until her death in 2012, Ms. Mae (Florance Brigham) would regularly saddle up at the bar during the day with her glass of white wine. She had a seat that was reserved for her, and no one dare sit there if it was daylight. When the sun set, she slunk out, but every real Ms. Mae’s patron had seen her on her throne. She was a woman of small stature with a head of fading orange, permed hair, straight out from under the bonnet dryer. She had a classic grandma look that evoked feelings of smoking cigarettes on a plastic covered couch. She was from another era and had seen too much bullshit to deal with any in her presence at her place of business. You’d sometimes see her talking with a bartender or patron, maybe share a laugh, but normally she was just observing her haven with a glass of wine. She was not friendly nor outright hostile, just a grump. And how drunk she got remained a mystery.

It must have been Carnival season, because the place was poppin’ and we were already deep into a buzz by the early afternoon. My friends and I were standing near the bar sharing some irreverent banter. I was in the middle of telling a story, I assume it was peppered with the underdeveloped, colorful vernacular of a 20 year-old brain – “fuck this, retard that, and asshole the other” – when I felt a hard pinch on my ear. The pinch held firm and from my peripheral vision I could see a wrinkled arm.

I turned towards it to see that I was staring down Ms. Mae. While she continued to twist my ear tighter and towards her, her left finger waved in my face, “I better not hear any more cursing in my bar!” She released my ear as I apologized profusely, which she accepted, before sitting back down with her glass of wine. If I remember correctly, I later got her to crack a smile and even got a gentle clink from her glass.

As a Catholic from the Silent Generation her expectations of decorum around women and elders was engrained so deeply that it seemed to overlook the fact that she ran one of the most notorious degenerate bars in New Orleans. This was by far my most innocent offense at The Club, and yet, this run-in terrified as much as any.

#2

One time a couple of my buddies got kicked out of Ms. Mae’s. This is a pretty hard thing to do being that it’s a 24/7 bar full of delinquents and there’s usually at least a few worse off than you. Plus, the doormen were equally derelict. The most rogue of them all was Beckhouse. His claim to fame was his role as the Cockface Killer in Gorgasm and Attack of the Cockface Killer series (bartender Jason was also the director!). Real horror movies made in New Orleans. Low budget, with over-the-top gore and teetering on the line of softcore porn. But still, real movies that some people watched.

Beckhouse was a tall, imposing motherfucker and was usually one of three things – pissed off and not in the mood, jovial and fucking with you, or sloshed and a possible liability on the job. But in no way do I mean this as slander, he was mostly a teddy bear and a central piece of the Ms. Mae’s experience. Somehow, we became buddies. I think our sloppy drinking endeared us to one another. Or maybe you just can’t afford to not like your regulars, and I was a regular.

Anyway, my friends got the boot over nothing, another case of being over served and showing it. For several minutes they were outside the front door pleading with the doormen to let them back in. It was panic and desperation. This despite it being an unremarkable night. After repeated pleading and continued stonewalling it became clear to the bouncers that my friends were under the impression they were banned from the bar. With a simple, “Guys, just come back tomorrow” the insistence ceased, and my friends walked away satisfied. We likely did come back the next day just to make sure they were welcome.

#3

I took a date to Ms. Mae’s, which sounds weird. But actually, we first met there, so I knew I wasn’t playing with fire by taking a cute girl to a place with no windows, full of chain smokers. But, as I would soon find out, you’re always playing with some kind of fire at The Club. A few drinks in my stomach clenched and bubbled. It startled me but I put it out of mind. That worked for a few minutes, but a stronger rumble echoed through me, and it became clear I was staring down violent diarrhea. I wasn’t at risk of shitting myself right then, but I knew I’d have to make a move for the bathroom in the next few minutes.

At the time, the Ms. Mae’s men’s room was a trough for pissing to the left, while right in front of the bathroom door was a bizarre, single toilet raised a couple feet off the ground like some kind of throne of shame. There was no door to the toilet, you were fully exposed should anyone else be in the bathroom while using it. And if someone opened the bathroom door, well, a good portion of the bar might see you riding the porcelain.

I had been watching the bathroom, and no one was going in or out, so I knew I’d have a window of time in there to myself. I got up from my date and casually said I was going the bathroom. I entered and stared down the toilet. Did I have another option? Is there a lock on the door? I didn’t. There wasn’t. The panic hit. As it goes every time, when you need to relieve yourself and you happen upon a bathroom, whether clean or dirty, functioning or broken, open or locked, your body recognizes relief is finally within reach and concedes the fight. If I were at a 5 alarm panic moments ago, it was now a 10. WE MUST SHIT.

I checked for toilet paper, and to my amazement, there was a fresh roll. I bit my lip, hastily pulled down my pants, squatted above the seatless toilet, and exploded. From where my date and I sat, there was a decent chance that, should the bathroom door open, I’d be able to make eye-contact with her from the toilet.

While the evacuation was quick, the clean-up was an extended effort and pure terror. The only embarrassment greater than being caught taking a shit in a dive is the vulnerability and emasculation of being seen hovering over a foul toilet wiping your ass. I wiped with gusto as sweat poured down my face. Getting my pants back up to my waist before the door to the bathroom had opened felt like some kind of Olympic feat. I walked out as though a mere, casual piss had taken place. My date would never know the horror I experienced for those two minutes while she casually sipped a drink.

#4

It was a brutally hot summer day in New Orleans that was broken by a classic late afternoon southern downpour. Like a knock at the door that’s immediately followed by a battering ram, you have a split second to recognize what’s happening before your trapped in total chaos. A girl who I had a crush on had texted me she’d be at Mae’s that night and there was no way I was missing a chance to hang out with her outside of class. While the storm persisted for hours, we decided we were going out, weather be damned. A thunderstorm doesn’t seem like a big deterrent, but we didn’t have a car, and this was long before Ubers, and taxis were too expensive. Plus, the streetcar line was likely to be out of service or extremely slow.

No problem, we’ll just run to Ms. Mae’s we thought. And that’s what we did. A mile and a half in a torrential storm, through half flooded streets. We flailed through it all in tee shirts and jeans weighed down by gallons of water. We arrived drenched, no raincoats, water squirting from our shoes, and grins on our faces. My crush was there, and I think we exchanged a few pleasantries, and I’m sure she asked about my appearance. And within minutes, she left with her friends.

Oh well. I think we were just excited to be out of the rain and back in our happy place. The one benefit to the bar not having A/C back in those days was that we didn’t freeze in our soaked clothing with the air conditioning blasting. Instead, just a few fans gently pushed around the smokey air. I suppose we drank until our clothes dried. But truth be told, I don’t remember.

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California is a state so important and influential that if it were a country its $4.1 trillion GDP would rank fourth internationally (this jump to 4th just happened!). One might expect that the capital of this economic behemoth would be respected, if not beloved. Instead, Sacramento is mostly an afterthought. Even Arnold Schwarzenegger, during his 8 years as governor, commuted daily by plane from his home in Los Angeles rather than residing here (despite the Governor’s Mansion looking incredible). When he had to stay overnight, he’d just rent the main suite at the Hyatt Regency across from the capital building. I guess people want the sexy sunshine of LA, the rolling hills and fog of San Francisco, the beaches of San Diego, or the charm of about a dozen smaller California cities. Naturally, this makes me wonder what Sacramento has to offer.

Going in, my perception of Sacramento was a rather ghetto or cheap vibe, and from casual conversations, that seems to be a common take for others. I don’t know what exactly formed that idea, but it’s in the air. When I boarded my flight and a heavily bearded man in a Flyleaf shirt walked past me in the aisle, I was sure my preconceived notion was spot-on and a trashy, nü-metal paradise awaited me. Did you know both the Deftones (a cool nü-metal band) and Papa Roach (a very lame nü-metal band) hail from there? Several other random bands too – Cake, Tesla, and Trash Talk, among them.

However, what immediately struck me on arrival was the lush urban landscape. It’s not naturally verdant like Hawaii or the Pacific Northwest, it’s more intentionally crafted this way. The City of Trees is a moniker thrown out to a lot of different places, but in the case of Sac, they planted their way to reality. In particular, the citrus. You’ll find many varietals on any given block in the city – Meyer Lemon, Bearss Lime, Kumquats, Mandarins, and Naval and Valencia Oranges. It perfumes the air. In February, when it’s 65 degrees and partly sunny, having just left the gray winter shell of home, it gave me the odd sense that I had stumbled into an unknown tropical paradise.

But it’s not just the citrus, it’s all the trees. A mix of California Sycamores, Coastal Redwoods, Douglas Firs, Ponderosa Pines, Gray Pines, Willows, Maples, Eucalyptus, Junipers, Oaks, and of course, the non-shade providing Palms, thrive here. In fact, depending on which study you look at, Sacramento has the most trees of any city worldwide, per capita. Others keep it to the most in the US and ranking high internationally. And still others claim it has more canopy coverage than any city in the US, and third most in the world at 23.6% coverage. All of this simply growing in yards and along streets.

The city, in typical American fashion, sprawls out in every direction, but from the waterfront heading east, the key neighborhoods of Old Town, Downtown, Midtown, and East Sacramento, are shoulder-to-shoulder and provide the bulk of entertainment in the city. It’s a dense urban core, that, along with the tree lined streets, makes it very enjoyable for walking and running.

Midtown is at the center of it, full of charming homes, from century old multi-story mega-mansions to the modest low-slung ranch style homes, with intersecting streets lined with shopping, cafes, bars, and restaurants. The sheer number of divey neighborhood haunts at the city center immediately caught my attention.

I started my evening at Federalist Pizza, an open air concept built out of shipping containers in the backyard of the owner’s home. They do classic Neapolitan wood-fired pizzas matched with a solid draft beer list. The pizza is a bubbly, slightly charred crust with a good undercarriage so it’s not a floppy mess. Then they’re topped with farm fresh ingredients. The fan favorite Southside comes with fresh mozzarella, pork chorizo, potato, cilantro, and chili oil. It’s a perfect one-man meal.

Federalist Pizza made two things abundantly clear about Sacramento.

1) The self-given title of Farm-to-Fork capital is legitimate. The Mediterranean climate of the city and surrounding farmland means everything can grow here – the Sacramento Valley produces ¼ of the nation’s food, and it’s immediately evident at most restaurants. Many use local produce and meat, and whatever’s in season, so the creativity is abundant.

2) While real estate in Sacramento is a bargain compared to SoCal and the Bay Area, everything else is standard California cost of living. The pizza was not unreasonable at $20, but the $10 mediocre draft beer at all non-dive bars was a recurring theme that drove me crazy. In general, going out (dives aside) did not feel cheap.

Luckily the dives were plentiful and brimming with $3 or $4 High Life’s, so it was easy to keep my BAC hovering just above the legal limit without concern. How there are so many old school dives still here given the amount of old money that remains, while gentrification fills the gaps, is beyond me. Regardless, the abundance is real.

I heard that The Old Tavern often had fights and was generally sketchy but I felt fine walking in. The atmosphere was a bit off though. I had only just ordered when the bartender turned up the volume on the Kings game, overpowering the previous thumping of Nelly’s ‘Country Grammar,’ and WOW. People were not pleased. He was instantly rained on with angry shouts to turn the song back up. He had to explain it was a close game with six minutes left before they relented. Where’s that fanbase I’ve heard so much about?

Given its reputation, Old Tavern is disproportionately well lit, which made it harder to melt into the background and meant I could read the words of every neck tattoo throughout the bar, and there were many. Despite some slight tension in the air, people came and went leisurely, many seemed to know each other, and mostly liked one another. Two seats down from me was a man balancing a straw upright on the bar with a coaster on top. He explained he’d learned that trick in prison. Along with his neck tattoos and fried vocal cords, he had an ease of speaking frenetically to everyone and no one at once, which made me think the prison comment probably wasn’t a quip. All in all though, I have no complaints with Old Tavern. I talked hoops with the bartender Jay, a super friendly guy once you got him talking. This is objectively true because when I ordered my second round, it was $2 cheaper than the first. It’s a good hang, if only for a short while.

I bounced a couple blocks over to Q Street Bar, another spot with friendly bartenders, cheap beers, and a mixed crowd. The dedication to the TV playing “Beyond The Law,” an early 90s biker gang film starring Charlie Sheen, meant fun shouting and low brow jokes, but killed any opportunity to really connect with Sacramento locals.

At that’s fine, because it meant I arrived at Round Corner sooner. This spot was two blocks from where I stayed and exuded the soul of a classic neighborhood joint. It sits on the corner with the name adorned in neon, complete with a martini glass, a sad little entrance awning, and a front door surrounded by square, glass block windows. The two-tone paint job over the cement siding – blue on bottom, white up top –was the perfect finishing touch.

It's basic inside, a long wooden L-shaped bar top, with a few tabletops, two pool tables, an ATM (it’s cash-only), and a few TVs. My bartender was a friendly older guy running the show solo, he looked like he might’ve owned the spot, and casually sported their “Get Wrecked at the…Round Corner Tavern” shirt. The pool players ran the tables all night while the rest of us drank at the bar and casually watched NBA dunk contests from years past (it was NBA all-star weekend).

I’d settled into a few drinks when a knocking at the front door broke the buzz of conversation. The bartender, who was the only one on staff yelled, “Go around!”

Again, “Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!” at the front door.

Without hesitation the whole place, in chorus with the bartender, shouted,“USE THE SIDE DOOR!”

A couple seconds later, “DUNK! DUNK!”

“USE THE OTHER DOOR!”

A muffled plea at the door and another, “Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!”

The bartender sighed shaking his head, leaving the bar, and unlocking the front door.

I expected a lot of things but what entered was your average white couple in their 30s. Insults were hurled at them as they stepped inside, she was somewhat expressionless walking towards the bar, and he embarrassingly followed behind her, giving mumbled, half-hearted apologies.

As she got to the bar it became obvious – she was blackout drunk. But she wasn’t refused a drink, instead she just bounced off the bar like a bumper car and headed in a new direction. He grabbed her arm and unintentionally paraded her around the whole joint, doing one big lap. Having never left our seats despite the disturbance, each of us booed them as they traipsed by, back to the door they so desperately wanted open. As they exited, the boos got louder, and we began to clap. With them outside and the door only cracked, he left us with a pathetic final word, “I expected better, we live around the corner, we won’t come back!” The boos rained down as the door slammed shut.

Neighborhood bar camaraderie is alive and well, and the Round Corner has set the standard. It was, despite being confrontational, a truly endearing moment to have with a couple dozen strangers. And the fun didn’t stop there.

With order restored, everyone went about their business. As the juke box turned through a disjointed cycle of metal, hip-hop, indie, and classic rock, an old man with a cane walked towards the bar. He was very short and wide, with a wobble of walk. As he inched towards the bar, his cane planted awkwardly, throttling him backwards to the ground. He lay like a turtle on its shell kicking in the air, grasping for his cane. Sitting near the fall, I hopped from my seat to help him back up. As I leaned down, he snapped “don’t touch me!” Seconds later a couple of younger men helped him back up and walked him out of the bar. I shot a look at the bartender and got a shrug in return, and once again the Round Corner returned to business as usual.

Minutes later, the same guys who had helped him off the floor returned. They ordered drinks and made small talk with the bartender that ended with a look at me, then back at the bartender,“Man, every time with that guy!” Suffice to say, I love the Round Corner.

The crowds I saw that first night were diverse and solid proxies for Sacramento as a whole. The city is an eclectic mix (30% white, 30% Hispanic, 19% Asian, 12% black, 1% native American, depending on where you pull stats). Plus, it ranks in the top 10 of the most LGBTQ friendly cities in the US. With that eclectic mix as the foundation of the city, I expected a place full of personality and expression. In actuality, Sacramento is subdued.

But it’s also a government city dominated by public sector employees. 120,000 residents work for the state or federal government, so there’s likely a lot of job security too (prior to doge bullshit, anyway). Maybe having such a large slice of the population in civil service brings an air of earnestness to the culture.

As strange as the lack of expression was, something else stood out to me, which is not meant as an insult though it will be interpreted as such. Sacramento is not an ugly populace, but it is not eye-catching. What I mean is that after 24 hours in the city, the thought, from nowhere, came to me – I hadn’t seen one outright, objectively sexy person. Woman or man. What does this mean? Nothing, really. But how is that possible? I’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands of people. Was it bad luck, the places I hung out, or something else? I moved on, but the thought stayed in the back of my mind.

My second night started at the Chambers Room downtown. It’s on one of those blocks that’s perpetually dealing with some kind of construction, and despite being a couple blocks from the King’s Arena, there’s little foot traffic once night falls. The homeless activity is ratcheted up as is their suffering. Inside is a long shotgun set up – everything has that outdated 70s look – fake wood paneling on the bar top, cheap cafeteria style chairs and tables, and the dulling color scheme of brown, red, and faded yellow. It’s not a carpeted bar but there is a massive rug that is covering most of the floor.

They sell 40oz PBRs here and the walls are covered in amateur paintings. Many are abstract but there was also a recurring Asian woman in many of them. It was only after leaving that we realized those were self-portraits of the bartender. She likely made all the art on the walls. We only stayed for a couple of rounds and visited too early in the evening to properly see this place at its peak. But the consensus seems to be it’s a righteous late night dive.

I had my friend Nick along with me this evening. He had his car and was sober, so I had him take us to The Trap. It was 20 minutes south of downtown and isolated in an otherwise residential area. When we pulled up to the gravel parking lot, the wide, sagging roof of the front porch gave me the feel of an old western saloon, liked we’d entered rural California. And in fact, it claims to be the oldest bar in Sacramento and has a quality history (and is now owned by a billionaire?). However, once I stepped out of the car, I looked up at the signpost and saw, “The Trap” within the circle of the mars symbol (the male symbol), but the arrow pointed southeast rather than northeast. I’m still unclear what that means. We noted it with an air of hesitation as we stepped in.

You’re basically standing at the bar when you open the door, so we took the two closest seats available. The looks were already hitting us from each set of eyes — the few men at the bar (and one woman), to the few in the back playing pool. It was a ragged and older crew, with a down-but-not-out blue-collar working vibe. Our bartender though was younger – a tall and beefy guy in glasses, rocking the ‘fresh from the gym look’ of sweat pants and a hoodie. He had a chubby cherubic face and gave us an extremely friendly greeting. As if it were a Chili’s, he slapped down menus, mentioning popular menu items and a couple drafts, and letting us know he was available if we need anything. He was a very close talker with a jittery energy and piercing eye contact.

We grabbed a High Life and Perrier and sat back like we were totally fine with this. But the name is no lie, this felt like a trap. I do my research on places to hit, and The Trap recommendations, or at the very least criticisms, were posted numerous times across reddit. But none mentioned it was a gay bar. All signs said otherwise. And that’s no big deal, but the group at the Trap on this evening felt seedy, like Zed and the Gimp from ‘Pulp Fiction’ were set to emerge from the far end of the bar. The aggressively inviting nature of the bartender, coupled with the uneasy looks from the sparse crowd of eight, made for a perplexing awkwardness.

It is likely in no way related to the energy of the place, but it must be noted that I took my friend Nick here, just two fresh-faced out-of-towners, on Valentine’s Day.

Friday night was off to the races and our next stop was the Old Town neighborhood. What better way to top the energy of the Trap than with a visit to the tourist district? This stretch of 12 blocks is the historic, original site of Sacramento, full of old, saloon style buildings and cobbled streets – preserved to feel more like Tombstone than Sacramento.

During the day it was quiet and a little touristy thanks to the California State Railroad Museum (which is supposed to be a great museum). At night though, this area becomes a tourist trap of the lowest common denominator. I’d have to think back to high school, bored in a parking lot, to find a memory of being surrounded by unimpressive cars revving their engines, complete with blacked-out windows and glowing under-kits. But that’s the local crowd on a Friday in Old Town.

Even walking by, the bars were awful. Like a distorted version of Broadway Street in Nashville, where college kids and bachelor(ette) parties lose control, and old, drunk couples stumble aimlessly. It draws in all your classic townie goons and seemingly every tourist who happens upon Sacramento. People of the internet claim our destination, the Back Door, is a dive bar. I hoped for respite from the nonsense outside. But it’s more like a bad speakeasy concept mixed with a hotel bar than anything remotely offbeat. No one needs to come to Old Town at night. If it doesn’t depress you, it will at least annoy you.

I had a last ditch ever to uncover a new gem – the Pinecove Tavern. The neon sign filled me with hope but the dedication to karaoke in a large and loud, non-descript room killed that chance. Our night ended at the one place I knew I could trust, Round Corner. The vibes were great once again, and this time we ate there too. Drian’s is a little window towards the back that slings your standard fried bar food plus burgers, tacos, wings, and even Lumpia. Our dozen buffalo wings were an over-sauced mess, fantastic after a night of drinking.

The urban forest of Sacramento made running the streets pleasant – the Capitol and Fabulous 40s are must-dos. The capitol grounds are lush with citrus trees and epic cedars that look big enough to be old growth. It feels like the edge of a large urban park, but it’s only a flyby, not expansive enough to log miles. The fab 40’s though (as in 40^th – 49^th Avenue), is a stretch in East Sacramento that is famous for its wide, quiet streets and gorgeous homes (Lady Bird was filmed here). There are towering trees sitting in extensive lawns with Tudor and Colonial Revival mansions perched behind them. It’s a fun area to zigzag through and let your mind wander.

In typical fashion the areas which are designated for running – the Sacramento River Bike Trail, Sutter’s Landing, and Discovery Park – suffer from neglect. They’re on the fringes, slowly collecting detritus while drawing in a few homeless camps. Discovery Park is also a flood basin at the convergence of the two rivers, collecting water during the winter months, which minimizes upkeep.

While food is core to the identity of Sacramento, I was never fully immersed. A long wait at the city’s beloved Ramen and Izakaya joint, Binchoyaki, meant a pivot to Urban Roots Brewery for American BBQ. Not a terrible second option, but certainly not a place to experience the Sac food scene. So instead of Kimchi Mazemen or Onigiri, I had a brisket portion that would have Texans throwing their trays in tears. While it was average, I will note, their collard greens with ham (which was more like pulled pork) was outstanding.

At Magpie Café, I got my desired bar seating. It’s a hectic environment but you’re well-tended to. The wine and cocktails slapped, and at $14, it was a bargain for California and much of the country (which is an embarrassing comment to utter). I hit big with Acme bread and hummus plus a half dozen oysters to start. I don’t even know what kind of oysters they were, but they were from Bodega Bay, and they were maybe the best I’ve ever had. My third choice was a miss – batter-fried broccolini and yams in black sesame sauce. It was fine, but two months later, I still can’t figure out my logic in that choice. I took that over pork belly with pickled onions, a BLT, and a pistachio pesto pasta? Shame on me.

The Hungry Fork hit a hangover home run with their classic greasy spoon food and presentation. To get on the waitlist, write your name in the notebook next to the door. Wait outside for an undisclosed amount of time (about 25 minutes for us) before getting yelled at to be ready. Get squeezed in at the bar unceremoniously and start knocking elbows. But once seated you can sit back with an Arnold Palmer or Bloody Mary and wait for your over-buttered toast, perfectly crisped bacon, crunchy-on-top, soft-on-bottom hashbrowns, and slightly oozing over medium eggs.

After late hours navigating dimly lit bars, the lights feel a bit too bright and harsh. With the the kitchen and wait staff yelling back-and-forth, causing everyone else to speak over each other, the atmosphere may seem like a mismatch for easing into your day. But that’s when you let the coffee refills and the bite of vodka from your Bloody Mary course through your veins, simultaneously awakening and relaxing you. Sit back and watch pounds of hashbrowns get doused in liquid butter, cooking in a single, unified log of potato over the flat top griddle. That’s when the brain fog burns off and it’s understood that in this moment, it is the only place you should be.

When you can’t be at the whims of unknown wait times though, waking up to Zoe’s Coffee & Tacos is an easy choice. The breakfast tacos, with bacon (or soyrizo), potato, egg, and cheese, wrapped in soft tortillas that meld to the insides, are compact hits of revitalization (but the Cali prices get you again at $6 a pop). They also have pupusas. Temple Coffee is also great, with their celebrated roasting. I know nothing about coffee other than it was mellow and good and didn’t taste like the burnt sadness of Starbucks.

I’d hit Zebra Bar earlier which was fine but unmemorable. Prior to that I checked out Karma Bar – I was lured in by the patio next to the Capitol grounds, but more $10 beers pushed me out. and Der Beirgarten was exclusively an outdoor spot that was lively, but unexceptional (but I did see my first genuinely attractive people here). I went back to East Sac to hit Club Raven, which did seem like a rowdy dive. But it’s a narrow shotgun set up, and a regular was having a birthday party there, complete with balloons and cake, so there was no space for me to operate.

My last night ended where they all did, the Round Corner. I ended up chatting with Erik a good while – an Englishmen from Manchester who was an architect, but for the last 5 years was living out of his car (our conversation never really connected those divergent lives). Sacramento provided all that he needed – mild winters yet easy access to good skiing, plus proximity to a major airport (San Francisco) to get back to England cheaply, as needed.

For the others living here, best I could tell, the draw of Sacramento is that you get the weather and liberal benefits of California, but without the flash and money of the coast. And thus, a shot at the American dream – owning a home where you can raise a family. Maybe the subdued culture and tempered expression was really just contentment of achieving that.

On arrival in Sacramento I had chatted up my driver Lana, a proud and very knowledgeable local. When I told her I hoped to uncover what Sacramento was all about and what others were overlooking, she replied matter-of-factly, “I don’t think you’ll find anything here. I’m a local, all locals just say there’s nothing here, it’s just a place.” I was shocked and dismayed, and eager to prove her wrong. All weekend that quote stuck with me.

But during that third and final night in town, I felt content to ease into my barstool at The Round Corner rather than put together a last-ditch effort to uncover another side of Sacramento. Lana’s voice plainly calling out her hometown played through my mind, and despite my resistance to it, as I ordered a beer, I knew at least for now, I couldn’t prove her wrong. Maybe Sacramento is just a place. But I think that’s how the Sac wants it — to set a low bar only to consistently exceed expectations.

There’s a loneliness, a sadness, even a visceral discomfort that I feel every time I’m back in my home state of Colorado. I used to pin this on Colorado Springs, the city I was raised in. And for good reason. Despite the outdoor access, it is a bleak, right-wing, military-heavy, opioid and meth overwhelmed, evangelical haven of a city. It is home to mega churches, fundamentalist groups like Focus on the Family, and it’s where the Libertarian party was officially founded. It’s a place where adults race Hondas on the avenue and protest outside Planned Parenthood as a pastime. It is a cultural void.

I’ve visited Colorado several times since moving out two decades ago, back for weddings and visits with friends. Each return I earnestly believe I will love my home state, that my view is tainted by a past life, and my fresh eyes will shine a new light on it. But during these return trips, I inevitably end up stuck somewhere in the Front Range with the same dissapointment. Colorado Springs may have been what I actively hated while growing up, and it still gives me the worst of my unsettling feelings, but Denver, which has a reputation as a top city to visit and move to, has a palpable soullessness too.

What few people understand about Colorado, or no one wants to say out loud, is that half of Colorado is ugly (cue Dumb & Dumber). The Eastern side is just a bad version of Kansas farmland – the dry high plains, a sea of tall yellow prairie grass bleeding into a dusty, washed out horizon that never ends. The Western half is the Rocky Mountain expectation of Colorado – an epic panorama of inspiration – dark green national forests giving way to craggy peaks, some snow-covered year round. And the Front Range, home to the Springs and Denver, well, it sits right between these two worlds.

In fact, Colorado’s 17 largest cities by population (several are just sprawling suburbs around Denver), dot the Front Range. Many of these cities lie in the flatlands and gaze through miles of chalky haze to the edge of the western ideal. If you’re visiting Colorado, and you’re not making your way into the mountains, say, hitting a requisite bougie ski town, you’re likely living in the limbo of the Front Range.

But here’s the thing, I can handle ugly, and many parts of Colorado Springs aren’t. If there’s a single distinguishing factor between it and Denver (excluding population size and all that comes with it) it’s that the Springs delivers on the promise of the mountains where Denver falls short. Much of the Springs is in the foothills! I grew up just a 5-minute drive from the dozens of trails in beautiful Cheyenne Canyon, 15 minutes from Garden of the Gods, and 15 minutes from the Manitou Incline and Barr Trail, the route up Pikes Peak. And yet I feel empty when I’m there.

If you end up in Colorado Springs, you’ll know why. Even if you like hiking & trail running or road & mountain biking, you’ll be planning your exit strategy. The mountains are in fact, right there, and the Olympic Training Center is too, making you think it will be an outpost for athletic adventure seekers. But the predominance of evangelical Christians, a heavy military presence, a forgotten lower class, and a generally closed off conservatism in the community stunts much opportunity at cultural growth and a stoked vibe. Couple that with an urban sprawl so vast that it feels like the city was developed with the intention of dissolving any community engagement. The expansive square mileage afforded to what is in fact a modest population of 480,000 makes it a car-first city with few neighborhood spots to congregate.

You’re either in a residential-only area or a strip mall. There are few neighborhoods that have easy walking access to a coffee shop, a restaurant, or neighborhood bar, let alone any access to daily essentials to complete an errand on foot (downtown is the sole exception). Sidewalks exist, but this city rails against pedestrians. Most everything requires getting in the car and landing at a benign, at best, shopping plaza.

But even that flawed experience is surmountable if the destination is unique and inviting. But too often they’re not. A city like Tucson, for example, is also a mid-sized sprawling city, but the outposts requiring a car thrive and are authentic to Tucson. You’re getting something real – owners have pride in their city and want to honor what makes it unique – be it celebrating some of the best Mexican food in the country, great winter weather, or glorifying the Saguaro Desert. And the patrons want to partake and revel in it. In the Springs that same drive regularly ends at a chain store, fast food spot, or another version of a place that could be anywhere.

Did this city get so unwelcoming because of the people it attracted, or did the lack of excitement and engagement trample the population into a pile of indifference? Probably a bit of both. The general feeling I get from the residents in my hometown is that they’re not particularly energized about their city or their prospects in it.

The city feels disemboweled of community to the point that I get depressed when I’m there and feel alone even when I’m not. Bless the businesses that have found a niche and are chipping away at the guarded walls of this society and building rapport with their neighbors, but it feels like an impossible task when the city continues to spread outward, further loosening the threads of connection. The pervasive conservatism and the America dream to have a driveway and a lawn may be too great for a handful of small business owners to direct meaningful change. In some ways, it feels like the Springs is mimicking the worst parts of big brother Denver, a city that promises the best of both worlds, where mountains meet the bustling city, but in reality, can’t fully deliver on either.

When I step out of Denver International Airport my soul chokes as I see the mountains are a distant, hazy mirage. Much like DIA is removed from Denver, Denver is removed from the Mountains. The sea of yellow fields fold around you like the gray of a prison cell. Sure, this landscape goes infinitely far unlike the physical confines of a cell, but you’re trapped all the same. After 30 minutes driving West you do hit Denver, but the mountains remain a distant vision. The gray and worn asphalt of the I-25 corridor only adds to the monotony. I-25 is a straight-line that cuts across the state, North to South, a manmade representation of the Front Range that compounds the emptiness I feel. Put the car in cruise control and see where you end up in an hour. More of the same. Dead grass and fuzzy mountain views. It’s a mostly repeating stretch of loneliness, all 300 miles of it, the only signs of civilization – suburban sprawl, gas stations, and strip malls.

But hey, Denver is the capital, so surely there’s a unique prairie-to-mountain culture here that defines these first outposts of the West! Not so much. In fact, Denver’s total lack of culture is the only culture I can seem to find. Red Rocks Amphitheatre and John Elway nostalgia (I’m a Jake Plummer guy, myself) seem to be the closest thing to shared, cultural appreciation across groups here. Though perhaps Nikola Jokic is now embedded in that too? (In all sincerity, Go Nuggets!) That, or skiing and snowboarding. But Denver is now infamous for the 8-hour traffic jams it creates along I-70 to visit the ski towns, and it seems like it’s as much the out-of-towners as the locals. (It’s worth noting that the mountains are certainly accessible from Denver and traffic jams aren’t much of an issue in the warmer months. But when you visit and don’t have a car you appreciate the true difference between immediate and moderate outdoor access).

In Denver, the neighborhoods have distinct feels, but none coalesce into a city identity, and in a vacuum, most aren’t memorable. This is Denver’s biggest problem. Despite having individually cool hangouts, and pockets of neighborhood fun, the city as a whole has failed to deliver meaningful distinction and refuses to stand out. Whether this is an issue with such an influx of outsiders (the city has grown by 30% in 20 years – from 554K in 2000 to 715K in 2020), or a city that never had a strong identity to begin with, I don’t know.

The coffee houses, bars, restaurants, and shops along Larimer St. in River North (RiNo) are covered in street art and graffiti, the basic aesthetic for a thriving alternative scene. But when I stepped inside several businesses it felt like a bait-and-switch with the interior feeling sterile and yuppified. The Larimer Lounge, a long time venue in the neighborhood may be an exception, but I have yet to visit.

LoDo wants to be some version of LA with important people filling the floors of exclusive clubs or the booths of loud, dark restaurant bars. Imposing doormen wait outside these replicas but the lines never fully form. When they do fill, it’s a lot of tribal tattoos, tacky gold chains, and tight, tucked-in black tee shirts. Their counterparts have bleached blonde hair, heavy makeup, and ample cleavage. No, these are not iconic hangouts with influential people frequenting them.

Perhaps Cherry Creek best embodies the Denver ideal. A wealthy and ritzy neighborhood known for a higher-end shopping mall. It blends strip mall fast casual dining, new condos, and old multi-million dollar homes seamlessly into a vanilla void of boredom. It’s not trying to be anything other than a place for wealthy people to feel comfortable in a clean, safe, and vapid environment. It’s the most authentically Denver vibe, and it sucks. But at least it’s honest.

Regardless of the neighborhood you’re in, you’ll likely encounter loud, roving packs of self-important bros. You know the ones – lacking any self-awareness as they stomp around in fitted backward caps, polos, and golf shorts. They’re an outsized population here, and in a city that struggles with an identity, a lowest common denominator persona is perfectly suited to take over. And that they have. It can feel like a year-round Santa-con in these parts.

Now, this is a tangent, but hear me out. Music may be the best lens for understanding the lack of culture across the Front Range. A phenomenon exists here that I have yet to encounter anywhere else in the US. Take your run-of-the-mill, unmemorable bar, brewery, or restaurant anywhere in the country. The soundtrack is likely to be predictable – either current hits, classics (whether that be 70’s rock n roll, 80s pop, 90’s hip hop, or something in between), or something inoffensive to fill a void, not impose. Now, go to that same generic hangout in Colorado and you’re almost guaranteed to be pummeled by the worst era of music – late 90s/early 2000s post-grunge and alternative rock, some of which falls into the more specific category of “But Rock.”

You’ll know the sound best as bullshit like Matchbox 20 - Push; 3 Doors Down - Kryptonite; or Train - Drops of Jupiter. Yes, there is an entire state that defaults to this genre as the sound most likely to please patrons. They treat these songs like they’re timeless classics, on the same level as Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song, Genesis’ Invisible Touch, or 2Pac’s California Love. You may get tired of those songs, but they’re not going to offend, and more than likely, most people will still be happy to hear them.

Colorado refuses to let this era die out and has collectively put it on a pedestal, highlighting many of the deeper cuts. A pint across the Front Range may well be accompanied by Lifehouse Hanging by a Moment; Fuel Hemorrhage (In My Hands); Tonic If You Could Only See; Gin Blossoms Hey Jealousy; Seven Mary Three Cumbersome; Live Lightning Crashes; and Colorado’s own sin, The Fray How to Save a Life. If your destination is not memorializing this limp rock specifically, they’ve moved onto the next decade of alternative-syrup that has aged poorly, like Twenty One Pilots Stressed Out and Imagine Dragons Believer.

This is not to say there is nothing good in Denver. Capitol Hill and North Capitol Hill are a fun time. And Colfax Avenue, which runs between the two neighborhoods, stays gritty and lively for another few miles east, and will always hold a special place in my heart. This is where the Lion’s Lair, Bluebird Theatre, Ogden Theatre, and Fillmore Auditorium reside. It’s also a stone’s throw from the (now all defunct) 15^th Street Tavern, Mercury Café, and London Streets. For decades this hub brought the up-and-comers from every genre of music to Colorado. It was a grimy and real scene too, and I only got to see the all-ages version.

The bars that have withstood the changes of time along this stretch are a bastion for all who need to let loose or simply forget. Last time I was at The Knob Hill Inn it was karaoke night with a mash-up of aging neighborhood regulars and trans twenty-somethings alongside their progressive friends. The mic was passed happily between the young and old, song after song, but they otherwise kept to their own. Up the street at Williams Tavern, I was offered cocaine in the bathroom from someone I hadn’t even met nor seen in the bar prior. He was just an average guy, genuinely looking to share (I declined). And a couple blocks north at The Horseshoe Lounge I’ve shot the shit for hours with friendly bartenders on a quiet night. These were good times with the eclectic crowds that make a place feel like home.

Nearby at the classic hole-in-the-wall El Taco de Mexico, I’ve eaten countless great burritos and tacos over paper plates on a cafeteria tray. I’ve followed that up with bar-hopping South into Speer – I’ve sipped cold ones at Barry’s on Broadway before getting blotto at Don’s Club. These were all good times. But why-oh-why don’t I feel like there’s a sense of community in this cow-town turned tech-city?

In all my travel across this country, whether captured on this Stack or during my many more personal travels, I’ve never experienced quite the vacancy of identity I see back in the Front Range of Colorado. You’ll of course find pockets of good people in these aforementioned hangouts who understand why that’s disconcerting, but the reality is, the self-created void has become the Colorado standard you’ll be reminded of daily.

I’m not naive enough to think I’ve seen it all and I know there’s more to uncover. Good stuff too. But I also know my viewpoint is not simply tainted from growing up there, nor is it incomplete from not experiencing enough. I’ve tried and tried, and what I know to be true is this: the lack of culture that exists in Colorado’s two biggest cities is pervasive and real.

So, Colorado Springs – if you go! Hey, it could happen, and you deserve to know the spots that have kept the youth and long-term residents sane in an overbearing and bleak land. First, downtown (along with the bubble that is Colorado College) really does make up one of the few walkable areas, and to its credit, it’s lovely. Huge trees provide ample shade along cute blocks lined with Tudor, Victorian, and Craftsmen homes, all while Pikes Peak looms in the background. And yes, coffee houses, bars, restaurants, and shops are accessible. And there’s probably a few new, cool places that have cropped up since I left, but I don’t know them. Below is a good jumping off point. If you’re there, ask your friendly bartender what else to hit.

Manitou Springs – It’s right there in the foothills, at the foot of Barr Trail and Pikes Peak, in fact. It’s a walkable, quirky alternative town outside of the Springs, though it really just feels like a neighborhood of the city.

Poor Richards – An absolute gem of a spot – a 3-in-1 bookstore, toy store, and restaurant. Their pizza is solid, the sandwiches are great (their tuna salad sandwich was amazing, but I don’t see it on the menu currently), and, as a kid, their house salad single handedly taught me salad was a good thing. It still rips.

La Baguette – A great French bakery with lovely croissants plus some mean chicken & tuna salad sandwiches, on the aforementioned croissants.

La Casita – A Mexican fast food spot with two locations in the Springs. This place is incredible for hangover breakfast tacos and their lunch & dinner is just as good. Their tortillas are handmade and the best I’ve ever had. Whether that’s a nostalgia thing or something else, I can’t say. But they are unreal. Go out of your way to get them.

Triple Nickel Tavern – Owned by JJ Nobody of Nobody’s fame. Great lil dive that hosts shows and has a lot of sports on TV. A good place to tie on a serious buzz.

Benny’s – This place has been around since I was a kiddo and has good neighborhood sports bar vibes.

The Leechpit – I can almost single-handedly thank owner Adam Leech for ensuring I listened to cool music growing up. It’s a record and thrift store combo that specializes in good rock’n’roll, independent music, and vintage Colorado sports apparel. It is THE spot to hit if you need an escape from the suffocating conservatism of the Springs. “Keep Colorado Springs Lame” is their battle cry and I love it dearly.

The Black Sheep – Formally Industrial Nation (and where my incredible punk band the Gustitutes played twice), it has been around 25+ years (as the Black Sheep it’s more like 15 years) and is the spot that has kept the Springs somewhat relevant with touring musicians.

Vultures – I’ve never been but it’s nice to have a second bar/venue in the city, even if it is literally next door to the Black Sheep.

If you made it this far, I’ll be back to my usual writing in my next post!

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The Beginning – The people love their city

I exited the Cincinnati airport and was greeted by my Lyft driver Robert, an old man in his 70s. He wore suspenders and large wire framed glasses. His parched voice came with a slight quiver that made me question if this was the right job for him. The Biden age debate was the crux of the political conversation that week so I couldn’t help but project the country’s age anxiety onto Robert. But he put me at ease with safe, not slow, driving. And when I told him it was my first time in Cincinnati, he handed me a double sided printout titled, “Lyft your spirits while in Cincinnati with things to see, do, and a little history.” I knew right then that Cincinnati would punch above its weight.

Imagine Appalachia, more specifically West Virginia, with its constant roll of verdant hills, but instead of sparse civilization peppered in, a captivating, approachable city breaks through the hills and along the river. But yes, a real city. Not a town with a single building reaching above the trees, a city with a skyline, history, and vibrant renewal that’s palpable.

I’ll say it now – fuck the NFL broadcasters who have reduced this place to shots of Skyline Chili – a heap of spaghetti covered in chili and shredded, glowing cheese.

Crossing the Ohio River into the heart of city, Cincinnati shows off right away with the Roebling Bridge, a classic suspension bridge painted blue that bleeds into the sky above. And peeking from the Skyline downtown sits the Carew Tower, an Art Deco masterpiece, for years the tallest in the city until the Great American Tower was completed in 2011, edging it out by 86 feet.

The rest of the drive was dotted with historic rowhouses, renovated behemoths like the Cincinnati Music Hall (home to their famous Symphony Orchestra), city streets that felt lively, a prevalent city bike system (always a good sign for me), and of course, a solid dose of the Midwest abandon. Brian Olive, a pillar of the Cincinnati rock scene, chatted with me during my visit and highlighted that, “Growing up in the Midwest, everyone had their favorite abandoned buildings. You explored them as kids, that’s what you did with your free time.”

Time to Learn Something - Before proceeding, here are some quick facts about Cincinnati, I know you don’t know anything about the Queen City.

• First, a few things about that goddamn Skyline Chili.

1.     It’s Cincinnati Chili, not Skyline Chili. The origins of the Chili are from immigrant restauranteurs using their own Mediterranean spice blend (ample cinnamon, clove, and tomato) to create the unique flavor.

2.     Skyline is just one of many Cincinnati Chili restaurants in the city. It’s actually a large chain with over 160 locations across Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, and Florida.

3.     Camp Washington Chili is widely considered the favorite in town. During my visit, they were closed for two weeks for their annual family summer vacation. That bygone tradition warmed my heart. There’s no way a family joint with old school values like that could make bad food.

4.     Cincinnati Chili is pretty damn good. I had it on some Coneys at Great American Ballpark.

• The Roebling Bridge was built by John A. Roebling, it opened in 1867, and was the model for the Brooklyn Bridge, which, duh, was also designed by him.

• The term Soap Opera came out of Cincinnati. Soap manufacturer’s, notably Procter & Gamble (based in Cincy), ran so many ads during these shows (originally radio dramas) that the entire genre was named after the advertising. These slowly morphed into the TV dramas we knew in the 80s and 90s.

• The Cincinnati Reds were the first professional baseball team.

• The Great American Tower’s top has a crown, which was inspired by Princess Diana. Yep.

• The Sultana was a 260 foot wooden steam transport boat built in Cincinnati in the 1860s. In 1865 it was carrying 2,300 Union soldiers (it had a capacity of only 376) on the Mississippi just north of Memphis when a steam broiler exploded killing 1,700 people. That’s 200 more than the Titanic. It remains the worst maritime disaster in American history.

• Cincinnati, being a Union city next to a border state (Kentucky), played a significant role with the Underground Railroad. There’s now the National Underground Freedom Center here. I regretfully chose the American Sign Museum over this one and did not experience it.

• Bootsy Collins is from here, as is the very underrated, late Roger Troutman.

• The Cincinnati Bengals are named after the Cincinnati Zoo’s tigers. Apparently it’s a great zoo.

Northside – Great vibes, cash-only dives, and heavy pours

Locals abbreviate the Northside Yacht Club as NSYC and it looks a lot like NSYNC which is very confusing. I thought I was arriving during their weekly NSYNC karaoke, but it was just Northside Yacht Club karaoke.

Instead, the vibe was immediately good here, a rock crowd mixed with older normies and regulars. ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man,” was crankin’ on the jukebox as I saddled up to one of two open bar seats for an ice cold high life. Shortly after, an attractive woman around my age sat at the other vacant stool.

Julie and I hit it off – talking about life while she doled out doses of Cincinnati insight, none more affirming than the fact that she loved the city, its trajectory, and didn’t want me turning too many people onto its unheralded coolness. A problem I’d kill for. But for now, Julie’s secret remains safe with us.

After we ate, she turned me onto to their house special, a peanut butter tequila shot. I don’t know what’s in it besides tequila, but it tastes like peanut butter and is somehow delicious. Honestly, fantastic. Between that and the large, emergency assistance buttons in the bathrooms, it’s a wonder I ever left. Confused? Video below.

Julie drove me to my final destination which was very much in walking distance, Junker’s Tavern. This dive proved fortuitous for me. Not only did I get the largest pour of whiskey I’ve ever received (about two and half pours in one), but I saddled up next to John, a true Cincinnatian and evangelist of the city. Within minutes of chatting with him he shared his number and offered to take me Findlay Market. It also marked the first time I willingly left a half full drink at a bar.

After only 6 hours on the ground in Cincinnati I had met three very different advocates for the city. That alone says something for the people and the pride the city has instilled in them.

Over-The-Rhine & Downtown – A downtown I don’t hate + a quintessential neighborhood

The next morning was a muggy Midwest summer standard. I hate humid heat, and yet there’s something undeniable about that air. It feels like how I always imagine summer. That swampy thickness creates a visceral feeling, connecting back to childhood summers traveling to Missouri and Texas, free of school and what feels like endless possibility.

The night before the sky had opened for a quick 20 minute torrential downpour, and it ripped open again on this morning. It’s another Midwest specialty – wild rain that feels like it came out of nowhere. With just a few booms of thunder and cracks of lightning, an overcast sky can darken, and the streets are instantly under flash flood warnings. When these storms have been absent from your daily life, it’s palpable, triggering a positive but uncontrollable feeling, almost like ASMR. When the rain came to an end 90 minutes later, it was like nothing ever happened, the sun reemerged, and I stepped out to explore.

Running the city usually gets me off the beaten path and uncovering hidden gems, here though, I ended up with a closer look at the obvious – Downtown, the Riverfront, and the OTR – Over The Rhine neighborhood. The area lured me in for much of the weekend, it’s a magical spot. Call it touristy, obvious, or easy, but there’s a great energy there, even if it means more gawkers and gentrification.

First, it’s all bordered by the cities three professional teams’ stadiums, but rather than the stadiums all occupying one strip and isolated by highways and parking lots like so many other cities, they create a triangle shape and encompass the area. That means, in any given month, one of the city’s three major league teams is playing and bringing hordes of people into the center of the city. Of course, this area is vibey without the extra foot traffic, but with it, things are intensified.

Second, the Central Business District actually has some fun bars – Knockback Nat’s, Madonna’s, In-between, O’Malley’s in the Alley, and Arnold’s (the oldest bar in the city and seemingly beloved by all). Finally, Over The Rhine is an absolute gem of a neighborhood (The name comes from the Germans who settled the area in the mid-1800s. Many walked to work across bridges over the Miami and Erie Canal, which separated the area from downtown Cincinnati. The canal was nicknamed "the Rhine" in reference to the river Rhine in Germany). The famous Findlay Market is the heartbeat of it, a classic public market offering all you could want, open 6 days a week, and staying consistently slammed at all hours.  But it’s so much more. Over-The-Rhine has been compared to Greenwich Village and Arthur Frommer even said,

“In all of America, there is no more promising an urban area for revitalization than your own Over-the-Rhine… I see in my mind the possibility of a revived district that literally could rival similar prosperous and heavily visited areas.”

That was 1995, so he was either a prophet or people took note because the area has seen an incredible rebuild.

Robert had told me that during the 80s and 90s, the OTR was one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the country. When he and his wife were finally able to feel safe walking out of the Symphony Orchestra, seeing people in the streets enjoying themselves, not fighting or passed out, he cried. So, what changed?

Mainly the 3CDC got involved. They’re a non-profit focused on revitalizing the urban core in partnership with the city and corporate community. Their mission is reimagining key civic spaces, adding market-rate and affordable housing to the urban core and creating vibrant-density through mixed-use residential and office projects that support local small businesses. Brian mentioned that he saw it as the small businesses that really had helped bring things back to life, and that there was probably an overemphasis on stadiums. Either way, the idea that corporations, which have so much power (good or bad) over the city they inhabit, now have a direct responsibility to the betterment of it, is fantastic.

Yes, 3CDC had restored old buildings, created new spaces with them, and brought in small businesses that could thrive and bring foot traffic, but most fascinating was how the new and old coexisted. Many rowhouses and apartments did not seem to be part of any revitalization and continued to house lower income, predominately black families. Their kids played on the city streets while the adults made the sidewalks into makeshift patios out of their stoops and lawn chairs. They seemed intent to socialize and live in the neighborhood as they always had, even if it was now amongst the evolving landscape of boutique shops, tourists, and buzzy bars and restaurants.

Was 3CDC subsidizing their housing costs? I doubt it. Was there underlying tension over the gentrification of the neighborhood? Likely. Could these families turn a healthy profit if they sold their homes? Only if they owned them. All that said there seemed to be a level of harmony with the long-term residents and the rebuild taking place around them. Rather than being priced out it seemed that maybe they were able to stay and keep a stake in the now desirable neighborhood.

Walnut Hill, Camp Washington, Northside, OTR – Cheap fun & peak abandonment

I had big dreams about what a sandwich at the Pickled Pig would be like, but they were closed, so I hopped over to Fireside Pizza, the next closest spot. I sat at the bar and grabbed a Bell’s ale and an 11” Greek pizza. The spot’s an old firehouse with a gigantic wood burning pizza oven — it’s a cute neighborhood joint.

The beer was cold and the pizza was your classic wood-fired oven style – thin crust that’s crunchy on the bottom and still chewy up top. It was perfect for a quick pop-in. Closing out, I was told it was happy hour – half off the beer and the pizza. My total? $9.16. I have been to a lot of inexpensive cities and even more hole in the wall joints. This topped them all. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a better deal than that. I’d be charged 4X for the same thing in Brooklyn.

The American Sign Museum is on the west side of town in a mostly desolate stretch of abandoned warehouses wedged between train tracks and the freeway — a neighborhood called Camp Washington. A disassembled Arby’s hat sign sits out front while a billboard-sized, original McDonald’s golden arches sign awaits you glowing inside. The museum charges $15 and I worked my way through it in less than 30 minutes. There are some wonderful vintage signs like the aforementioned old school fast food and classic neon beer. There’s even a shop where you can watch the pros making neon.

But the real treat was the abandonment across the street. A behemoth of chipping yellow paint, giving way to lifeless cement stood towering over empty lots. Every window grid was a scattershot of broken panes. It was eight stories tall and what felt like half a city block. It was one of dozens here in Cincinnati, hundreds in Ohio, and thousands across the country. It was covered in graffiti and the futile attempts to mask it. It was a permanent playground for delinquent youth, a home for the houseless, and a gritty beauty from a long gone era.

Since it’s never not mealtime on vacation, I was already planning my next stop. While dives with well executed bar food may be my go-to, I do have a soft spot for some finer dining. To take advantage solo, bar seating is required. Mid City restaurant in the OTR fits the bill, a spot for inventive food and drinks from an unpretentious staff. The place has a full dining room plus a narrow bar room with 8-10 stools and few tables. You’d be at home dressed up here, but there’s no need when the bartender is tatted up wearing a tee shirt and a hat.

I ordered bitter greens — Swiss chard, asparagus, parmigiano, and golden soy dressing. It was straight from the farm, and I could’ve just had a bowl of that. The potato salad was made with smoked trout, leek, carrot, egg, and parsley. It was a perfect cold dish during summer, adding the trout was ingenious. Given these were small plates, I also ordered a baked Alaska for dessert. This was wholly unnecessary but sometimes the only way to show some self love if through a beautiful meringue.

Back in Northside I grabbed a drink at Urban Artifact, a brewery in an old church. Utilizing that space was once a unique prospect, but now borderline cliché. I love beer but we might need to pump the brakes on the craft breweries. Instead of focusing on making delicious beer, so many spots rely on a gimmick like that to lure people in. That said, Urban Artifact is pretty rad. They do make delicious drinks, with their focus on fruit tart beers. “Pickle,” an ale brewed with cucumber and dill, is an absolute delight on a 90 degree day in a cool, dark basement.

I passed through the Northside Rock N’ Roll Carnival – an annual and free, 3-day festival that was in action all weekend from 4 to midnight. The vibes we’re good — college kids, families, and all the alternative types took part in the festivities. It had the feel of an adult oriented street fair, but music as the focal point. Beers were $7 and with only a few hundred people there at that time, no bathroom lines.

I worked my way through Northside, checking out the Northside Tavern for a drink before walking to the northern most end to the Comet. It’s a solid bar and venue in an otherwise residential stretch of the neighborhood. Brian had mentioned that one of the best developments in recent memory for the music scene was that the clubs and bars finally started charging covers. Somehow this was something not done in previous decades. However, I walked into the Comet for free.

Covington, Findlay Market, and OTR – I secretly always hope there’s an excuse to drink before noon

The next day I ran straight to, and over, the Roebling Bridge into Covington, Kentucky. I don’t have a good sense of what the feel is supposed to be or if Covington is having a renaissance of sorts like Cincinnati. But I can say that it’s cute, and as a suburb, it feels distinct and built up, not necessarily dependent on Cincinnati. The downtown had several blocks of colorfully painted row houses littered with bars and restaurants. If I ever have to move to a suburb, it better look like Covington.

After my run, I rushed to Findlay Market, into the packed Market Wines wine bar and shop at 11 a.m. John was seated at the end of the bar with an empty stool next to him. “I’ve had to guard this for the last 45 minutes… we’re doing this wine tasting,” he said pointing to a list of 4 wines. John likes to get down, so I saddled up, keeping to myself that I’d just run for an hour on a hangover and hadn’t consumed anything yet that day, save for the coffee in my hand.

We chatted with the owner, who of course John knew well, as we worked our way through the tasting menu. John was in his 60s but presented as a rocker. He was Lemmy-esque in appearance – tall and wide, an imposing figure with long, chest length gray hair that met up with his goatee about three buttons down his shirt. But he was a gentle giant. He wore all black, including his cowboy hat, and walked with a cane and noticeable limp. He seemed to be in a semi-retired state, taking odd jobs here and there, but mostly luxuriating across town on a tight budget. 

He was genuinely friendly and had a real love for Cincinnati. As it always seems to be, hearing that I was traveling to learn about the Cincinnati opened him up completely. He was not the type I had to struggle to fill the conversation with, it was easy for him to share. He regaled me with stories from his previous life as a backline and drum tech in the world of touring music. He worked with Nine Inch Nails for 17 years and did production with the Pixies, Bauhaus, KMDFM, Orgy, Blondie, Guns N Roses, and Earth Wind & Fire. The man had a bona fide career. But he also had gone through some serious loss. His home and recording studio burned down years prior and he lost hundreds of thousands of dollars in equipment alone. While he never recovered financially from that, John seemed to be at peace with it and learned how to live the way he wanted without monetary restrictions keeping him down.

I figured he’d be done with me at this point. I was late to meet, and he just spent an hour with me. Instead, it was only the beginning. He toured me through the market, then took me to the Cincinnati Hemp Company. He knew the staff and we were offered some free gummies to try. I’ve had my share of buybacks at the bar, but never have I seen free weed given at the dispensary. John ate his, I saved mine – it was noon and I already had a wine buzz on an empty stomach.

We grabbed a drink at Holiday Spirits where I had my first Cincinnati Light Lager. Take note breweries, there may be no better name for a beer than, “City of Origin + Type of Beer.” Cincy Light just sounds cheap and delicious. And with a couple Chicago glizzys and fries on a summer day? Perfect. Our crawl continued to Uncle Leo’s.

Leo’s was just a few years old so it wasn’t a true dive, it didn’t have the years of wear and tear serving a no bullshit crowd. It was just easy, welcoming, and a little weird to cut out the squares and basic bros. It’s snug inside, a bit dark with red lighting, and heavy on wall décor – neon signs, random stained glass, clocks, flags, and paintings. This little bar pulled a big crowd away from a beautiful and sunny Saturday afternoon and into the darkness for A/C assisted day drinking.

We emerged from the air-conditioned cave to continue and catch some sun ourselves. We moved a few blocks up to Rhinegeist Brewery, home of Cincy Light. The brewery is in an old warehouse in the OTR, occupying the upper levels and rooftop bar. The roof has 360 degree views of the city. You’re enveloped on three sides by rolling hills with old, abandoned buildings sprouting out from the forest, with Downtown to the south. There’s a cartoon charm to the whole scene — vibrant green hillsides dotted with murals and century-old red brick architecture peak out while fat Midwest marshmallow clouds bob across the blue sky.

Northside –  Off the grid but in the city

John and I could have day drank well into the night, and if not for planning to meet Brian Olive back up north, I would’ve taken that ride. But I held my obligation (I was the one that reached out, after all) and visited Brian’s home-turned-studio, Mt. Saturn Studio. I didn’t have much of a plan when I reached out, other than to understand the appeal of this city from someone who had lived elsewhere, toured internationally, and flirted with fame (he played with the Soledad Brothers when they were support for the White Stripes on their Elephant tour). I climbed the steep staircase to the house and scanned outside but the studio appeared empty. I was looking across the yard and then at the drained pool, when a head appeared just above the lip of it and two eyes darted at me from under a wide brim gardening hat, “Over here.”

The studio was on 2 acres of wooded land and felt removed from the city. My Lyft driver even asked if I was sure I wanted to be dropped off there. Yet, it was a 15-minute walk to the heart of Northside. A perfect example of the small town appeal and urban access that Cincinnati can offer simultaneously.

An Ohio native, Brian spent time in LA and Detroit in the late 90s and aughts while touring as part of the Greenhornes and Soledad Brothers. For the last decade he’d been back in Cincinnati, content to work on solo projects and production for other artists. Today it was a home base where it was possible to build out a studio affordably in a city flush with talented musicians to record. He built the studio and now was completing the pool himself, with hopes of an inaugural party in the next couple of weeks. But early in Brian’s career Cincinnati had been a great place as an ambitious musician – the proximity to so many different cities and markets made building and expanding a fanbase easier without the need for full tour schedules. Cincinnati seemed to meet Brian where we was at, offering the right opportunities with little downside at very different life stages. Brian’s relaxed air and his eagerness to complete the pool made it easy to see the appeal in settling here for the long haul.

Downtown, OTR – The Great American Pastime (eating, drinking… and eating and drinking again)

Back downtown, I got a quick round at Knockback Nat’s, a popular pre-game spot, before heading to the Red’s game at Great American Ballpark. I don’t care about baseball, yet there is something uniquely fun about a summer day at the park. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s a sport that lends itself more to the consumption of food and alcohol under the sun rather than ever paying attention to the game? If so, I executed this well. I ate two Coneys with Cincinnati Chili and grabbed a tall boy of Busch Lite before wedging myself between two families in my seat in the lower bowl. I followed that up with a tour of the stadium, and another tall boy in the upper deck.

I left the stadium and made my way to Milton’s Prospect Hill Tavern for a quick beer. It’s a simple and satisfying neighbor bar that always has the game on. I watched the Reds relinquish the lead to the Tigers before walking back to the OTR.  The area was alive with Saturday crowds that were growing with an influx of fans leaving the Reds game and those pregaming FC Cincinnati’s evening match. I popped into Sundry & Vice, a hipster cocktail bar, for a couple drinks before I made my way to dinner at Collette OTR.

Collette is a self-described “mostly French restaurant.” In the same vein as Mid City, the place is welcoming if you want to dress up and splurge, say, with an $80 Cab Franc and Cote de Boeuf, but they welcome cooked trash like myself to sit at the bar too. I was shocked to find Spaghett on the menu – a Highlife bottle with 1/5^th poured to the side and the bottle topped with Aperol and lemon juice. It’s a great summer drink, the cheap beer version of the Aperol Spritz, named after a classic Tim & Eric character.

To eat, I went with the brisket blend burger and fries. It’s a good gourmet burger, but at $22 I should have dropped another five bucks for something more unique. But I’m not complaining when I’m sitting on a comfortable barstool (with a back!), posted up at a sun drenched marble bar top, swilling Spaghett, and watching the foot traffic flow by.

The end – It always comes back to Punk

Haggard and waiting for my 6 a.m. flight to board the next day, I noticed a band with their gear, and one of the members wearing a NOFX hat. I ended up sitting next to him on the flight. After I settled into my seat, I pointed to his hat, “Ya know, I was at their final tour in Portland last weekend.”

“Yeah, so was I. We were actually on stage singing ‘Kill All The White Man.”

Didn’t see that coming. Oops.

We talked more about the show and he shared video of the performance. I was floored. Not just by the fact that we were both there, or the video of them onstage, but the fact that his band, 1876, was also from Portland. And they had just closed out Saturday night of Northside Rock N’ Roll Carnival. They’re legit! And they have their own style they call ‘Pow Wow Punk Rock.’ They’re an indigenous band with lyrical content heavily focused on acknowledging the erased past of Native American, while bringing a voice to indigenous musicians. Cincinnati had exceeded expectations all weekend, so it made sense that the little talked about city would be aware of a cool Portland punk band before I was.

It can be hard to write about something that’s just simply good. It’s often easier to find the cracks in things and complain, or offer half-baked solutions. But Cincinnati was cool across the board. It strikes the right balance of midwest resolve, southern charm, grungy rust belt aesthetics, and a slow growing refinement. If anything, I’m struck by how little we ever hear about it. For anyone who likes big city amenities but doesn’t want the prices, sprawl, or intensity that come with them, you’ll be hard pressed to do better than Cincinnati. The pieces are all there – a beautiful setting, eclectic walkable neighborhoods, affordable cost of living, great food, fun bars and music, and the sense that it’s only getting better.

There’s a great quote from Mark Twain that reads, “When the end of the world comes, I want to be in Cincinnati because it’s always 20 years behind the times” (h/t Brian Olive). I love it. The only problem? It’s a quote that’s been attributed to several different people and cities. It does not originate with Twain or Cincinnati, it’s just applied to the city when convenient. There is a less clever quote I found that relates to the origin of the nickname “Queen City.” It’s attributed to the Cincinnati Enquirer and author Ed B Cooke in 1819, who said, “The City is, indeed, justly styled the fair Queen of the West: distinguished for order, enterprise, public spirit, and liberality, she stands the wonder of an admiring world.” I don’t think Cincinnati will feel 20 years behind for much longer but I do think the world needs to start recognizing and admiring her again. Do it now, before the masses start running amuck in this actual hidden gem.

I walked through the upstairs hallway that felt like a dilapidated tenement house – single lightbulbs hung from the high ceiling, creaking floorboards, paint peeling from the scrawled upon walls, and holes punched through drywall. There were several doors on the right side, some padlocked shut, others wide open. In them were mismatched dining and living room chairs, maybe from the previous era when this was a brothel, possibly the half-assed design work of the staff running two bars in one: Earnestine & Hazel’s downstairs, and Nate’s Bar at the end of this dark hallway.

Stepping into Nate’s you hit the small L-shaped bar that has about 3 or 4 seats on each side. The far side is snug along the windows, overlooking the corner of Main & Patterson. The attached room is adorned with Christmas lights, two tables, and a white piano in the corner. The aesthetic is like the hallway, though the chipping paint gives way to exposed brick and there’s some pictures and art on the wall. The room was full of smoke. Yessir, you can smoke inside bars in Tennessee. The south is alive and well.

The drink selection is minimal at Nate’s and there’s not a menu. It made me feel out of place, but I navigated my uncertainty by picking from the slim selection of bottles sitting atop the bar. I asked Nate himself for a Crown neat, a drink I have never ordered before. I handed him some cash (it’s cash only) and he waved it off “He’s got you,” pointing to a black man sitting alone in the far corner of the bar. I gave him a smile and a nod - it was a $9 drink, so not exactly insignificant to buy a total stranger.

I sat at the piano, the only vacant spot available, feeling pretty goddamn good about myself. I’d gone from out of place to getting comped a drink in the blink of an eye. Despite being all alone at a strange bar, I was getting drinks from the regular in the corner. Surely, I was this cool. After all, I was sipping Crown out of a plastic shot glass. Awash in confidence, I observed the bar patrons, it was a fun, mismatched crowd.

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It was very mixed, with a lot of smokers – young and old, black and white, one couple, a few groups, and a couple stragglers like me. There were two distinct groups of post-fraternity, good ole boys chatting about all things college football. The group nearest to me drew the attention of a few heftier, jovial women, likely not far removed from their own days at the sorority house. The boys plan seemed to be taking them to Little Rock the next day and the women wanted in.

As space at the bar opened, I ordered a beer and went to thank my man for purchasing me a drink. I offered to get him his, but he pointed to his nearly full high ball as he lit a fresh Black & Mild. He told me when he walked in someone had bought his drink and he was “just paying it forward.” Like that, we were chatting and the idea of paying it forward quickly drifted into race. Memphis has been entrenched in every issue of race since its earliest days, how could it not come up?

His name was Michael but went by Guru. That’s what Nate called him anyway. We chatted for a while, he tried to convince me to ride motorcycles and told me about the 24-hour rides he and his friends would take from Memphis to Arizona. But eventually we were back on race and the phrase he came to – at 1:15 a.m. with our buzz tied on and the crowd thinning out – was “color doesn’t matter, it’s how you are with me.” Straightforward and to the point, I agreed whole heartedly. Right in line with any basic and good religious tenants before they’re twisted by dirty practitioners.

For an introduction to Memphis, Guru was just the person I wanted bending my ear. He personified two of the pervasive qualities that came to be intertwined with my understanding of Memphis: an over-the-top friendliness (without the southern formalities that often make it feel like an inauthentic ritual) and a constant state of reconciling a racially brutal past that persists today.

A few hours prior I’d landed at Memphis International Airport. I was shocked at how modern it was for a small market city until I remembered it’s the hub for FedEx, and the busiest cargo handling airport in the world. Even without a lot of pedestrian foot traffic, they completed a renovation in 2022 that made the passenger concourses pristine. This stuck with me as I started exploring the city because once in Memphis, you’ll feel like you’re in a variety of different eras, none of which could be considered contemporary.

After dropping my bags, I immediately hit the town. The first stop: Beale Street. Why? Because I think you should at least see the tourist haven. And why not set the bar so low that the rest of the city can show off? Beale Street – a mecca for blues in the first half of the 20^th century, is today, the equivalent of Bourbon Street . Overpriced bars, cover bands, alcohol flowing freely on the open street, and tourists. But unlike Bourbon, not that many tourists.

It was Friday at 10p.m. and it felt desolate. Was this just how Memphis felt or was it the fact that I planned my trip over the same weekend as the Holy Convocation for COGIC – the Church of God in Christ? If the 35,000 people that attended the convention were partying, it wasn’t happening on Beale Street. Was the city actively avoiding them or joining them in possible abstinence? While cruising the strip I saw the Absinthe Room, so I had a namesake drink and wasted little more time on Beale.

I made my way to Earnestine & Hazel’s, the most hyped of the dive bars in town. I’m often skeptical of this. A supposed dive bar with a ton of popularity often means fewer locals spend nights there and it becomes the surrogate for an “authentic” experience for out-of-towners. Still a big step up from Beale Street, but not exactly mixing it up at a hidden gem. But sometimes hype worth it. And I’ve found that same buzz in a smaller city doesn’t necessarily ruin a place the way it does in a big city.

The adoration for E&H begins with the history, which Thrillist and Vice do great write ups of, so I don’t have to. The gist is, it’s well over 100 years old, with many iterations including a club downstairs and a brothel upstairs, patronized by the likes of BB King, Sam Cooke, Bo Diddley, Ray Charles, Chuck Berry, and others. Ray Charles was known to shoot up in one of the rooms off the long hallway to Nate’s. And Ghost stories abound here. Just google it. Since ’92 it’s been the current iteration: a dive bar serving just one meal (soul burgers with a bag of chips), live music most nights, and Nate’s upstairs providing a secondary bar and vibe. While it feels entirely too cool and known to be a true dive at this stage of is existence, it’s divey. And like any good neighborhood joint, they cater to all crowds. The age range was easily the college kid with a fake ID up to 75-year old’s looking for a quick bite and beer. And like any place in the south, if it’s not a strictly black or white crowd, it’s as mixed as it gets.

There’s a long bar on the left stretching most the distance of the building with a staged tucked into the back corner and bathrooms on the right. The rest of the room is filled with tables and an open space for dancing. When I arrived at 11p.m. it was starting to fill out, by 12:30a.m. it was slammed.

I sat at the bar watching the grill master do his thing – working 10+ burgers at a time – flipping, saucing, cheesing, and heating buns in blissful unison. He wore over-ear headphones and bopped his way through the night ignoring the live music and crowds. While the band played early 50’s era rock, a drunk woman wiped out on the dance floor. It stopped the show. In fact, it was so bad that both bartenders and the bar-back left their stations to tend to the mop job. It was gnarly and perfect. By the time I left Nate’s, it was 1:30a.m., drunk and full.

My night had already begun with two great Lyft drivers. Jennifer picked me up from the airport. When I asked for her favorite BBQ spot she said, without any air of pretension, “I don’t have a favorite, I make my own.” And Demetria who took me to Beale, blasted R&B and had bubblegum and candy air-fresheners circulating throughout the car. The culture shock from Portland was instant. When I mentioned Earnestine & Hazel’s, she told me “Ohhh yeah, me and my girlfriends go there sometimes. That burger is good, they give it to you with a bag of chips. You gotta put the chips on it.” Noted.

Now leaving Nate’s, I was blessed with yet another great Lyft driver, Robert. He was a supremely southern white guy; his accent was thick with his own little stutter like maybe he’d had a few drinks too. He told me about his own weird experiences with the COGIC church – a pastor calling out people in the crowd by name and airing their dirty laundry. When his navigation ended my ride at a gas station, he was confounded.

“Wait wait. What? This is your destination. You’re going to a gas station?”

I told him I needed some drinks and snacks for my place.

“Ah hell man, I’ll just pit stop for ya, get what you need, and I’ll get you home.”

The southern hospitality is real in Memphis.

I woke up slow the next day, but it was Mid-November, the sun was shining, and the temps were creepin’ into the high 60s before noon (for those that don’t know, the south in late fall and early spring is nothing short of magic). My Airbnb was centrally located in Midtown and Overton Park was the easy choice for a morning run. Despite housing an art museum, the zoo, and a golf course, my hopes of a sprawling southern park with oversized oak trees draped in Spanish moss, like Audubon or City Park in New Orleans did not materialize. It felt ordinary and underwhelming.

Afterwards, I trekked a couple miles Northwest to the Crosstown Concourse – an art deco building spanning a city block that was previously a Sears retail store and a store catalog plant. Besides a few nice homes that survived the strip mall development, the walk was desolate and rather harsh. Mostly sidewalks full of broken glass and trash, leading past gas stations and chain stores in decline. I walked past a billboard that read “Don’t… Real Men Don’t Murder.” It had a picture of black man on the left and a hand holding a gun on the right. While I’ve visited and lived in many cities with high rates of crime, violence, and murder, this was the bluntest approach I’d ever seen to stopping it. There was no sugar coating it, just a reminder when you drive down the street that murder is not the answer.

I arrived at the Crosstown Concourse during a Saturday market, and it was already poppin’ at 11a.m. People we’re lined up at the beer tent while merchants sold art, clothing, knick-knacks, housewares, and food. These kinds of gatherings, even if they don’t always suit me, feel like the seedlings of a city revitalizing itself. Utilizing a building that would otherwise be torn down or left to decay was instead hosting artists of all forms, I could feel a community reinvigorated. And they were drinking before noon. When searching for fun, and people who could lead you to it, always be on the lookout for these telltale signs.

I’d now been in town for about 15 hours and had yet to eat any BBQ. Luckily my place was just a couple blocks from the Bar-B-Q Shop, one of several highly touted, old school spots in the city. During a busy lunch rush I was able to sit at the counter. The prized meat of Memphis BBQ is pork, so I ordered the half-and-half which came with the BBQ pork and something only this spot does – bar-b-que spaghetti. Honestly, this didn’t sound particularly appealing, but when it’s the thing they do, one must try. It was rounded out with BBQ beans, slaw, and Texas toast.

The spaghetti is quite literally BBQ sauce on spaghetti, with a little BBQ meat mixed in. It’s not terrible, but there’s probably a reason it’s not common. However, the pork was delicious and perfectly done. But the sides are what always stand out to me. The Texas toast was thick and perfectly soaked through with butter and proved to be a better vessel for the spaghetti’s BBQ sauce. The slaw had the perfect touch of tang and crunch, but as usual, too small a portion. And the BBQ beans were divine and simple – a touch of sweet and with a rich buttery backdrop. Coupled with a few lagers, it’s a hard meal to beat.

The guy to the right of me was clearly local and preaching some favorite menu items to the couple at his other side. We started chatting and I told him I realistically had one more BBQ joint I could hit on this trip – should it be Payne’s or Cozy Corner? Along with The BBQ Shop, these were the names that consistently show up as the best in the city. He was having trouble picking when the owner Eric walked by. He stopped Eric, got him up to speed on my situation and the in-depth discussion began.

Eric is the man. He’s stout, maybe 5’ 8”, naturally big, but muscular. Like a retired power running back. He’s a got a shaved head and round face with a big ass smile. Ultimately, he recommended Payne’s but said I can’t go wrong with either. He told me there’s nothing but love and respect between BBQ families in Memphis and went so far as to tell me, “If the Payne family walks in right now, I’m kissing the ring.” He even told me a story from a few years back, his aunt had gone into a coma on the same day as his parents 50^th wedding anniversary. After a family visit to the hospital, they all ended up getting Payne’s to-go and eating their smoked sausages (his favorite) right in their car as a family.

Eric came back by as I finished, making sure I enjoyed the meal and asked what else was on my agenda. He suggested a few spots for music and verified hitting Wild Bill’s was solid and that I would be fine going there alone. Then he looked me up and down and said “oh wait, you said you lived in New Orleans. You know what you’re doing.”

My next stop was the National Civil Rights Museum. It’s in the restored Lorraine Motel, the site of Martin Luther King Jr’s assassination. It’s astoundingly cool that they turned the scene of such a tragic, landmark event into a necessary museum, rather than letting it fall into disrepair and be torn down.

Too often the Civil Rights Movement gets boiled down to only Martin Luther King Jr, and then he’s simplified into his “I Have a Dream” speech. But the Civil Rights Movement was vast and intricate beyond MLK, though he was the face of it for periods during his life, and since.

And he contained multitudes – he was a small town preacher (Montgomery, AL) thrown into his first leadership role during the bus boycott (in what was expected to be a local campaign that soon gained national attention) because no one else stepped up; he was arrested and beaten many times in his career, both because he was hated and also because putting himself in harm’s way garnered attention when the movement was in a lull; he was a married man and philanderer; he was tortured by this failing that juxtaposed his lofty goals for an entire nation to be better; and his star was waning before his death as he moved beyond race towards the Poor People’s Movement. There’s so much more complexity about him though and this read by Marshall Frady is compelling and quick. I highly recommend it as a fuller picture of the man we all celebrate but who few know much about.

The Poor People’s Movement was what led him to Memphis – to work with the striking Sanitation Workers Union in the city. And it also led to maybe, his best speech “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop.” If you listen to that and don’t get goosebumps, teary-eyed, and a jolt of rage and energy, you are not alive. At this point, he was either clairvoyant and foresaw his death coming the next day, or, having had his life threatened so often, he had simply reached a point of acceptance that it was near. He states that “I might not make it there with you, but I’ve seen the mountain top.” It’s a wild line considering he was killed the next day.

The museum itself is an intimate deep dive into the movement. My only knock would be that it sometimes it felt out of chronological order, but it may have been the tight quarters that disoriented me. Nevertheless, the history is undeniable, and the fact that you get to walk up and see the balcony and two rooms (behind glass) that MLK and his entourage occupied during their stay is chilling.

It's a heavy place to visit and I left a bit out of sorts. I went a few blocks over to WiseAcre Brewing to take the edge off. What a wild contrast it was – high ceilings with a massive open bar room donned with bright, happy colors across the walls. I stayed for a beer before heading home for a quick reset.

Dinner would be at Alex’s Tavern – a hole in the wall in a mostly residential section that gets heaps of praise as a neighborhood institution with great bar food. It’s unassuming as ever with a simple red awning and several neon signs in the windows. The inside is comfortable darkness lit by a few lamps, more neon signs, a few televisions, and multiple jukeboxes. A few tables occupy the floor, but the best seating is at the bar. A cigarette machine, shuffleboard, and a golf game round out the set up.

It was a slower night, so a question or two in, and the bartender Wynn was giving me all the details on the place and Memphis too. While Alex himself had passed, (the bar opened in ’53), his son Rocky took over the joint and tried to keep everything the same. The only difference was changing out some music in the jukebox, something he’d tried to do as kid. Wynn liked to say he was just the busboy of the joint though it was clear he’d been running the front end efficiently for years.

I put back a few $4 High Life’s (no liquor here - an odd thing to see in a city that lets you smoke in bars) and ordered their Famous Greek burger. The Cavender’s Greek seasoning gives it its unique twist, but the whole thing is thoughtfully made. It’s a perfectly sized, hand-formed patty cooked medium, pink inside with a light char out, and the condiments – mustard, pickles, onion, and tomato – are all necessary, there’s no added distractions.

Too many burgers come topped with the saddest tomato slice - a dull red skin, translucent inside, with a hard white center. It’s almost assumed that you’ll have to dismantle the burger to remove the flavorless, limp cardboard wheel before starting your meal. The Greek Burger though had a single fat slice of tomato on there that changed the game. It was November and it was still straight from the garden – juicy, rich, and blood red – the type you can happily eat with just a little salt and pepper. It was a burst of earthy delight, a profound replacement for ketchup.

The Soul Burgers at Hazel’s get the hype and they are a wonderful drunk snack that won’t weigh you down, but Alex’s Greek Burger was easily a top-10 all-time burger, and I’ve eaten entirely too many. I don’t know if it was my praise, but I was quickly gifted 6 wings, the rivaling menu item. The wings hit hard too – cooked to a crisp outside but sliding off the bone with the most minimal effort. They were the right mix of heat and sweet, but the buttery base came to the forefront, making for a more savory flavor. As I ate, Wynn nudged my beer closer, “Not forcing it,” he said, before helping another customer.

All this food was cooked in a Frankenstein kitchen/office set up by the owner himself, Rocky, who came out to chat with me for a bit. Before I set off, they tried to send me home with a Rubbermaid vat of Gumbo. Once I explained I had no car and more night ahead, they told me to come by and the next day and pick some up.

Wynn and the Alex’s Tavern team are the reason to visit these cities and the institutions in them. The locals have such genuine pride for their city and are so eager to share it. When I get the chance to speak with them, they’re always surprised that I’m there, and shocked I’m alone. It’s an uncommon occurrence for them to get visitors there looking to explore and understand the city. It’s usually people in town for work, a convention, or family. When it’s a visit for the city, they want to prove their worth. They were beyond gracious and I felt the Memphis love.

I walked through a mile stretch of poorly lit neighborhood with very little traffic. I never did figure out if I should have been walking there at night. Eventually though, there was some hazy light and the low rumble of music coming from a little strip mall. The parking lot was full, Wild Bill’s was goin’ off. As advertised, it was a hotspot for authentic Memphis blues. The building is windowless with Wild Bill’s written in giant letters on the front with a small open sign below. With the façade shaking it, it was a given.

The front door opens to a phone booth sized space with another locked door, I hit the buzzer. The door unlocked to a man collecting a $20 cover and stamping hands. The venue was odd, a wall went halfway through cutting it into two long and narrow spaces before opening in the middle. It was like a small banquet hall filled with folding chairs and cheap plastic tables, some with tablecloths, some bare. Definite VFW Hall vibes. I began second guessing what I was doing – could this be a wedding or a private party? Everyone was well dressed, and any unoccupied place-setting was filled with the belongings and plates of someone on the dance floor. And everyone was black.

I caught a few eyes but, looking like me, it wasn’t a surprise. And none indicated I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be there. I worked my way to the bar, ordered a Modelo, and floated around. I had expected downright dirty blues, sounds plucked from one of the few juke joints left in the rural south. What played was a fun but more straightforward outfit, fronted by an obese man who sat the entire time. It was too clean of a sound for my taste.

Wild Bill’s is welcoming enough, but I was looking for a place to settle in, give myself a little distance to watch the crowd swilling from red solo cups and dancing up front. Normally, I can saddle up to the bar or tuck away to take in the atmosphere. But here, there were no bar seats, and every table was filled – the place was packed out. Not only was I the one white guy here, there was no place for me to be less conspicuous. Sticking out like some yuppie Yelper led astray, I stood in the center of it all. To top it off, I couldn’t lose myself in the music. I was hyper aware of feeling out of place.

To feel foreign when traveling internationally is the expectation. To feel out of place when you’ve gone outside your comfort zone is common. To feel both when you’re at home, doing a routine activity, that’s a new level of unfamiliarity for me. It should not have been a surprise to feel that way though, in my day-to-day everything takes place in settings where the stock white guy is the prevailing figure. This was not that.

Nothing was sketchy about my situation, but I felt like I didn’t belong. In the vast, predominately white stretches of America, is that what every person of color feels? Can you eventually become numb to it, or does that awkward feeling always sit in the back of the mind when venturing out? My reality is that I’d rarely felt that, and never considered it as a constant for others. But Memphis seemed to have a knack for continually forcing contemplation on race and belonging.  

After bar hopping a bit, I ended up back at Earnestine & Hazel’s. Another soul burger and a few High Life’s were in order as I watched another band perform for an audience as diverse as the night before. After which, I gave in to sleep, making way for my final full day.

The next morning, I ran my hangover through the Cooper-Young neighborhood. It was pleasant with well-maintained ranch and craftsmen style homes, some modest others massive, though never appearing as extravagant wealth. And it was evident there was some fun to be had on Cooper St., where a stretch of blocks was lined with bars, restaurants, and window shopping. But something was noticeably off - it was really quiet. Nothing was open, and no one was out. Where were the gaggles of brunch lovers and football fans on a beautiful fall day in this hip neighborhood?

Back at my rental, I was still deliberating between Cozy Corner and Payne’s for my second BBQ outing. When I looked up Cozy Corner’s address, I saw they were closed on Sunday. Not a problem, with Eric’s ringing endorsement for Payne’s, I would be just fine. I looked it up – also closed on Sunday. It finally hit me. Duh, the COGIC convention wasn’t here randomly, this was a church first, old school southern city. Everyone was at church. And most businesses would remain closed for the day. Sunday was looking slow.

Luckily, lunch took a back seat anyway, I had a 12:30 Sun Studios tour. It’s an easy and entertaining 45-minute tour of the original space that includes the front offices and recording studio itself. They even moved the old WHBQ radio station that Dewey Phillips (an influential DJ and friend of owner Sam Phillips’) worked at, putting it in the second story of the building.

Sun Studios began with black artists like BB King and Howlin’ Wolf and takes credit for recording the first rock ‘n’ roll song – ‘Rocket 88’ by Jackie Brensten (with Ike Turner on keys). But it’s perhaps most famous for being the place that launched Elvis’s career and where label-mates Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, Roy Orbison, Conway Twitty, and so many others recorded hits. Its epic history is housed in a very modest space complete with the old ribbon microphone and piano used in several of the biggest recordings. They’re available for any tour-goer to see and touch. It’s about as easy of a guided tour that you can get, which I’m all about.

Lunch was now a must, so I hopped on a city bike (always see if your destination has shared bikes, and always take them if they do) and went to Central BBQ. It’s another touted joint but one that’s been franchised out, so while the food still hits, the charm of a hole in the wall spot has been replaced by the clean sheen of cookie cutter efficiency. But hey, it meant they were open on Sunday, good enough for me. 

Central BBQ was alive with the buzz of families ready to celebrate with some family style food. The food was great – a pulled pork sandwich, collard greens, and barbeque beans. But what stole the show was everyone in their Sunday’s Finest after church. Let’s be honest, white people and black people do church very differently. You don’t even have to attend either to know this, just walk by each in session or letting out and you’ll feel the difference. White church is often stuffy, somber, and a total buzzkill. Black church is uplifting, loud, and entertaining. And the outfits reflect that. Nothing better than seeing grannies looking better dressed with more flavor than any trendsetting fashionista.

I took my city bike to the riverfront and rode north before parking it at the last outpost by the water. My destination? The eyesore that is the Bass Pro Shops Pyramid. It dominates the riverfront and even the skyline from the air. It’s the most grotesque and American piece of architecture I’ve ever seen, and I had to get up inside it.  It occupies a huge piece of riverfront land with what seems like a half mile of roads and parking lots to get to it, a mess for a pedestrian. It embodies the American Dream and reality that everything should take up as much space as possible, and it should be built exclusively for those with cars. It’s acknowledgement of foot traffic was laughable. But I’ll walk your unwelcoming labyrinth of ugly lots beneath overpasses to be welcomed to “Sportsman’s Paradise” just the same as all the families packed into their Ford f-250s.

Boy did this emblem of Americana does not disappoint. Almost immediately after walking in I heard one man say, “it’s unbelievable this is the inside of the pyramid!”  Right after, a man with his friends shouted, “no fucking way” as he craned his next up to take in the full monstrosity. It’s a mashup of a cheap all-inclusive resort, a bad theme park, and Mall of America, focused on hunting and fishing. It’s as though they took a Bass Pro Shop retail store and then built a theme park around it with the scraps from a Jurassic Park ride at Universal Studios. There are bridges over ponds full of catfish, enclosures with alligators, arcade games, and boats, all while you shop for sunglasses, hats, vests, fishing rods, and kayaks. 

Hit the bar at the Mississippi Terrace and enjoy some live music. Take the family up the world’s tallest freestanding elevator to the Observation Deck for views of Memphis, followed by lunch at the Lookout. While the kids go shoot at the archery range you and the wife can buy some new berettas and test them at the pistol range. Take in the daily fish feeding at 2p before retiring to your room for a catnap in the 103-room Big Cypress Lodge. When you awake from your slumber, you’ll be ready to dine at the wilderness-inspired Wahlburgers Wild, followed by family bowling night at the 13-lane Fishbowl. Or just shoot some more guns. It’s all at the Pyramid.

My exit from the Pyramid land mass was equally unfriendly on the way out. I eventually worked my way back downtown – I had time to kill and no one where to go. With the city sleepy as ever at 4p.m., I popped into the Peabody Hotel. In an hour’s time they’d be doing the daily Peabody Duck March. Yes, somehow this is one of the biggest tourist attractions in Memphis.

See, back in the 1930’s the GM at the Peabody, Frank Schutt, had come back from a hunting trip with the boys and, while getting drunk on whiskey, decided to place a few of their live decoy ducks in the lobby fountain. They laughed and drank but the ducks got comfortable quickly. Fast forward a few years, the ducks continued spending daytime in the fountain and were eventually trained to exit and “march” to the elevator, riding it back to the rooftop where they reside.

This quickly became a tradition, and now, somehow a huge tourist attraction. The ducks swim in the fountain daily from 11-5p.m. By 4p.m. people begin to pack into the hotel lobby, eagerly awaiting the Duckmaster who presides over the whole show. With an open evening, and my curiosity for American tourism piqued, I claimed a bar seat and ordered an old fashioned.

I came knowing very little, only that it’s one of the big tourist draws when you start looking up “what to do in Memphis.” The scene is a patchwork of families in their church clothes, old folks, and tourists, all delighted by this display. Bright colors, perfectly hemmed dresses, and church crowns brushed shoulders with the drab outfits of septuagenarians, and a smattering of t-shirts, denim, and Hokas from out-of-towners. As we inched closer to 5p.m. the buzz kept growing – people next to me talked about how they’d come each evening during their trip.

Was this daily demonstration more exciting than I knew? I asked my waitress.

She smiled knowing this wasn’t my kind of entertainment, “Around 4:45 the Duckmaster will start speaking, he’ll roll out the red carpet, start gathering the ducks, and walk them to the elevator.”

Nope, probably not any more exciting than I envisioned. But now every seat was taken and there was a standing crowd filling out the rest of the lobby.

The Duckmaster, dressed like a distinguished bellhop, draws everyone’s attention like a tour guide. He spoke in detail about the history of the hotel and tradition, making jokes along the way and captivating his audience, though in truth I can’t recall anything he said. Somehow this display goes on for 25-30 minutes – eventually though the ducks leave the water and gather at the foot of the fountain. With the help of some kids in the crowd, the ducks are corralled, and marched down the red carpet to an open elevator door.

That was it. A half hour of waiting followed by another half hour of buildup to watch ducks walk 20 feet. I even asked, “Is that it?”

My waitress gave me an I-told-you-so glance, “That’s it,” behind a little laugh.

Despite that, the fans across the lobby seemed absolutely tickled by the whole scene. The Duck March, it seemed, had as much allure as the well preserved, and still culturally relevant history on display throughout the city.

In many ways, that sums up Memphis. With the glaring contrast of the Pyramid aside, the city leans on history and tradition to entertain. I’d never done so many tourist activities during a weekend trip. The history is so rich, there’s a desire to connect with those peak years and see formative moments of this city and country up close. But with a lack of new, relevant excitement to explore, you’re not left with many other choices.

Memphis feels trapped under its own shadow. At times I felt like I was on the set of a period piece filmed in the 1950’s and 60’s. Storefronts and restaurants feel quaint and untouched since they first opened. There are beer-only bars and indoor smoking is allowed. An older generation still dressed the part, going to church and bringing the younger generations with them. It’s a delightful throwback. But the mental state of Memphis seems stuck there too – the issue of race was omnipresent.

It creates a unique contrast and backdrop for travel. You can get a taste of another era and feel like you’re being placed back in time. But with it comes an unnerving reality – it’s 60 years later and some of this supposed history is our present — we’re still living and grappling with it, still trying to solve for it. While most cities across the country are adept at leaving out their uncomfortable truths entirely, Memphis can’t and won’t.

Is it then intentional that Memphis has not moved on from that era, acting as a reminder to us of some unfinished work? Or has it been left behind by the rest of the country because of that stubbornness — another great American city that’s been allowed to drift into slow decline? I like to think that it can continue that past work and also foster the seeds I saw firsthand to remake itself as a cultural hub.  Regardless, I’ll at least have another bit of history to explore next time I’m there, because no, I didn’t go to Graceland.

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Here are the things I knew about Olympia, Washington before considering a visit.

Kurt Cobain was born nearby in Aberdeen and later lived in the area for a few years.

The Riot grrrl movement started there (Kill Rockstars, Bikini Kill, Sleater-Kinney, etc)

Rancid wrote an instant classic titled “Olympia, WA” off their career catapulting record “…And Out Come the Wolves.”

Olympia Beer was originally brewed here.

It’s the capital of Washington state.

No one in the Northwest talks about it.

You’d think between its proximity to Tacoma (30min), Seattle (90min), and Portland (2 hours), along with being the capital, it would get mentioned in casual conversation more, but it does not. The music history is significant for a city of just 55,000, and still there seems to be little to say. What whispers I had heard made me think it might have a Tacoma kind of vibe (if you didn’t read that one, I LOVE Tacoma), and being so close to home, it made for a trip that required little planning.

Olympia’s modest size was apparent driving in. It doesn’t really matter where you’re staying, wherever you exit 1-5 in Olympia, you’ll be just a couple minutes from your destination. There’s no skyline that denotes downtown, only a glimpse of the state Capitol’s dome and the realization that with all these old buildings and businesses, you’re in the middle of it.

To make sense of how small Olympia really is, there are only a handful of hotel options, and I was at what appeared to be the best and most centrally located one in town – the very average Doubletree by Hilton. Average as it was, the front desk staff was extremely friendly (they asked what I was doing and immediately concurred that my Tacoma thoughts were reasonable) and despite being a bit weathered, the hotel was in good shape. Clean and bland rooms. What more can you ask for when expectations are low?

Downtown is where most of the action is – bars, restaurants, coffee, and shopping. There are a few small drags elsewhere, but mostly it’s residential outside the city center. It has the feel of any small city’s downtown – walkable, full of murals, and plenty of quirky spots to poke your head in. But it’s a little edgier. The city has a small homeless population, but because the streets are consistently quiet even when businesses are bustling (and many were), it magnifies their presence. It was often me and a rambling homeless person sharing a block. It’s strange to think that the same interaction back home will evoke nothing from me but in a new environment I’m more on edge.

I hit up the Oly Taproom to ease into the evening, a block away and just off the water. It’s your standard beer bar, complete with fridges for to-go cans and bottles. The pizza was unremarkable, but the vibe was solid with a good happy hour crowd, waterfront views, and free raffles from E9 Brewery taking place every 30 minutes, no ticket purchase required.

The main drag downtown is 4^th Ave. My first stop was the Eastside Club Tavern, a brick façade with a neon size that’s more tacky than classic. Inside you’ll find small booths to the left, a long bar to the right, drop ceilings and yellow lighting throughout, and a back that opens to several pool tables and more seating. Being cash only with some TVs playing sports and random art and beer signs on the walls, it’s got the vibe of a damn good dive. Except, they only serve beer and wine. When I asked about the lack of liquor the bartender said, “I let the other places deal with that,” as though he’d either dealt with enough shit in previous bartending gigs or knew how nights ended at the other spots.

I went a block further to McCoy’s Tavern, it seemed to have the quintessential rock ’n’ roll element. It was all blacked out – painted black and blacked out windows – with a true classic the neon bar sign out front, one that’s sure to give you the warm fuzzies. The bar is a big wavy S-shape with bolted down diner stools and a few two-tops opposite of it. It’s painted black inside as well, but there’s good lighting so you’re neither lost in the dark nor drenched in light.

Past the bar, you’ll walk by some booths to one side and a foosball table awkwardly jammed on the other side by the bathrooms. Beyond that the back opens up, allowing space for two pool tables, a stage, and a back bar to sling drinks during shows. There is also the door to the patio, which is just a sad fenced off section of the parking lot. There’s ample kitsch, stickers slapped throughout place, and some moderately gross bathrooms with great drunk scripture on the walls. But all around it doesn’t feel decrepit or wholly unsanitary. McCoys’ walks the line of punk rock club house and selectively curated, revamped dive bar. I like both, and the middle ground they achieve is a sweet spot.

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With only a few groups at the bar, it was easy to pick up on the vibe and scene. One guy sitting at the bar had manic coke energy and controlled half the room’s conversation. He went from casually mentioning his band opening for NOFX when they came on the stereo to singing the parody lyrics of Nookie, triggered by something someone had said. He was partially talking to his friend, the bartender, and a table behind him, but really he was just talking to the room, getting attention where he could.

The bartender made sure the guy two seats down from me would be attending his Dad’s memorial service. He had just locked down the venue which was another nearby bar. There was clearly bad blood between his friend and the staff at the memorial location but the bartender assured him he was welcome. It was clear the McCoy’s crowd was tight knit. I got the sense that most friend groups across Olympia were cliquey like that.

I passed the Clipper and Cryptatropa Bar but both were better suited for late-night action so I ended at Brotherhood Lounge. This spot was lively, with a hint of college kids, and all around a more varied crowd. While I posted up at the bar, the place is filled with booths and tables, plus a pool table, shuffleboard, and pinball. You know you’re in a good spot when the drinks are stiff and they offer 3-7 daily happy hour - $3.50 wells, $5 micro pints, and $3 Rainier pints. After a couple rounds I walked two blocks back to my hotel for crappy leftover pizza and a solid night of sleep.

The next day I began with a coffee at Olympia Coffee Roasters which was busy, airy, and welcoming. If you need that yuppy vibe to balance out the working-class feel of Olympia, this is a safe bet. The coffee and croissants were just what I needed to get my head straight.

Adequately caffeinated, I started my run uphill, going south through a stretch of downtown, towards the Capitol building. It was Friday at 10:30a and the streets were basically dead. Just me and the occasional homeless person. The city feels pretty unremarkable save for an unexpected alleyway mural, so hitting the Capitol grounds was actually quite impressive. The Capitol Building (technically the Legislative Building) is a gorgeous classic like our Nation’s. But the grounds itself are well manicured with multiple other buildings, statues, and monuments peppered throughout the lawns. Perched at the top of a hill, the Capitol’s dome must give way to epic Olympic and Rainer views.

In the foreground, a small trail has switchbacks all the way down to Capitol Lake, a man-made lake fed by the end of the Deschutes River. On the North side of the lake is the Olympia Yashiro Friendship bridge that divides it from the southern point of the Olympic Peninsula, Budd’s Inlet.

On the following day’s run, I had crossed that bridge from Downtown taking it to the west side of town which is mostly residential streets on sloping hills. On the bridge I stopped to watch a few harbor seals swimming in the inlet. People from the coast may regard seals in the same way those of us from landlocked states do deer – boring and omnipresent. But to me they are magic. A mix of elegance and goofball – they’re mammals that swim as gracefully as fish, and yet seem deliberate in acting like big, dumb water dogs. They’re the best and I’ll always take a moment to enjoy them.

Further northwest was Evergreen State College but I turned back well before it. There was a single strip on Harrison Ave that seemed to have some cool spots – the Westside Tavern, the Olympia Coffee Roasters drive thru, and Hash Olympia. Sadly, I made it to none.

But on this first morning, after circling the lake, I went back up the switchbacks to the Capitol Grounds, I cut east across town and ran north along East Bay Drive to Squaxin Park (formerly Priest Point Park). The initial stretch of the Drive, past downtown, was lined by suburban-esque condos and apartments with waterfront views. Except they looked across the busy road to the water, and not to idyllic waters filled with Orcas that one might dream up, but instead to the swampy dredges of the Sound.

Thankfully, this suburbanized hellscape was short-lived as the Inlet improved with each step north. The condos turned to homes that were actually on the waterfront. And after about a mile, it all faded into classic northwest forest. Squaxin Park, though small at 314 acres and about 4 miles of trails, does a great job of getting you into nature without leaving the city limits. It’s similar Point Defiance, Forest Park, or Seward Park in that regard. The highlight is a series of bridges and trails that wrap around Ellis Cove, ending with the option to go down to the water or up to the Priest Point lookout. It’s a classic mix of fern forest beds and towering Doug Firs with the bonus of waterfront trails. Mixed with a little sunshine, the ten mile recharge did a number for my mood as I returned downtown.

The first order of business was grabbing a quick lunch. The easy answer was Dos Hermanos Mexican Kitchen, part of the 222 Market, an open space market occupied by multiple restaurants and shops that takes up about half a block. The tacos are definitely worth getting but the setting felt more like eating in a mall.

Every shop in Olympia had a catchy name that would make a hipster squeal, but the best was Dumpster Values. It was a fantastic thrift shop with so many fun vintage tees and button downs, shoes, and random kitsch. Unfortunately, everything I wanted was about two sizes off.

Next was Rainy Day records, which in perfect fashion, I ran into after being caught in a sudden downpour. Holy shit, Rainy Day must’ve killed in their heyday. Think of your favorite record store from back in the day and all the best parts of High Fidelity, wrapped in genuine love for preserving that era. This place made me yearn badly for the 90’s when the record store was the only way to get music. Not only was their selection diverse and ostensibly cool for every genre, but they carried new and used vinyl, CDs, cassettes, and DVDs. They also had a handful of tees, some audio equipment, buttons, post cards, stickers, and trading cards. But best was that you could buy mix tapes curated by the employees themselves.

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This was the perfect record store, then and now. I left with Dire Straits and Genesis tapes, a Rainy Day Records sticker, and the piece de resistance, a black and white Chris Cornell postcard. I don’t know the details of the photo shoot, but it’s a ’91 photo, he’s in the desert mountains alone wearing mid-calf boots, long, baggy shorts, an unbuttoned long sleeve shirt, necklaces, and recently curled hair down to his chest. It’s an iconic image that captures the 80’s confusingly fading into the 90’s.

But of course a town this size, with a disproportionately large music history, has a record store a block from the other record store. So, I popped into Lantern Records which is an entirely different feel. It’s smaller and feels a bit more intentional. It felt focused towards vinyl and classic used tees. I was intrigued by the NOFX - Punk in Drublic tee that looked old enough to be from that original ’94 tour, but I just can’t buy $50 worn shirts that may not fit.

With the rain gone, I kept the musical exploration going with a stop at 114 Pear St. NE. Yes, this is the old home of Kurt Cobain. I don’t really care what you think of the band, but you’re a fool if you deny their influence. The way they shifted rock and roll, and music generally in the 90’s, was remarkable. Given their brief career, it was supernatural. You don’t have to love them, but you are a liar if you don’t like them, and you’re just dumb if you can’t appreciate their significance.

And this home is where Kurt wrote about 50% of their catalog. Living here from ‘88 to ‘91, this was his bridge from Aberdeen to Seattle, where he really found his voice, and where Nirvana got their footing. And with a lot of free time, a girlfriend paying the bills, and a creative hot streak, Cobain cranked out, at minimum, the framework for Nevermind.

The house itself? It would be just another house if not for Kurt. It has the feel of a college duplex, with two units for the main house and one in the back. From what I gather Kurt lived in one of the front units briefly, but primarily in the back unit. Kathleen Hanna even scribbled “Kurt smells like teen spirit” on one of the walls here, yes, the inspiration for the title of their biggest hit. It’s worth seeing, and you can even stay in the unit, it’s listed on Airbnb. I still don’t know how I feel about that.

I made my way back to the 222 Market for some oysters at Chelsea Farms before getting a proper dinner. This spot had a full dining area and bar, and felt fully removed from the Market. Instead, it was light and airy and felt like the bougie escape in the middle of town. They had ‘shuckers choice’ oysters for $2 a pop during happy hour, so I landed a half dozen along with a $6 glass of pinot gris. It was the perfect starter, but when the couple next to me had their chicken sandwiches arrive, I had a feeling this was the place for dinner. This sandwich was covered in buffalo sauce so evenly, just enough to keep it manageable and the fry crispy, with slaw poking out the sides ready to tame the heat.

I headed out for my main course at Olympia Oyster House. As soon as I walked in, I knew I had made a mistake. It was basically the family owned version of Applebee’s, with a seafood menu. It seemed everyone on staff was in high school and likely all went to the same school together. And since I was going to dinner at the senior hour of 5p, it was me and a couple geriatrics seemingly crashing these kids’ party of rolling silverware and not working. The food was actually good, and the kids were as nice as they could be for not wanting to be there, in particular at the slow start to a shift. But the depression hit me while eating alone on a Friday at what feels like a Chili’s, listening to high school gossip.

I needed to feel something positive after that dinner so I went back to the drag to find a new bar and landed at the 4^th Ave Tavern. This place is a genuine dive – the floor was some kind of linoleum over concrete that was chipping away in spots, the walls were cheap wood paneling, and half of it was drop ceilings. It was cold inside, and the booths were too, so most people kept their jackets on. The back was busy with multiple pool tables occupied by several kids who looked under 21 with a runaway vibe, plus there was a kitchen that seemed to be operating separately from the bar up front. Part of the bar was behind glass but it was unclear if it was a relic of covid or past crimes. I felt comfortable sitting down but the place had an unsettling vibe.

My hope was to post up at the bar, watch some March Madness basketball, and tie on a buzz until the night got started. Instead, I sat a booth and people watched in awe. How can I even begin to describe the clientele? If I was a parole officer in Olympia, the 4^th Ave Tavern would be the place I went whenever a parolee missed a check-in. No one was unfriendly to me here, but just about everyone looked like they were a drink away from smashing a glass over someone’s head. They looked worse for the wear, and there was no fun in the drinking here, it was solely for getting through.

I sat in the only booth that had a decent view of the TV, every other television was in the backroom. The TV was oddly located, up too high without any seating around it, and away from the bar and booths. People would try to watch sitting at a distance like me, or periodically stand below it, looking up for 5 minutes at a time. A man in a camo jacket came in and sat at the bar. As he feigned interest in the game, he pulled a whole pear from his coat pocket, chomping away, no drink in sight.

Having the culture of the 4^th Ave Tavern come at you in broad daylight is an unnerving experience. I was no longer looking to catch a buzz and instead needed to recalibrate in the peace of my room.

As I closed my tab, a lineman sized man, who appeared and sounded mentally challenged, was sitting at the bar and said to me, “if you wanna play pool next time, I will.”

I took a second to get my bearings, we had not seen or spoken to each other prior to this.

“OK, for sure, next time.”

“Cause some guy asked me if he wanted to play cause he was playing alone… It’s fun.”

“Yeah, I have to leave now, but if I come back, I will.” Part of me wanted to see what the hell the place was like late at night, but I knew I wasn’t coming back.

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There was a sense of relief in no longer being the squarest guy at the 4^th Ave Tavern, but let’s be real, an average hotel room is nothing if not depressing. They’re uninviting and bland, you can hear all the hall and neighbor noise, and the carpets and walls seem to reveal new stains every time you pace by. Why carpet is chosen over vinyl flooring, I’ll never understand. Is the goal to trap the falling follicles of every dirty human that’s passed through as some celebration of filth? It seems simple enough to me but until the industry takes notice, I’ll continue to wear slides in every hotel.

My attempt at a disco nap was a failure, instead I found myself lying on my bed, eyes closed, thoughts racing about nothing, exhausted but anxious. I needed a buffer before the show but nothing was on my radar so I went to the McMenamins Spar Cafe. Kurt used to spend a lot of time here, so why not get as much Nirvana nostalgia as I can?

It was lively, but I once again felt like I was at the TGI Friday’s run mostly by high school kids. With my day buzz waning towards a hangover and the need to make it out past midnight, I ordered some food and a couple drinks. Earlier in the evening, at the Olympia Oyster House, I had brushed off a weird reoccurrence. It was this in-your-face, over-the-top politeness that was displayed to me by all of the male waitstaff. The same thing happened at the Spar.

“Hey there buddy, everything all right? Anything else I can get you?” It was said with a big smile, in a corny, jolly tone. And they moved in close to my face and kept their eyes locked on me.

It felt sarcastic, yet they seemed genuine in their delivery. Buried behind the grin, as they walked off, was some kind of endearing sincerity, but it came off as mimicking the famous side character from Office Space - the waiter with 30+ pieces of flare. If I was getting clowned, I didn’t know what to do differently, or what to get upset about. Like many McMenamins, the Spar was strange in its total benign-ness that is somehow beloved. It gets the job done, but nothing more.

Whether it was anticipation for one of the groups, or just having a show on a Friday, McCoy’s had a palpable vibe. It still had the scene-y feel as the night before, all the same faces appeared again, but this time it was packed out and jubilant. All I knew from chatting with the bartender the previous night was that it was a rock show and the headliner was from Japan.

“Should be cool.”

Indeed.

I let the Rainiers start to flow and settled in the back as the first band took the stage. The back room is so ill-equipped for a show, which in turn creates a kind of magical setting, like it’s a miracle it’s happening at all. Who cares there’s a pool table taking up half of the standing room, the place is sold out and alive. Black Ends were the perfect band to kick things off.

They’re a trio fronted by a short, black woman on guitar who appears unassuming for the role. And she immediately makes you regret assuming anything other than she is a fucking rocker. They’re from Seattle and felt like they were meant to be here after a long Cobain themed day. They have a sound that seemed to mesh some Melvins’ elements into the more prevalent indie rock sounds of the pacific northwest today. She has a damn good voice, can scream her ass off, and has that surf-y punk shred-ability down. The band kicked ass too, they even had a fill in on drums but you wouldn’t have ever known it if they didn’t call it out.

They brought the energy and got the crowd pumped. Like any good opener, they left you thinking “shit, they could’ve headlined this and I would’ve been happy.” For some reason though, our headliner from Japan, Loolowningen and the Far East Idiots, were setting up on stage. Never mind why, it was time to refill drinks and get back into our cramped corner to watch.

This band, holy shit. Like so many things in life, they were a fleeting moment that can’t be adequately described. Listening to their record or watching youtube won’t do their live performance justice. I could make an argument to not do that, as it could wrongly invalidate their greatness. Just see them if they ever hit your town.

They came on stage and immediately jumped into a funky, danceable, but heavily-fuzzed out bass line and drum beat. The singer never even acknowledged his guitar, and instead stood front and center dancing, ignoring the crowd. It was some kind of swimming arm movement while staying in one place, then rocking back and forth, leg to leg.

And then the Japanese lyrics hit and my brain melted. Altogether it was a sound I’d never heard before. The song kept the same beat while speeding up and slowing down into these ridiculously fun breakdowns. The lyrics slowed down, and the dancing went along with the deceleration too, and then all of the sudden, we’re running in place as it methodically revs back up into chaos. Then we’re breaking down again, singing in harmonies, before coming back to a frenetic pace once more.

That was just the first song. It came so far out of left field, everyone in the crowd was hooked, bobbing around with dumbstruck smiles on our faces. On the next song he brought up the guitar and immediately went in a bizarre dissonant direction. It landed somewhere between a kid randomly bending strings on the guitar and a coffee house jazz band. Except these were intentional and repeated bends and through all the dissonant sound, they somehow made it work. Other songs followed with similar divergent noise that later synched into harmony. At one point I thought to myself, “who writes a song like this?”

And sure enough, when the song ended the guy next to me screamed, “How the fuck do you come up with that?” Their music may have felt disparate, but they had us all in sync watching their every move. I watched in anticipation for where the next song would turn and what dance move came next.

It was a wild ride, but they ended up being the perfect middle act to break up some more traditional rock ’n’ roll. The now-headliner was Olympia’s own Manic Pixie Dreamboat, another trio of super young kids (or so they seemed). And once again, any assumptions I might have had were immediately squashed within the first song.

Call me lazy and old, but they had a sound that sat somewhere in between early White Stripes, Butthole Surfers, Sonic Youth, and Amyl & the Sniffers. It was a perfect blend of pure rock, indie, and punk. They’re young and they shred. And any time you have a trio making more noise than should be expected, with two singers, it’s a great thing.

They played fast, bluesy punk songs with the female bass player keeping everything centered. The guitarist crushed with surprisingly husky vocals emanating from his babyface, effortlessly charging from heavy riffs to shredding solos. When their female drummer sang, the songs oscillated between more spacey vibes to the straightforward marching screams of punk rock. It was high energy with a ton of variety and they kept the crowd engaged.

As the show ended, the cramped back room vacated, cutting off my mainline supply of energy from rowdy fans and frenetic bands. My exhausted state was left with the age-old dilemma of more alcohol or sleep. I walked home drunk, but with some clarity from the high of the show. Up to that point, Olympia didn’t need redemption, per se, it had already given sufficiently. But to stumble upon a show so overwhelming good, and totally free of expectation, well, it changed the whole tone of the place.

While taking in Olympia my first night, my initial reaction was that it’s a city where people won’t be convinced to visit, but if their car broke down there, they’d be pleasantly surprised in what they found. I think that still holds true.

But there was something else deeper here, there’s something musical in the bones of this city. It felt almost transcendent for that show to occur and hit so hard following a day filled with heavy nostalgia for everything that shaped how I came to understand and appreciate music in the first place. The classic record stores, walking in the steps of childhood rock gods, and a devotion to the eras and bands that I love - this city was a living example of what made music both accessible and larger than life to me as a kid. And then it managed to top it off with a show that recaptured the same energy and curiosity I had at my first punk shows some 25 years ago.

It was uncanny but it makes sense. That can only happen in a genuine setting, and being genuine is easy when not held to any expectations. And that’s exactly why Olympia is the Real McCoy.

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I sprained my MCL two weeks prior to this trip so in addition to missing the Chicago Marathon, I could not run the city. But we did ample walking and some scootin’.

As a child I visited the greater St. Louis, Missouri area with some regularity. My father was from there and he had family across the region. But by my early teens those trips stopped, so I hadn’t revisited in two-plus decades. What little space the city still occupied in my head was basically fading childhood memories, the Gateway Arch, and of course, nice people, urban decay, and White Castle – all Midwest staples. In returning, these Midwest stereotypes still showed themselves, but I was struck by how southern St. Louis really felt.

Just as the South and Midwest bleed together on the map, so too do the cultures, climate, and physical environments of these regions. And hot damn, does St. Louis ever feel like the exact middle of the two. It all blurs here. Geographically, it feels comfortably midwestern given that it’s a four and a half hour drive from Chicago to the North and under four hours to Indianapolis to the east. But it’s equally southern being that it’s also four hours north of Memphis and under a four hour drive east to Louisville.

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Flying into St. Louis, the Arch dominates the skyline, standing out as a marvel of creativity unrivaled in the US. It illuminated what otherwise felt like a small and drab city. You could see the vacancy from above, almost like a model more than a living, breathing city. Once on the ground, the feeling of decay and neglect was immediate. The quietness that permeated the out of date airport was palpable but not all that surprising for a city of its size. But it was the ride through the city on I-70 and I-44 that made St. Louis feel like it had been left behind. These freeways were old and beaten, with lanes that felt too small for 70mph speed limits. They were likely the same size as in any other state but somehow they created an odd feeling of claustrophobia.

It was immediately apparent the shoulders were abbreviated, not providing nearly enough room to feel comfortable pulling over in an emergency. As I took note my driver pointed out a dead dog occupying this sliver of space while we barreled past. That was about what you could fit there. Highway shoulders covered in detritus is not that unusual. Pets though, a little less common.

In St. Louis the lanes themselves were a patchwork of garbage. It quite literally seemed as though people would bring their trashcans out on the highway to empty them. Oddly enough, I actually have a vivid memory of that exact thing happening as a very young child driving into St. Louis. We were on the freeway and pulled alongside a convertible occupied by a group, who were probably just teenagers, emptying full bags of trash onto the high with traffic around them. My dad was rolling down the window cursing and screaming “litter bugs!” at them while my brother and I sat in the back terrified. Being so young and brand new to any kind of illicit behavior, I was certain we would either be shot at or we’d see them on the news being put into prison. Instead they simply drove off laughing.

The strain of these cramped and trashed freeways was compounded by reckless driving. It became a running theme that every time we got on to the freeway, our drivers and those around us, immediately began driving with total abandon. Hard jerky moves replaced calm lane changes, riding bumpers replaced using the fast lane, and lead feet replaced gentle break taps. One driver mentioned that the Missouri Department of Transportation pays worse than any other state and that was a reason the highways looked the way they did, but it didn’t explain the bad driving. Maybe the haphazard look of the freeway was creating a collective subconscious of agitation that manifested as worse driving?

“Yeah, these people don’t give a shit around here, just let their dogs run onto the highway like that.”

What a wild statement, as if the owner being devastated couldn’t be a possible option. Since ‘these people’ is usually not a line that’s followed up by positive commentary, I kept my responses to the neutral ‘yeahs’ and head nods.

My driver stayed on the topic of dogs – man’s best friend, all the cliches. That felt like a comfortable conversation for me, until it was no longer about dogs. “They don’t talk back like people do. Nope, never an issue there, not like people that always want something from you, want to argue with you. It’s just me and my dog now, I like it that way.”

“Yep, dogs are great, I already miss mine,” I said, thinking of being at home with him right then.

I felt that even a hint of unintentional enthusiasm from my next response could move my driver from unsolicited commentary and headfirst into diatribes. So, I leaned on sports, the tried-and-true way to chat with anyone and avoid politics or world views. It’s the great equalizer.

“So, how’s the city—”

“—How’s it gotten so shitty?” He cut me off almost immediately. “Oh ha, I was going to ask how the city’s doing after the Cardinals playoff loss.”

“Well, this city’s really gone to shit. But I’m already over the loss, they blew it. I’m ready for hockey season.”

Before I could get a word in about hockey, he went on a rant about how the Cardinals had screwed up their game plan and how they wasted it for Pujols, Molina, and Wainwright. Yep, he was over it all right. Nevertheless, sports kept us occupied until he pulled up to the Soulard row house I’d be staying in. Sports had spared me from the worst and the house that awaited gave me hope as my friend Jake waved from a side balcony.

The air was thick and the lush overgrowth on the fences gave me feelings of the deep south. We were on a quiet street in the Soulard neighborhood, a mile south of downtown, though I’d later come to realize that just about all streets in St. Louis are quiet ones. Soulard is home to the largest Mardi Gras celebration in the US, outside of New Orleans. It’s a mix of haunting and enchanting homes and row houses from a couple centuries back, one part Chicago, one part French Quarter, complete with rickety second story balconies and overhanging oak trees. The quiet, open streets seemed ripe for filling with parades and celebration.

Our mile walk to the Venice Tavern was continuous empty streets and sidewalks, so much so that cottontail rabbits had taken over. They were omnipresent, like squirrels to most other cities.  The emptiness would become the norm but at this point we wondered if it was simply because it was a Monday holiday.

The Venice was overwhelmingly kitschy, as advertised. There was brightly painted tile on sections of the floors, stairs, and walls, mixed with Mardi Gras flags and beads abutting Christmas tree decorations, and rice paper lamp shades. Outside were sea-shell tilings and fountains. Mobiles hung from the ceilings, happy meal toys lined walls, Halloween skeletons were hung next to Christmas lights. Where one mosaic ended another began. It felt as though it was run by a hoarder that had the focus and Adderall to turn their years of accumulation into the vision so many other pack rats could never articulate. But the noise on top of noise eventually muted itself. The atmosphere was subdued despite that visual affront, only a few tables were occupied. I can imagine the sensory overload being extremely fun in a lively setting but tonight was not the night. We drank our beers and headed off to Tower Grove.

Tower Grove South seemed to be a neighborhood for the younger crowd with a good strip of bars and restaurants along Grand Blvd. We popped into Terror Tacos to eat and found ourselves in what is now a very common mash up of vegan food and metal. The bar was absolutely blasting heavy metal, not like the heavy rock variety, more like deathcore, metal at its most intense. The menu looked like a series of band logos from Relapse Records and reminded me so much of this classic meme. The diversity of the crowd was the most unique factor. It was all walks of life, some very young, some a bit older, and the only metal heads were the people that ran the spot. Most people looked like maybe they were aware of Metallica, but nothing deeper than that, and yet were totally fine to block out the screams. They enjoyed their vegan burritos (which had an excellent Seitan meat substitute), and reasonably priced beer (local tall boys $6), as if there was no music at all.

Next was CBGB’s the punk bar up the street, and a bold name choice. There was no live music this evening and it was dead inside, luckily the back patio was sufficiently active.  It was here that I received my first of many cans from a bartender unopened. I don’t think I’ve encountered this elsewhere, and while it makes no difference and is likely more sanitary, it somehow took away from the bar feel. It was as if I’d just reached into my own fridge.

The patio was occupied by a few groups, a single woman, and a Pitbull mix named Bob who roamed the patio eating scraps and getting pets. I came back from the bathroom (btw, one of them looks like this) and Bob was trying go into the bar as I went back out, so I shuffled him outside, letting the owners know. Then the single woman shared, “I don’t have a dog, I just have a rabbit at home.” I was intrigued and ready to hear what followed, but that’s all the information she gave. It was perfectly awkward.

Our night cap came at the Tick Tock Tavern – a neighborhood bar in an old brick building that had a front patio dotted with picnic tables, on a quiet stretch of brick colonial homes. The bar itself was a classic long top with a few tables at the opposite side with a couple giant living room spaces in the back. The elven punk rock bartender wore a beat up vest and a faded five panel cycling hat. He was gregarious and provided some semblance of energy in an otherwise subdued night. But the real highlight was that they served $6 Rye Manhattans all day, every day. That price is about $3 cheaper than what would be considered an already good price, and at least half off a standard anywhere on the East or West Coast. They were the ideal end to an early night.

Often the obvious tourist attractions of a city are usually wholly underwhelming (Space Needle, River Walk, Liberty Bell, etc). Or they’re just bad, either because of the amount of people and/or the total detachment from the place itself (Bourbon Street, Broadway Ave in Nashville, Chicago’s Navy Pier, Waikiki Beach). This however is not the case for Saint Louis. The Gateway Arch is likely the only thing people know about the city, and it bears that weight easily, not disappointing in the slightest.

It was an easy mile and a half walk from our place. When Soulard ended so too did most of the sidewalks. It was the typical edges of a downtown – highway overpasses, major thoroughfares, liquor stores, and stadium parking. This is where we hit the bygone era.

First was the block stretch of Purina. Yes, Purina pet food. In a world of flashy tech companies, it’s easy to forget these dated brands are still massive parts of local economies. I went on to learn that in 2001 Purina was acquired by Nestlé, and I went down that rabbit hole. Nestlé owns everything in the frozen aisle – Stouffer’s, Lean Cuisine, Hot Pockets, and Haagen-Daz. Also, Gerber. Oh, they have acquired yuppy things too – Perrier and San Pellegrino, and Blue Bottle Coffee. Hints of dog food wafted by as we walked on.

Prior to this trip the only company I associated with St. Louis was Budweiser, so I was blown away by Purina as staple. Then, to our surprise, right before we reached the Arch, we hit the Tums facility. Yep, that’s right – beer, pet food, and antacids. I don’t think you could dream up a better threesome.

Across the street from Tums was the Millennium Hotel, an incredible eyesore. The Millennium is a complex with a 28-floor circular tower and an S-shaped ground floor building connecting it with a second 11-floor circular tower. It’s a look from the Sixties that doesn’t age well. They basically look like some modified version of air traffic control towers, with that same bleak prison-like exterior. Apparently it used to be called the Stouffer’s Hotel, so now I’m left to wonder if this was a Nestle brand hotel or a coincidence? The internet doesn’t specify.

Truth be told, given the lack of energy and vacancy we’d already seen, I thought this hotel was open. Turns out it had closed in 2014 (and for good reason). Sadly too, it seemed to embody the struggle of St. Louis. This property literally abutted the Arch and Busch Stadium (home to the BELOVED Cardinals) and yet it closed down and has sat abandoned for the last 8 years.

But what disappointment we had dissipated as we stood on the lawn of the Gateway Arch. It’s hard to state just how cool it is. It’s the tallest stainless steel monument in the world (and tallest memorial in the US) at 630 feet, which is also its width. The cross-section of the Arch is an equilateral triangle going from 54 feet wide at the base down to 18 feet at the top. There is just nothing that’s like it in the US or world. Its simple yet striking shape makes it feel infinitely classic. Never tacky, out of date, or of an era. And you’d think a shiny arch might be tacky on day one, but you’d be wrong.

At just 82-acres, it's also a National Park. When Jake asked me if it was one, I flat out dismissed him. Seconds later we saw the National Parks arrowhead logo. This, I believe, makes it the only National Park centered around a man-made entity? Which, in my estimation, gives credence to just how unique of a structure it is. We even saw the park ranger, dressed just like you’d see in Yellowstone, ready to provide the information on the latest bear sightings. In reality his job was likely more centered on people climbing or desecrating it. To the east is the Mississippi River and East St. Louis, IL, and to the West is downtown St. Louis and the regal Court House.

The reason the arch exists was to stimulate a post-Great Depression economy, revive the riverfront, and memorialize those who made possible westward expansion.  With approval and funding, the city opted to have a contest to decide what design would be used as the architectural focal point. The hope was for something “transcending in spiritual and aesthetic values” as envisioned by Luther Ely Smith who had put the original idea of a memorial into motion.

The unanimous winner of the contest was Eero Saarinen, son of Eliel Saarinen. Eero began as a furniture designer, working closely with Charles and Ray Eames (Eames chair anyone?). His most famous piece was the Tulip Chair, removing the clutter of legs and creating a stem-like base that was inspired by nature while also becoming synonymous with modern, industrial design. Other major building designs of his include the TWA Flight Center at JFK and Dulles Airport.

Though it may be a footnote now, when construction was finally underway in 1964, the Arch played a significant role in the Civil Rights Movement. On July 14^th, two St. Louis civil rights activists, Percy Green and Richard Daly, climbed 125-feet up the north leg to expose the fact that black unions and workers were being racially discriminated against to work on construction of the federally funded project. Up to that point it had been kept to white workers. Leaving many details aside, this incident played a real role in pushing the federal government to enforce equal opportunity employment through federally funded job contracts by pushing this into the public eye. A year later its mark on history was permanent when President Lyndon B. Johnson signed an executive order the next year to prohibit federal contractors from discriminating against employees based on race, sex, creed, religion, color, or national origin. Much more on this can be found here and here.

With construction underway, Saarinen wanted a tram that could travel to the top of the Arch. With just two weeks’ notice, Dick Bowser, a college dropout with a family history in the elevator business, was contacted to create a way to the top of Arch. He developed what is basically an elevator system that moves in a diagonal fashion, to fit the shape of the arch. Each tram has 8 cars, each holding 5 passengers. And every car acts like a kind of Ferris Wheel cage, swinging as it goes up. It is an engineering feat within an engineering marvel. Oh, and there’ve been incidents of it malfunctioning. Nevertheless, an engineering feat. Beyond those, the arch has been used for illegal stunts throughout the years.

But some malfunctions and parachute stunts should not take away from the Gateway Arch as a premier US monument. It’s now nearly 60 years old and there’s still nothing like it, it has historical significance, and within its own architectural uniqueness lives a wild engineering design. It’s incredible, and if nothing else draws you to St. Louis, this honestly should. In terms of modern architecture, it sits as my highest praised tourist attraction.

Leaving the Park, we also saw the Wainwright Building in the distance. It was designed by Lewis Henry Sullivan and credited as the first building to successfully utilize steel frame construction. At best, it’s now considered one of the original skyscrapers, and at minimum “a common ancestor to every tall building that followed.” Sullivan became a mentor to Frank Lloyd Wright who stated, “It’s the very first human expression of a tall steel office-building as architecture.” Who knew St. Louis was so rich in architectural and engineering history?

From here we made our way north to the Cotton Belt Freight Depot, one of many massive, abandoned warehouses on the waterfront. Along the way we passed the saddest casino, the Horseshoe, and its partner in crime, the least luxuriant Four Seasons Hotel I’ve ever seen. It was more of the same too – empty streets and little activity – albeit more respectable in this instance as we were seeking out abandoned spaces on a Tuesday afternoon.

As we approached the Depot, we saw two people sitting on a grassy hill ahead. Behind them was a Subaru with its rack loaded up with bamboo branches and 2X4s. She was young and lively, and he was older, a bit of a rugged, friendly beatnik.

“Are you here for the festival?”

“No, we didn’t know there was one. Just here to check out all these buildings”

Apparently, we’d arrived at the final stage of clean up from the ARTICA STL festival. It’s a celebration of the creative spirit of St. Louis, spanning two days and featuring all types of artists and creators. It’s Bring Your Own Everything, with no money exchanged at all on the premises and free of charge. They were a couple of the founders and fed us the energy we were desperately looking for in the city. We chatted for a good while — they were ride or die for St. Louis talking up the affordability, the ability to own a home(s), work minimally, and focus on art and creative projects. They embodied what I’d expected to see in a city looking for a comeback.

Naturally, we got a handful of recommendations, but they came with a caveat. They asked how long we’d be in town, and we told them we were leaving Thursday morning. She could sense our eagerness to uncover livelier spots. “Well, the city really is quiet during the week…” It felt like the official confirmation that we were unlikely to see St. Louis at its best.

We poked around the warehouses which were city block sized canvases for murals. Being wedged between the Mississippi River and the highway created this no man’s land for the buildings to thrive in their decrepit state. People had created random sculptures and art out of what used to be little foot bridges, fences, and park spaces. Most interesting of all was the homeless community in and around the warehouses. In the case of the Depot (it’s an open air first floor beyond the support pillars), people had set up permanent dwellings. They used the pillars as guides for mapping out their spaces and then built actual fences around their dwelling (typically tents or ramshackle structures), but complete with private property signs and even dogs in the ‘yards.’

That afternoon we felt an obligation to go to the Budweiser Brewery and had a tour in mind but when we realized we could go directly to the onsite pub and drink straight from the source, that’s exactly what we did. Yes, it was fresh and delicious. And like any sane people we only drank Budweiser heavy, along with a sample of some yet-to-be-released beers. But no bud light for us, thank you.

That shit tastes like someone used artificial sweetener instead of malt. If you drink bud light, you can’t be trusted. In my eyes, you’re just another stoolie dipshit with the taste of a twenty-year old. And a twenty-year old is a person who thinks they know everything but in fact doesn’t understand life’s most basic concepts. Like taste. Literally every cheap beer is better than bud light.

Bud heavy? Just bring me the 12-pack. Coors light? Pour it from the heavens. Coors Banquet? Float me down the river. Miller High Life? Hook it to my god damn veins. Miller Lite? Bathe me in it, baby. Bud Light? If I were dying of thirst in the desert and all I had was a Bud Light, I’d wash my feet with it first. I’d be better off dead.

From there we opted to class things up. At some point on these trips you’ve got to shake things up a little, if only to give your brain a little palate cleanse. Plus, our attempts to find any gathering of young people was coming up short so Little Fox, the esteemed Italian restaurant tucked away in residential neighborhood seemed as good as any.

And wow was this place a good change of pace. It’s got the accolades — a 2021 feature in the New York Times “Restaurant List” and a semi-finalist for a James Beard award in 2022 — and it lived up to the hype. We did some combo of apps and small plates that included Cannellini Crostino, grilled Royal Trumpet mushrooms, and a Cavatelli pasta dish. But the real gem for me was the Stracciatella.

I am not a bougie foodie, but my understanding is the Stracciatella is an Italian soup. This was not that. It was a squash puree with a creamy mozzarella on top, finished with micro leeks, fish roe, lemon oil and crusty bread on the side. It sounds simple, it was simple, and it was also divine. They sat back and let the ingredients do the work. It was the perfect balance of sweet and salty, without fabricating either. The texture was satisfying crunch in harmony with airy softness.  Couple that with a few negronis on a breezy porch and you’ve got a damn good meal. While the restaurant filled out, the young people remained at large. I ordered us a car to head over to Pop’s Blue Moon, a good lookin’ dive with nightly live music.

When the Chevy Trax pulled up it looked a little worn in. When I got in the car I was hit with a vicious stench. Upon sitting down I realized that maybe I was sitting in it. I immediately thought, I should not be in this car, but I had only a split second to make the decision to bail and didn’t. The smell was some combination of literal garbage and dirty dog. That overwhelming dog-scent you get at the kennel or rescue where the dogs are never getting bathed, shit is accumulating around them, and they sleep on unwashed beds that hundreds of other dogs have slept on. It was pungent and baked in. We were sitting on some kind of seat cover, but it appeared to have been sullied by the dogs and perhaps something more sinister.

The driver was chatty and friendly which was a nice distraction insomuch as it was a form of distraction. I rolled down my window and after a few minutes accepted the smell as a reality of my immediate situation. I took a better look around. The windshield was horrifying. It had that smeared look where a dog presses their nose against a window, but this was the entire windshield, top to bottom. It cut visibility in half. And then, sitting in the front seat, was some kind of giant tub, probably 4-feet tall and 2-feet wide, covered in massive black garbage bags. What was our driver disposing of?

The merciless 8 minute ride ended at Pop’s with our driving saying “Hey, you guys were really great passengers, I’ll be sure to rate you 5 stars. I hope I was a great driver too. Can you rate me 5 stars? I’d really appreciate it.” He got 3 stars and $2 dollar tip. That’s 5 things he didn’t deserve. There’s something amiss when someone stops just shy of begging for a single positive rating.

Pop’s had the feel of a special place. It’s bizarrely located on a service road parallel to the highway and it’s the only business in sight, everything else is residential. These literal neighborhood bars are often a prize to uncover. The façade was a limestone like brick exterior with glass block windows and two smaller windows adorned with neon signs. Small and unassuming. We walked in and what do you know, we were the only two people at the bar. Well, not that’s not entirely true. It was us and the two-piece band who were finishing their drinks and about to take the stage.

We chatted with the bartender, it was Pop himself, about St. Louis and what to do around the city. He didn’t give us a straight answer as to whether the lack of people was standard, if it was just early week slowness, or due to the fact we were coming off a 3-day weekend. I wasn’t encouraged when he suggested a couple of bars we’d already been to and had found eerily quiet. We finished our beers right as the band started, extricating ourselves before there might be an expectation to stay as their audience of two.

We walked over the highway to the center of the Hill, a prominent Italian neighborhood thanks to a very strong preservation of the culture and former residents like Yogi Berra. There was evident pride all around with some of the crosswalks made into the Italian flag. We hit Milo’s Tavern an institution in the neighborhood since the turn of the last century and wildly popular for their bocce courts. It’s so much a St. Louis staple that in 2019, when the Blues won it all, the Stanley Cup made sure to pass through for beers. And would you believe it? The place was packed on a Tuesday. Sure, it was mostly older men. But still, PEOPLE.

Bocce was the draw. There are two courts outside, and a space for tables between them, with a roof over it. It felt like a stable but no horses, just boisterous men. Lining the edge of the courts were the outdoor tables for onlookers like us. While we wanted to play, the line looked exceedingly long. We were content to watch and soak up the energy of the game. It was an ideal neighborhood bar that clearly served this community well.

From here we walked a mile to the Hideaway Tavern. It’s labeled as a piano bar, though that vibe wasn’t really apparent. But it was trivia night, and while we got there towards the end of the game, it did draw some people in. Hideaway had the classic dive signature of low, dropped ceilings you might find in a crappy strip mall office, and carpeted floors. It was comfortable but otherwise unremarkable, save for the hand sanitizer bottles made from Maker’s Mark bottles placed along the bar. Well, that and the sign for $10 Natty buckets, all day, every day.

We posted up for the long haul and tied on a serious buzz. The moment that I decided this was a proper dive was when the bartender, who had otherwise been jovial and attentive, began snaking a drain behind the bar. This was without warning to anyone. Not only was it loud, but it smelled like a clogged pipe might. Unpleasant.

I leaned over the bar to see what was happening, shouting, “What’s goin’ on?”

It took her a second to register that someone was curious about the unannounced noise and stench overtaking the room. “Oh, just snaking this drain, there’s a clog. We’ll be done in just a second.”

“Uhm. Ohh.” We shot each other looks and stared on in silence. I grew concerned about what this might be stirring up, putting out into the air, on the bar, and in the ice. All the same, we never left our seats, just sat in silence for a bit until the moment passed and we could focus our attention on anything else. The night wrapped with me taking over the juke box and unnecessary shots that did nothing other than make the next day harder. Typical.

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Hungover, we still made it out the door in pretty good time that morning. We hit the same spot we had the previous day, Goshen Coffee Roasters. It was just down the street and a perfect respite, not just for a hangover, but for a city that confounded me, though in many ways it did embody St. Louis perfectly. After all, it’s an entire two story building, complete with an upstairs patio and backyard garden for seating. An obscene amount of space for a coffee shop. This can only fly in a city where occupied buildings seem to be outnumbered by the abandoned. That said, the brightness of the space, people, and even the food and drink, did sit in contrast to a city feeling lethargic.

The drip coffee was light and punchy and the avocado toast was a brilliant array of colors with pickled red onions, radish, carrots, and red pepper flakes dressed over the avocado spread. A lot of people swear by heavy, grease bomb food when hungover, which has its place if you’re going back to bed or prepping to melt in front of the TV. But if you want any shot at salvaging the day, especially when traveling, going healthy but filling is always the move. Giving yourself some vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants via fresh food is only fair. The heavier can always come later.

From here we hopped on scooters to see more of the city. We went south which in retrospect was bound to be a bit more barren. We were staying on the eastern most side of the city so going west, where the city expands, would have provided more to see, but I had to see my dad’s newly placed headstone in Jefferson Barracks, an Army Base and National Cemetery. We passed Cherokee street, a strip known for bars and restaurants (when we walked through during the previous afternoon, every bar was closed), the old Lemp Brewery, and Off Broadway, a well-loved independent venue.

After those landmarks it was desolate. Though, to be fair, we were staying on a main thoroughfare and passing the edges of a couple cool looking neighborhoods. Regardless, it was a depressing stretch that added a distinct hollowness to my first visit to my dad’s grave. The long expanses of emptiness the city offered seemed to mirror the vacancy of losing a family member.

But it was more than that. My Dad was born in St. Louis in 1952, at the peak of the St. Louis population (850,000). Like so many cities that saw suburbanization and white flight take hold, it’s been in steady decline ever since. In fact, the city has lost 64% of its population over the span of my dad’s life (now 301,000). That’s the most of any US city with a population of at least 100,000 people. Even more than Detroit, the poster child of gutted American cities. In addition to losing my dad, I felt I was also witnessing the loss of the place that had for so long has represented him and his childhood. A whole world I was just reintroduced to seemed to be crossing a point of no return. It felt defeating to see all that can come and go in 70 years time.

Luckily our day began to rebound when we hit 4 Hands Brewery in LaSalle Park, tucked between Soulard and Downtown. We’d been grabbing their beer at most of our bar stops and none at the brewery disappointed. While it was quiet, the vibe was good and it was another piece of evidence that showed on the right night St. Louis might have a distinctly different feel. And the spicy fried fish sandwich from Peacemaker, which operates their food menu, was a the perfect compliment to a few pints.

Planter’s House was the next stop, it’s that classic warm and inviting but unpretentious gastropub and cocktail bar. The walk there began as more of the same — quiet streets, beautiful row houses, both abandoned and cared for, empty bars, closed restaurants, gas stations, and fast food. But the atmosphere changed immediately after walking over the garbage strewn interstate, by way of Mississippi Ave, and into Lafayette Park.

Yards were now well kept; no homes were deserted or in disrepair. Now everything was manicured, and people were out. In other words, there was more money here. It felt like New Orleans’ Garden District with its restored Victorian homes met the row houses of Chicago’s Lincoln Park. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the setting change. The vibe at Planter’s was upbeat – a mix of dates, the after work crowd, and casual drinkers filling the main bar and patio. We enjoyed some evening sunlight and a quick cocktail before heading to the Delmar Loop.

The Loop is one of the hipper and more well-known strips in the city thanks to an influx of college kids from Washington University just a block away, and a few longstanding spots like the record store Vintage Vinyl, concert hall the Pageant, and the restaurant, bar, and venue, Blueberry Hill. The latter is where we went. The place was buzzin’ and the drinks were flowing, though it is family friendly (at least until 9p). Downstairs is a venue, The Duck Room, which had a show that night, adding a stream of people snaking their way through the bar.

We ordered beers and burgers, and of course, the traditional fried goodness staple of St. Louis: Toasted Raviolis. These are just like they sound, fried raviolis (apparently the St. Louis standard is with meat, but cheese only is an option too) with marinara for dipping. They should be a bar food option nationwide. And while they are not, I’m lucky enough to live next door to a spot in Portland that does have them (shout out to Bar Bar)!

Blueberry Hill is packed with kitsch and pop culture memorabilia like collectables, figurines, toys, and action figures as well as guitars, taxidermy, and beer and sports memorabilia. But the best attraction is the wall of pictures dedicated to the musicians that have either graced the Duck Room or Pageant stage, and other celebrities who have dropped in to see Blueberry Hill for themselves. Each one is with owner, Joe Edwards. But from what I could tell their walls spanned decades and was still going strong today. From Nelly and Kanye, to Mitch Hedberg and Maya Angelou, he’s met them all. Whoever your favorite artist is, you’re likely to find them somewhere along these walls.

Edwards opened Blueberry Hill in 1972. In 1997, he added the 240-cap Duck Room below the restaurant. It made a name for itself hosting national acts as well as regularly opening the stage to St. Louis native, and the creator of Rock’n’roll himself, Chuck Berry. He played there over 200 times. Edwards went on to re-open the Tivoli theatre, establish the St. Louis walk of fame, and the Pageant, making the Loop a destination neighborhood for tourists and locals alike. It is this entrepreneurial mindset and love for the city that’s as good a blueprint as any for other neighborhoods of St. Louis to follow. Edwards’ dedication to celebrating and revitalizing the area has shown exactly what St. Louis can be.

Our final stop was the Grove, another small strip dense with bars and restaurants, and again bolstered by a school nearby – University of St. Louis. We hit the Gramophone, it’s positioned as a sandwich shop first, and they do have a proper sandwich menu, but it’s a bar at its core. There were people from all walks of life hanging out and mingling. Some people were there solely for a sandwich, but most were taking advantage of the full bar and excellent beer menu, pool, and pinball. Ending the trip here had us brushing past a piece of the St. Louis revelry we were seeking, but it was too little, too late.

An idea I’ve stood by in travel is that a city should show its true self no matter when you visit. You shouldn’t have to be there on the weekend or in high season to get a good sense of the place. You should get a real taste of it, and a sense of the potential, at any point in time. St. Louis beamed with possibility but left me unsated.

If my theory holds true, did we see St. Louis for exactly what it is – a sleepy hollowed out city? Or did the timing set us up for failure? It certainly felt off from the jump. Even those with serious St. Louis pride said as much. But they also gave me optimism — they were a part of the framework that could make St. Louis into a dynamic alternative city to visit. You can live well on a lot less there – the typical trigger for a bohemian arts culture to spring to life. Prime real estate is plentiful, the universities are well established, there’s a growing food and beer scene, and it’s geographically close to so many other major cities. The groundwork for a renaissance is there. But I think it will require an influx of people for it to be fully realized — likely more transplants coming in while students plant roots and locals get reinvigorated.

As a lover of overlooked cities, I’m here for it. I only wish I had more of the gospel to spread in the present.

Editor’s note: This trip took place in January 2022 when indoor dining was returning and mask mandates were just loosening. Winter and a lingering pandemic absolutely played a role at some of my stops, or lack thereof, and the overall liveliness of the town.

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The charm of Astoria is built into its consistency. Its highs and lows seem to net out evenly. It was the first permanent American settlement west of the Rockies and established itself as a major port at the mouth of the Columbia River. This is a central part of an area known as The Columbia Bar, or Graveyard of the Pacific — a stretch of Pacific Northwest Coastline (from Vancouver Island, Canada to Tillamook Bay, Oregon) that’s taken down approximately 2,000 ships through a combination of unpredictable weather, shifting sand bars, and rocky shoreline. That may be part of the reason that Astoria was quickly eclipsed as a major port in the region by Seattle and Portland. Don’t believe me? Check out this recent video just a few miles past the mouth of the Columbia.

While taking a backseat as a major port, Astoria was ravaged by two major fires in the 1880s and again in the 1920s. But during that stretch two major industries, lumber and fishing canneries, took hold. The Bumble Bee Seafoods Company and Astoria Plywood Mill were the focal points and they thrived for decades. But by the 60s those industries, through several factors, including a dwindling of resources and an increase in environmental concerns, saw them diminished greatly. Bumble Bee Seafoods Company left its home of Astoria for California, and the Astoria Plywood Mill slowly shuttered over a two decade span. Following that, Astoria saw an odd film boom from the 80’s and 90’s (Goonies, Free Willy, Kindergarten Cop, and more were filmed here).

Through all of that – over a century’s worth of major events that would almost guarantee booms and busts elsewhere – Astoria has basically had the same population, hovering at, or around, 10,000 people. And over the last two decades as it’s become better known as a legitimate microbrew and arts scene (along with the film nostalgia), it remains at that population level.

The city is long and narrow east to west and lies on a steep hill that basically rolls down to the mouth of the Columbia on the north side and Young’s Bay to the south. The city center is in the flats near the waterfront on the north side while homes creep up the aggressive southern hillside. The city has great views in any direction – rivers, bays, ocean, and mountains connected by sleek bridges as well as Victorian and Craftsman homes that look as good renovated as they do dilapidated and abused from years of rain and wind.

You get a pretty good taste of the city if you only walk down downtown – Exchange or Duane Street - or the main stretch of the Astoria riverwalk. But the small city still has plenty of nuance and hidden gems.

My Saturday run started from the Atomic Motel where I’d woken up to the sounds of a man trying to breathe through a thick mucus he couldn’t hack up. I imagined a shirtless man reaching over his beer belly for a cigarette in hopes that a smoke might clear things up. It was exactly the type of sound I expected from a motel stay, but I’d had hope for the Atomic Motel. It was better than your average roadside motel, with sixties swag that was intentional and updated (not actually remnants from its heyday) and nice touches like morning coffee and keypad locking doors. But it still attracted the same clientele and kept that cigarette smell from a previous era. That said, when two nights with taxes is just $157 the question is not only what did you expect, but what are you complaining about? It was safe and mostly clean, but a place I wouldn’t linger at.

I headed west on 101 / Marine drive, towards Young’s Bay and the back side of the Astoria. This section is rougher than the main strip – industrial, working class bars, fast food, coffee stands – a classic highway bypass. But once you hit the western point and turn south, the businesses dwindle and you have unobstructed views of the bay. It’s calm with the coastal mountains beyond it – Saddle Mountain providing real definition to an otherwise monotonous, minimal range.

I cut back inward at two miles, climbing the backside of the city which is almost exclusively residential. The houses are either quaint or gorgeous, without a lot of middle ground. Being free of businesses, it’s the Astoria you’re not going to see, but it’s worth it. For those who sit and fantasize about packing it up and moving to a small town, or eventually retiring outside of the city, or just daydream on Zillow, this is candy land. It’s all winding roads, misshapen plots of land on steep grades, and quirky ramshackle homes next to mansions. Most are brightly painted in two or three colors that pop, and rarely are any homes of the same color scheme. Enormous Douglas Firs are peppered throughout, all with this lesser seen backside view of Young’s Bay.

Continuing up and east I headed towards the Astoria Column, a tourist attraction that held no meaning for me and was certain to be left off any agenda if not for running. It’s just a 125-foot tower on a hill. But it’s the reason I build a running route around any sights or attractions. If my assumption holds true and it’s nothing interesting, I just continue running. But if it’s intriguing at all, I get a pleasant surprise. This was the latter. Because it’s at the highest point in Astoria, the views in the park are incredible. You see the full cityscape, complete with the Astoria-Megler Bridge, and boats heading out to sea from the Columbia River, as well as the Coastal Range and Young’s Bay.

The tower is free and open to the public. Up top it’s the same views, just 125-feet higher and better. Plus, looking east you can see the Cascades. Mount Rainier and St. Helens poked through that morning. You’re also just above some of the biggest firs in the city, which after hiking among the coastal old growth for 4 years, this provided me a welcome, new perspective. To be right above the trees and see them from the top down gave me new respect for how massive they are. They manage to dwarf you even as you’re looking down on them.

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Even better, the Astoria Column has a path (it’s a quick jaunt) through those same trees to the “famous” Cathedral Tree. It is huge, but mainly famous due to the fact you can stand inside of the trunk. It’s good and worthy of gawkers, and the trail is super short from the city side, but I’d take a slightly smaller tree you can’t stand in over one attracting crowds.

The trail throws you onto the north side of the residential slope which I careened down to the city and back onto 101. I went east and eventually found my way into a small neighborhood between the water and the highway by Tongue Point. While it didn’t have the affluence or boast the same charm as the hilltop neighborhoods, it offered a similar juxtaposition where a cute craftsman home might be next to junkyard hoarders. For Astoria’s size, there’s a wide spectrum of wealth, and each neighborhood seems to pack a lot of that variance in it. The house on one corner is hardly a proxy for the next.

My goal was to circle Tongue Point, it’s a densely wooded peninsula that appears to be infrequently trafficked but I ran into the city’s water treatment facility which was completely gated off . *For whatever reason, I wanted to see this little peninsula so bad that even as I was leaving town I tried to drive through only to find another gate. As it turns out, it’s some kind of private Job Corps site.* I turned back and hopped onto the Astoria Riverwalk heading back west towards town.

The Riverwalk east of the main drag is wide open with little foot traffic and a mix of dirt, paved, and wood planked boardwalk to run on. It’s parallel to the track for the Riverside Trolley which was out of service this particular weekend. I had a mile or two of open trail sitting between wetlands and the Columbia. Just before reentering the city center, you hit pier 39. Rogue Brewing has a little pub there and behind it a coffee shop. But the real treat is that it’s the original site of the Hanthorn Cannery which was bought by the CRPA – Columbia River Packer’s Association. Originally, they canned sockeye salmon, but as the runs diminished, the CRPA eventually switched focus to tuna, building out the now famous Bumble Bee Seafood Company.

The building is run by a nonprofit started by former workers to preserve the history and legacy of canning in the region. I didn’t spend more than a couple of minutes in the free museum, but given I was 10 miles into a run, it was well worth the stop to see some old canning equipment and videos of production line workers. Again, it’s a place I wouldn’t have visited had it not been for the run. In front of the pier I watched a seal cresting the water a few times before I continued on my way.

The Riverwalk continues past a large sea lion colony, and then runs parallel to the main drag of the city passing some restaurants, breweries, the maritime museum, and under the exceptional Astoria-Megler Bridge. I was loving the January sunshine and rising temps, knowing how quickly these damp boardwalk planks would turn into black ice with enough cloud cover. The boardwalk goes all the way to the end of town, back to Young’s Bay, but I headed back to my motel. Just over 13 miles of running provided the full outline of the city, along with some quick jaunts further in and out. It was the perfect way to shake off the previous night and get the lay of the land.

I had started my trip the previous day, beginning with a Friday afternoon trail run in Ecola State Park, 30 minutes outside of Astoria. I can’t really express how much this little state park – a patch of old growth that sits on a cliff 1,300 feet above the Pacific Ocean – means to me. I can only say that every picture I’ve ever taken works against me in showing it’s true greatness and diminishes its value. But that’s also the beauty of many natural places, either see it for yourself, or accept you’ll never really know it’s true grandeur.

Every Western Hemlock and Sitka Spruce is a giant in its own right, while the ground is a patchwork of ferns, moss, mud, and fallen, splintered behemoths. They spring new life much faster than they decompose, bringing about an array of grasses, flowers, and fungi. Everything living and dead seems to have a slightly different shade of green, but instead of feeling inundated by a monotonous, single color, it feels more like a vibrant cartoon. The stray yellow or purple of a mushroom or flower stands out if I let my eyes adjust. There’s an incredible stillness here that only a dense forest can provide. But if I step just a few feet off the trail to the cliff’s edge, there are black sand beaches being hammered by the hypnotic Pacific Ocean, slowly pulsing out to the horizon. The fog lingers longer here, not only elevating the quietness in the same way a snowstorm can hush a city, but it brings out the smells of pine and salty ocean breeze to create a soul cleansing scent. It’s subtle but unmistakable. It’s my little slice of perfection despite not being the most magnificent park in any one way.

After running through the mud and trees to my heart’s content, I arrived in Astoria (just 40 minutes away) on an empty stomach, fueled by my runner’s high. It’s a different state when you’ve embraced the outdoors, there’s a giddy magic that compounds the high. It’s a state that teeters on elation, but one that can fade into irritation if it’s not supported in caloric form. I was near Workers Tavern, a bar of much history and delight. It’s been around for nearly a century and is famous for its meat bingo on Sundays (I was sadly not in town to take part in this tradition).

I walked in at 5:30p expecting a thank-god-it’s-Friday happy hour crowd but was welcomed with silence. There were four patrons, one at the bar and three playing video poker. I saddled up to the bar a little deflated but certain a boilermaker of Hamm’s and Buffalo Trace would correct the energy.

“Buffalo Trace?”

The bartender’s look of confusion and disinterest had me questioning myself.

“… It’s a bourbon?”

In the single second of silence that followed those words, I could feel her aversion to me, understanding moments later that I was the only roadblock to her shift ending.

“Maker’s Mark, that’s the equivalent” – A woman’s voice from the kitchen chimed in.

“Yes, Maker’s is fine!” My dumb grin and quick reply were meant to extinguish the idea of me as a headache but she’d made her mind up. I got my drinks and as she clocked out, I overheard that she’d made $70. Not in tips. In total sales. We were indeed still deep in the pandemic.

The woman from the back was now on the clock, and since she knew what Buffalo Trace was, I felt confident in ordering a burger and tots. I asked about the Buddy Board – a white board covered with names and drink orders. It’s simple and amazing. You pay for a drink for a friend, the drink and their name go on the board, and if they come into the bar and can produce a picture of the board (that you sent them) with matching ID, they get their drink. She gave me the hoo-RAH pitch but I was already sold. Adam, your drink is waiting.

She proceeded to make drinks, greet new customers, clean, and start my food in the back. She was personifying the bar I expected. Her worn appearance might have given the impression of someone who’d lived this life for several years too long, but she was all bubbly exuberance. She was the perfect combination of experience without being jaded. The burger was fine and the tots were perfectly crunchy and salty, bringing me back just in time. After another beer I headed out to Portway Tavern, just a few minutes down the street.

When I arrived the bar seats were filled and about half the tables. The fish and chips looked good but the energy was still a bit flaccid and the décor was more reminiscent of a kitschy sailor theme than a true fisherman’s bar. But I’m told it is. And if video poker seemed like a draw at Worker’s, it was a way of life at Portway.

An older, overweight couple sat a couple tables from me, quietly drinking. She slowly started getting up as he asked, “Goin’ in?” “Oh yeah.” She settled down at one of the machines a few feet away, wearing nondescript sweats and a baggy tee. Moments later a young couple came in, they ordered drinks and got cash. She settled down at one machine while he sat at a table behind her. They continued their conversation as she burned through a $20. Then another. And another. As she churned through the bills they continued their friendly conversation, occasionally acknowledging the game with a quick word of advice from him. All the while he diligently gave her more bills. He cashed in a winnings receipt at one point, but it was not filling the hole she’d dug.

While he sat five feet behind, staring at the back of her head, and she stared into the twinkle of the machine, they continued an enthusiastic conversation about a family meet up. I was enthralled with the dynamic but no one else took a second look.

My concentration on them was broken by the voice of an old man who limped in, skinny appendages with a rotund beer belly. It’s the kind of weight gain I’ve always feared for myself, where all the fat goes straight to my gut, further highlighting my long, lanky limbs. His long, scraggily grey hair was pushed back with a beaten baseball hat over it. From the entry he scanned the seats at the video poker and noticed the boyfriend and I both watching the machines.

“Y’all in line?”

Of course he was worried about the wait for video poker. I let him know that there was an open machine in the corner. He gave a half nod and lurched towards the machine. I guess this was a January Friday night at the Portway.

I put away my two drinks before heading off to Triangle Tavern. It was the final dive on the west end of town, which is officially called Uniontown, unchanged by the arts and beer scene that had blossomed on the east side. It’s basically a box under the bridge with a few dark windows, but I appreciated the welcoming sandwich board: “Adult Daycare & Wellness Center.”

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It was bright in there, or it felt bright. Not office building bright with unending rows of fluorescent lighting, just bright light hitting me in the wrong places. I felt very exposed. There was a good crowd, though it was not clear if anyone was having a good time. I ordered a beer and sat at the bar. The young ladies next to me were settling up. Twice the girl closest to me produced a credit card, but each card was declined. Her friend extended hers to the bartender, neither friend acknowledging the gesture. I took in the scene unfortunately nothing was keeping me there. I closed out knowing tomorrow would be my bigger day for exploring.

Now that I had toured the city on foot and shaken off the the night cap from the Triangle, I took a shower and stepped back into the welcome January sun heading downtown to eat and drink. Along the way, I walked past a homeless man sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. We made eye contact in the way one might to simply acknowledge one another’s presence, but he had a glint in those eyes. As immediately as he was out of my periphery, he screamed. Not words, just one powerful “BAHHH!” I jumped and we made eye contact once more, he looking pretty satisfied.

Fort George was my destination but I popped into Merry Time when I walked past. It felt right to start my counterproductive day drinking with a bloody mary. Inside was a bit kitchsy, with several TVs for sports and ample games – pinball, pool, video poker. The bartenders were friendly with full attire of secondhand clothing. That look where you don’t know what era that dress was made for but you know there’s not another left on the planet. A total mismatch for a sports bar vibe, which was perfect. The bloody mary was solid, but it lacked the full garnish, and if there’s not a salad’s worth of pickled veggies jammed in there, I’m not satisfied.

So on I went. Fort George was slammed as expected at lunch on Saturday. They own a whole city block with the Fort George building housing a pizza restaurant up top and pub downstairs. I chose to dine in the Lovell Taproom, their third location across a courtyard from the main building and offers the pub’s menu. It was the only spot without a wait or children. Listen, I’m fine with other people’s kids but I don’t love that breweries have become the safe haven for young adults with children to gather. I have friends and family that absolutely love this trend, however, I firmly believe you get a babysitter or you shouldn’t bother going drinking. But that’s the beauty of Fort George, enough space for all — the yuppy parents and the curmudgeons like me.

The Lovell Taproom serves beer behind a table with taps and the rest of the space is makeshift too — an open area with high tops surrounded by brewing tanks and equipment. It’s not as comfortable as the two restaurant dining rooms, but it’s lower key. The pizza upstairs is the highlight of their menus. It’s perfectly thin, woodfired crust that’s crispy on the outside while remaining chewy and light at the center. It’s topped with fresh mozzarella and choices like wild mushrooms, mama lils peppers, and hot Italian sausage.

The pub below is quite good, but nothing that stands out to me the way the pizza does. I put away the chicken sandwich, that’s topped evenly with pickle chips, onions, greens, and aioli on a buttered bun. Their beer however, hot damn, I love it. I think Fort George is one of the only places in the PNW that can do New England IPAs just as well as they do west coast IPAs. But they also crank out fine lagers, pilsners, and stouts. And then they still have room to get weird with wild ales and do things like Spruce Budd — a beer brewed with just pilsner malts and handpicked spruce tips from the area, no hops. It’s light and refreshing, and totally unique.

As the lunch crowd died, I swung upstairs for a beer on the patio. With an IPA (I forget which) in hand, the sun peeking through the clouds, and the screams of children now fading down the street, it felt like a warm hug. The appeal was evident. Without coming off as ritzy it has all the ingredients for it — waterfront breezes in an old, urban setting coupled with river and mountain views that feed you an endless stream of cargo ships heading out to sea.

With an afternoon buzz firmly tied on, I walked by the Lower Columbia Bowl. When you’re drinking alone impulses are acted upon immediately. There’s no one to check in with and suddenly you’re just standing at a counter talking to a bowling alley attendant.

 “One lane… just for one?”

I realized then that this was an odd look. “Yep. And a beer.”

This cost me $11! $4 for the lane, $3 for the shoes, and $4 for an IPA.

Have you ever bowled alone? I’m guessing not. Judging by the attendant’s reaction, it’s possible I’m the first. Well, it’s wildly satisfying. Sure, I missed the laughs, the banter, the shit talking, and the reveal of who in the group is the gutter-ball chucker. But being alone I whipped balls down that lane at an incredible rate. My single game was probably done in under 10 minutes. No waiting to go through the cycle, for the person ordering drinks to return, or for your ball to return after someone mistakenly threw it. I just hucked with impunity. Bowling, in of itself, is fun because you’re throwing stuff at other stuff. But it is not fun because there’s usually a massive delay between each action. This is not so when you’re alone.

When you take out that delay, there’s a gratification you’ve never felt from bowling. The throw is so satisfying – the weight of the ball, the smack of it dropping onto the wood floor, then that quick glide over the waxy lane, and of course the brilliant crash of the pins. God damn. How is that sound so perfect? It’s so complete, a unified chaos in a singular moment of eruption that cuts to silence and order as quickly as it started. Every time. Getting that sound on repeat successively, solely from your own throws, is a strange little high. I’m so impatient as is, if the lane could have returned the balls sooner, I might have been done before my neighbors noticed me.

I’m probably required to note this is “Chunk’s Bowling Alley” where the opening scene of Goonies is filmed and you can sign a guest book there. I didn’t though, I was too busy rippin’.

I wandered the streets a bit as afternoon became evening, window shopping and looking for a bar to pop into. I ended up exactly where you do when you’re exhausted and uncreative but forging ahead cause the alcohol tells you, “we need more drinks.” I wound up at Buoy Brewing. I love their beer but it’s a step up from Fort George in the family affairs department. This, due to its location on the water with fantastic views, along with a section of glass floor looking down at ever-present sea lions. This is actually super fun, but it makes it family first all day.

It was dark when I left, though only 6 or 7p.m. Even with the sunshine and 50 degree temps during the day, it felt every bit like January in the evening. I bobbed around the boardwalk, debating the next stop and reviewing options on my phone. I felt a traction-less glide between my foot and the boardwalk, the same I’d avoided on my run earlier. Before I knew what was happening, I was laid out on the boardwalk.

Alone and drunk, lying on the ground. Like any rational person, I didn’t think about potential injuries, I simply got up as quickly as I could. If I stand up immediately then maybe no one will notice that I fell, right? Back on my feet I realized there was not a soul to witness this. I only had to be embarrassed for myself. And I was. It was the telltale sign to go home.

Of course, during the short walk back to my motel I thought, really, that fall wasn’t so bad, I’m not actually that drunk, let’s see what’s up at the Workers Tavern. I entered into silence once again and three women talking to the bartender. It seemed like they were closing out or I was crashing the party. My step inside was also a pivot out. I grabbed a couple tall boys at the Shell station and went to my room for the night.

On my run the next day Astoria felt more and more like going back in time. Was this what Seattle or San Francisco was like in their infancy? Astoria had that same claim to an epic waterfront and port, surrounded by forested hills and distant mountains, but instead of growing endlessly, it capped out at 10,000 residents, keeping bits of it frozen in time.

There’s more than enough jammed into this little city to spend a weekend uncovering new gems. Or you can simply watch the day (and boats) roll by, basking in the sun with beers. Either way, you’ll be entertained through every hour of sunlight and free of regret if you don’t do much of anything. Astoria leaves you satisfied however your time is spent. But for me there remains the mystery of uncovering where Astoria percolates after sundown in January, it’ll keep me intrigued and wanting another shot at it. I suspect it will lead me back to Workers Tavern for Sunday meat bingo and maybe, eventually, Annie’s Saloon. Surely a visit to the small town’s sole strip club will cement whether the nightlife is alive and well or if I need to start rethinking my own priorities.

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I had been to Tacoma seven years ago. It was memorable, but only because of how poorly executed the visit was. Nursing a two day hangover with my friend Adam, Tacoma was one of three possible destinations we headed towards from Portland. We reached the point where we’d so fully overindulged and under slept that even simple conversations between us were frustrating and any comment the other made was aggravating. No music or podcast was appealing during the drive either. What should have been simple immediate choices, requiring no debate, were now painstaking decisions that could not be worked out with any logic.

Our indecisiveness dragged on for so long that, by the time we had made it to Tacoma and opted to stay there, we only really wanted to bitch about being there. We had no enthusiasm or will to go out and explore. Besides a quick beer and Thai food, we stayed in, watching the doldrums of summer television while complaining about nothing in particular from our matching queen size beds at the Holiday Inn. We got a coffee the next morning while we continued whining, but that was basically my Tacoma experience.

While this was not Tacoma’s fault, it stayed with me, and Tacoma had not been on my radar since then. But when Guttermouth, a favorite nostalgic band of mine, announced a one-off show there, I realized it was the perfect place to explore. And now I had a reason to be there.

Tacoma’s downtown is just a 34 mile drive on I-5 from Seattle’s city center. Both cities sit on Puget Sound and soak up similar views of Mount Rainier, but the cities themselves rarely feel alike. I was sure the tech money from Seattle had trickled down into to Tacoma, and I bet if you asked locals, many would say it has. But it certainly didn’t feel that way. Where Seattle feels new, perpetually growing, and overloaded with outsiders with new money, Tacoma feels old, modestly updated, with locals who appear to be long term residents.

With companies like Amazon, Microsoft, Smartsheets, Docusign, and Tableau calling it home, Seattle is a city challenging Silicon Valley for the crown of most shameless tech bloat. Tacoma meanwhile feels well, maybe not working class or blue collar exactly, but certainly not cutting edge. There’s no industry there so inflated that it pays even the lowest tier 22 year-olds six figures. And with that comes a lack of pretense and an intact community and humanness from the people.

Tacoma sits at that size which is too big for any cute weekend getaway, and too small for the big city adventure. So, there’s not a quaint downtown strip to explore, nor a major tourism industry that shuffles people through the designated must-see-and-do spots in the city. Instead, it’s the community which takes on that role. Wherever I went someone seemed to start up a conversation with me, and once I let them know I was traveling alone, that’s when they really opened.

I was staying on the north end of town and stepped out after arriving on Friday afternoon. Almost immediately I stumbled upon Frisko Freeze, its neon sign was magnificent in its lack of grandeur along with its large, rudimentary drawing of a not particularly good looking hamburger. With a long night of bar hopping ahead of me, I felt lucky to pass this spot so immediately. I ordered the double cheeseburger and ate as I walked. It was your classic slutty drive-in burger – a small, flat, cheesy and greasy delight, but compact and structurally sound. Basically, what a fast food burger should be and what a smash burger wants to be. And it was $6 with tip.

Hilly and overlooking the Sound, with craftsman homes and Doug Firs peppered throughout the neighborhoods, Tacoma is no doubt very Pacific Northwest. But it was already feeling different than a lot of other cities in the region. Homes, apartment buildings, and storefronts made of brick were more common, less of the typical wood or vinyl siding, and there were almost no lifeless, nondescript aluminum new-builds. These often feel like the final notice to those who’ve lived in a neighborhood for decades that they no longer belong. Whether it was a want to preserve the old places or a lack of need for new ones, the city felt older than a lot of other west coast cities.

My first stop was Parkway Tavern. It’s a bit of a franken-bar out front, you don’t know what to expect with its simple patio and an old school neon sign pointing you into a remodeled old home, turned bar. It’s sort of your neighborhood catch all, which given its 80+ year history as a North End staple, makes sense. There was a group of college kids at a high top looking entirely too fresh-faced; a man and woman in their sixties sitting at the bar with the appearance of money and ease of retirement — he trying to impress her, she maintaining a friendly but uninterested air; a well-dressed young woman looking like she would soon be somewhere more important; and other patrons scattered about.

Parkway itself had a refreshed historic look. But there was a private clubhouse feel too, which is about the last vibe I seek out. There was a noticeable cleanliness, and based on the dark paneled wood walls and tables, the leather booths, walls filled with historical photos and old alcohol memorabilia, and finally a tap handle collection hanging from the support beams, it felt inevitable that golfers would soon walk through the door. In isolation that first impression of class and kitsch made me suspicious, taking me back to childhood outings to country clubs with friends’ families. The pageant of perceived wealth in a place that had teenagers serving mediocre food always confused me, even as a 10 year old. Luckily at Parkway, the bartenders set the mood. Instead of some idiot in a button down and bow tie, every bartender was tatted up and dressed down in jeans, tee shirts, and hats.

The illusion that this might be a spot for the uptight quickly melted away. The bartenders were immediately friendly and helpful, a spot where every other person who walked in was a known regular and greeted by patrons and staff alike. The tap list was 30 deep and varied, and even better, it was a spot where you’ll get asked about another beer just before your pint is gone. That is a rarity in this world, and it’s a god damn blessing when someone knows how to keep you topped off without harassing you or putting you through a dry spell between drinks. While the food looked hearty and I was comfortable enough to tie on a serious buzz there, I moved on after my second drink.

The next stop was Magoo’s Annex a mile away. On the way, I walked through more pleasant areas dotted brick buildings, as well as some serious turn-of-the-century mansions. One in fact took up two thirds of a block and was a neoclassical behemoth. Turns out it’s known as the White House of Tacoma, owned by prominent businessman William Rust.

From the outside Magoo’s is just like an old western saloon, save for the batwing doors. It has the old wood siding and little awning creating a porch, the sign front and center on the second floor of the puzzle-piece shaped roof, and the dark windows lining the first floor. Inside it was a lively happy hour crowd, but not overly crowded. It had pool, a few tables lining the walls, and an L-shaped bar. They also had a cigarette machine which is a big green flag. It had multiple basketball trophies sitting on top of it, a decorative choice I could get behind.

While I wish bars would allow smoking, that’s a long gone era, so the cigarette machine is a nice consolation. I don’t even smoke, I just believe that a bar is better with looser rules. It is not a place for great decisions so fussing over the rules like it’s a courthouse, office, or some institution of prestige is shortsighted. It’s a place for getting people drunk. And cigarette smoke adds an authenticity that’s been scrubbed out our classic bars.

I posted up noticing again that most people knew each other. Next to me were two men in there 60s or 70s. After ordering I caught their conversation.

“Have I had three or four drinks now?”

“Oh, probably just three.”

“I think I’ve had four. I guess I should go.” Then he headed to the bathroom.

I interjected, “I guess you should have told him you thought it was his second.”

“Oh, maybe… Say, did you hear about the big news on Wall Street today?”

It’s funny how someone asking a simple question like that immediately makes me feel dumb if I don’t have an answer. Especially if I’m alone in a new place. I was sure I’d missed something in the news but couldn’t think of anything to say that might provide some semblance I was attune to the world around me. I had no idea what he was referencing and had to plead ignorance.

“No, what happened?”

“You didn’t hear??” My mind raced again, but still nothing.

“Oh, well, Victoria’s Secret merged with Smith and Wessun. The new venture is going to be called Titty Titty, Bang Bang.”

I howled. Not only at the joke but also at my insecurity. Good bars have a way of pulling back any affectation and leaving you with an honest air.

He dropped another joke on me while finishing his beer, his friend said goodbye, and then he too slowly made his way out the bar, chatting up several friends on the way. The bartender pointed at my empty glass and I asked how the IPA on tap was. He told me “People tend to like it,” as he began pouring it. He was friends with everyone, holding multiple conversations at once. He was wearing a baggy Hawaiian shirt that had two patterns divided right down the middle, the left side colored, the right black and white, and a beanie loosely draped over his head. He was the type of bartender you want steering the ship when you’re out to get a little weird. I was ready to cozy up to Magoo’s, but I had other places to see.

I made it down to 6^th Ave which is one of the main drags in Central Tacoma and where the show was, but I had time to kill. While the busy section of 6^th Ave has plenty to offer, it’s a wide two-lane street, not the cute and compact shopping district standard. Instead, it that still has that 90s car-first strip mall feel, with fast food, chain stores, auto shops, and parking lots breaking up the good stuff. While it’s easily walked, it doesn’t feel pedestrian friendly.

I went to the Red Hot, a beer and hot dog spot. I’d expected something small given their limited offering, instead I walked into a very loud and crowded expansive space, with high ceilings (again decked out in bar tap decor), a far reaching bar, and every one of the dozen or so tables taken. I managed to find a seat at the bar and ordered the Tacoma Dog (a classic Chicago dog) alongside the vegan version of it. The vegan dog was fine if I hadn’t had the original Tacoma dog. But I did and the sadness of the fake meat was too real.

From here I went to Jazzbones for the Guttermouth show. I’d timed it to miss the first few openers with a chance to get some beers and take in the crowd and venue. The spot had very affordable drinks and was less rigid on rules than typical clubs. While it’s an established venue, it felt like it still operated as a bar first. As is often the case in smaller cities, the punk scene seemed to be thriving in Tacoma. Guttermouth even noted how much better the Tacoma crowd was than Portland’s the previous night. I made a friend pre-show, got drunk, and had the microphone put to my lips several times only to mess up words to songs I’d sung a thousand times prior. And by 12:30 I was walking home.

I awoke to a quiet foggy morning and a substantial hangover. I felt like professional shit. I always find that show hangovers are worse because you’re not only detoxing from alcohol, you’ve also blitzed your head and ears with high decibels you’re simply not accustomed to. Jazz Bones is the first venue I’ve been to that didn’t sell ear plugs at the bar, and the bartender looked bothered that I’d asked. The tissue I jammed in my ears did in fact help, but not enough.

I made a soulless Keurig coffee and started plotting my run. The beautiful thing about running consistently for so long is that it has become second nature, there’s only rare occasions when it isn’t doable. But just as I’d make coffee, cook breakfast, watch tv, or go to brunch with a bad hangover, the run becomes an inevitable part of the day, regardless of how I feel. I hate stewing in the waste of hangover anyway, it’s always better shaking it off rather than succumbing to it.

Before going, I showered, which is always a good first step in distancing yourself from the night before, then grabbed a donut at Legendary Donuts. For whatever reason it looked like a good hole in the wall local spot. Instead, it was depressing for no definitive reason. It had the aura of a vacant chain store in a strip mall, a place no one really wants to go, but it continues a trickle of business and never ceases to exist. I immediately regretted the choice and followed it up with a coffee at Bluebeard Roasters. Their good coffee, light and airy atmosphere, and cheerful staff, leveled me out.

I finally began my run, stopping almost immediately to take pictures of a corner lot mansion that had a brick façade, neoclassical porch and balcony, Spanish tiling, and immaculately landscaped yard. A big benefit to running in a new city is the lack of concern for any run goals beyond exploring. That means I can take my time and wear my running vest, so in addition to water and nutrition, I can have my wallet and phone with me, typically an item intentionally left behind. As I admired the home, a slightly disheveled man out for a morning walk with his large orange dog, Charlie, passed by. He was heavily bearded wearing sweats, a tee, a loosely buttoned flannel, and beaten boat shoes. “Oh yeah, looking at the old Rust place, huh?” I was taken aback by his friendliness. If roles were reversed, I might have resembled him closely but I would not have bothered stopping to share any neighborhood knowledge with a stranger.

He went on to tell some of the Rust history, much of which I can’t recall beyond William Rust being a titan of Tacoma at the turn of the century (he made his fortune in the copper smelting industry). In fact, the White House of Tacoma I passed the previous night was the first Rust home. What we were standing at now was the more modest second home he built. There are rumors about the move from the White House to this one – specifically about the murder of his son at the White House. I wouldn’t have uncovered any of this on my own, but thanks to random local knowledge from a stranger, I have it. Yes, Tacoma is friendly.

My run continued through Puget Creek Natural Area, a small patch of forest in the middle of a North Tacoma neighborhood, leading to the Ruston Way Path. This path abuts Commencement Bay on the northeast side of the city. This is where I first got hit with the Aroma from Tacoma, and it is real. It’s very much sulfuric, though not a full-on, stop you in your tracks egg fart. But to be a city’s predominant smell outside of say, imperceptible scent, it’s not great. From what I can gather, there’s no single source, but likely some mix of sediment in the bay, sulfur from a paper mill, a rendering plant, and oil refinery. It’s ironic and fitting that the byproducts from human endeavors decades prior, left to rot in an otherwise immaculate and unique landscape, would offer that smell to future generations. A constant reminder of our less desirable impacts.

This path leads to Point Defiance Park, a peninsula of old growth forest that extends out towards Gig Harbor. In terms of nature in a region rich with open spaces and natural beauty, it’s small at only 760-acres, but the fact that it’s old growth in the city and includes a 4-trail system plus offshoots, makes it a special urban reprieve. The trees are all remarkable and with water sitting on three sides of it, it feels quite exotic. The downside is 5-Mile Drive, a paved road that follows the perimeter of the park. Why they opted to let cars drive through the limited remaining forest they have is beyond me. Couple that with the fact that they’ve put the zoo at the entrance to the park, it’s as if they wanted to strip the place of any solitude it offered. And yet you can still get it here, plus it’s well maintained. I saw very little trash and had decent stretches of running without foot traffic around me, which is a marvel at noon on a Saturday when the sun’s out in March.

Exiting the park, I headed south on Pearl Street for an extended period. It’s a highway through unremarkable neighborhoods. I knew at some point on this stretch I wasn’t far from the childhood home of Ted Bundy, and like all middle class millennials, I love true crime. But he’s definitely not the most interesting thing about Tacoma, and I didn’t want his creepy smirk consuming my thoughts for the remainder of the trip, so I avoided finding it. I later found out he moved as a child and spent most his teen years growing up on N. Sheridan, the very street I was staying on, albeit a different neighborhood a few miles south. I eventually zigzagged east, passing the University of Puget Sound campus and arriving back home 16.5 miles later.

Having dealt with the hangover, which required a fraction of that mileage to be exorcised, I was left drained. It’s that sort of reset which is positive but leaves me vacant. Literally, I could stare at a wall. There’s this lack of arousal and stimulation that comes with that headspace. And yet I can’t sleep or relax at this point. But with limited time and the trust that at some point, with a meal and drinks, I may again feel endorphins, setting out with a blank face is the only choice.

I went to Hob Nob, a brunch spot a short walk away. Stepping in I dreaded being seated at a table or booth, surrounded by families and kids, but as the hostess walked me through the main dining room to the adjacent one, I saw this second room contained the bar. I felt that warm embrace of the friendly countertop. At the bar, your server is right there so you can either hustle through the meal or settle into banter and bullshit about nothing with strangers.

I ordered a water and ‘The Bloody Mary,’ which arrived with a pepperoni-like cured meat the size of a baby’s fist sticking out from the rim. It left me uneasy and perplexed. How had meat taken over the tried and true art of jamming a full CSA order into the drink as garnish? The Mary herself was good but the garnish is what makes any bloody great, and for me that ain’t meat, it’s spicy beans, peppers, and olives. It’s clearly a favorite though, the couple next to me who had already had their own still felt the need to praise mine. My eggs benedict and hashbrowns were solid but the greasy spoon look of the place didn’t deliver on the expected oversized Midwest portions.

Walking East on a steep decline towards the water took me downtown, which is really all I’d seen my first time out here, but it became clear I hadn’t even scratched the surface of it then. Downtowns are an area where one might expect action but they’re often ghost towns, save for a few venues or restaurants. They’re certainly not epicenters of fun, unless the city is so sprawling it’s almost required, or the city is simply a dud. Tacoma’s downtown was no different, there were blocks I walked on Saturday afternoon that I had all to myself.

It was interesting to see a clear intention to revitalize downtown and maintain some historical preservation mixed with persistent patches of blight from decades of neglect. In a matter of three blocks I passed the restored neoclassical Elks Temple (now a McMenamin’s) overlooking the waterfront, antiques row (a stretch of longstanding antique shops covering thousands of square feet of commercial space), and some chic new restaurants. These, wedged between multiple abandoned buildings, a few covered with Instagram-able street art on one side, and on the other, windows knocked out and still un-boarded, with the broken glass appearing as a permanent fixture of the sidewalk. And all without a soul in sight.

Continuing south the same contrasts persisted with a few more faces passing by, increasing the further I went. This stretch has the Tacoma Children’s Museum, Tacoma Art Museum, Convention Center, University of Washington – Tacoma campus, and the focal point of downtown, the Museum of Glass. With its stainless steel tilted cone tower and the Chihuly Bridge of Glass, it certainly stands out. It’s now in its 20^th year, built on the superfund site of the Thea Foss Waterway (reminiscent of the Gowanus in Brooklyn), and clearly a driving force in the revitalization of the area. While still relatively quiet, the cone and the east 21^st bridge create an iconic fore-and-background, the site people come out to see.

The sun was out in force and there was no shade in this concrete stretch, but there were no available Lyfts either, a predictable annoyance in mid-sized cities.  But what’s another mile and a half on foot when you’ve already ran for two hours, are dehydrated, operating on 6 hours of drunk sleep, and now getting sunburned during the Pacific Northwest winter?

I passed the LeMay Car Museum and the Tacoma Dome, which is one of the largest wooden domes in the world and (built using downed trees from the 1980 Mount St. Helens explosion!). The Tacoma Dome is so much simpler and sexier than the new arenas of today, am I’m thankful there’s not a pro team utilizing it. If there were, that would inevitably lead to the owners demanding a newer, “better” arena that taxpayers could foot the bill for.

The fun of the dome was quickly forgotten with the sun’s continued assault on my face and a slog uphill past McKinley Park. This park had great views of the city, but the road was just a thruway in an otherwise ugly stretch right off I-5 dotted with vinyl siding apartments. And there was something unsettling about walking past multiple abandoned cars with their windows knocked out followed by a man coming out of the bushes with a hooded trench coat and his face obscured by a possible ski mask. While it made me uneasy, I felt like I was giving off my own weird aura as I sweated through my hoodie, my head buried in it, hiding from the sun.

But upon cresting the hill I exited the no man’s land to an established neighborhood, and a block later, I saw a craftsmen home converted into a bar. You’ll see the home-turned-bar regularly in Portland, but it will be in a high trafficked shopping area . Dusty’s Hideaway appeared like the pot of gold at the end of a bleak concrete rainbow. The yard ran the distance of the block, north to south, with multiple picnic tables and umbrellas in back, along the side, and out front, finished off with a welcoming front porch with additional seating.

There was some seating inside but with the unseasonable sun, the picnic tables were the first to fill. Maybe it was just that glimpse of summer weather, but Dusty’s had magic. There were bikers fully clad in leather and bandanas slugging beers, belly laughing groups of friends drinking away the afternoon, families eating while their kids got dirty in the yard – all walks of life had a reason to be here. It was a true neighborhood hang that was so relaxed and welcoming, it had the ability to shirk whatever else was happening around it and provide an instant escape.

I settled on the porch. When you’re drinking your way through the weekend, it’s important to lie to yourself by throwing in one moderately healthy decision, as if that will right the ship from a couple dozen drinks. That’s why I ordered the veggie sandwich. It came on Texas Toast, at first a confusing choice, but it served the sandwich well. Being so spongey and thick allowed it to comply perfectly with the avocado, cucumber, tomato, onion, red pepper, lettuce, and sauce. Any harder bread would have the veggies shooting out all sides with each bite. And the tots were plentiful, crisp, and salty.

To me, this place was a case of mistaken identity. It was on my radar, but not a must see. Google and yelp had framed it much more as a restaurant catering to families than anything else. The reality is, it’s the perfect day drinking spot. There’s plenty of outdoor seating with shade and sun, good cocktails, a solid draft list, plenty of cheap cans, and of course good food to keep the engine running. I fully expect to revisit at some point and post up for the long haul. Dusty’s has certainly witnessed many a lunch beer unravel into last-call drinks.

Four blocks south on McKinley was the Top of Tacoma bar. It’s a weird occurrence in travel where a spot that felt like an afterthought can outshine the one you were really looking forward to. It could be circumstances with crowd and atmosphere, or in this case expectations and mood. The Top was alive, the drinks were strong, the draft list good, and the food looked great. I however, was not conjuring a second wind. I ordered a beer and a whiskey to take in the setting but my phone and I needed a recharge. I couldn’t really take it in. The Lyft ride home provided some great glimpses of Mt. Rainier as the sun was setting, furthering my growing love for Tacoma. I even asked the driver what cross streets we were at, thinking I might come back for the same view, but I didn’t remember what he said shortly after he told me. I fell asleep on arrival at my place.

After day drinking, awakening from an evening disco nap in a rental home is complicated. It’s dark out but not late. I’m a little hungover, still a bit buzzed, but tired and restless. Nothing feels right, everything feels off. The fog is heavy and there’s no right choice for what’s next. The best option is probably a shower with a caffeinated cocktail, a good way to recalibrate and step back out into the world. But I didn’t have the luxury of a bar at my fingertips so I fumbled around a sterile home that wasn’t mine, music playing in the background, slowly dressing, trading sips from a coffee and a stray can of Rainier.

I arrived at Bob’s Java Jive – the giant coffee pot painted red, white, and blue, on an industrial section of highway under the interstate – absolutely giddy with excitement. I think I’d marveled at pictures of it for months. Even coming into town, I switched lanes on I-5 to catch a glimpse of it as I sped over.

The history and myth is packed into this place –the surf legends the Ventures were a house act in the 60s, Bing Crosby hung out here, one of D.B. Cooper’s supposed last sightings was here, Nirvana played here, Neko Case was a bartender, Keanu Reeves visited after filming portions of Love You To Death at the Jive, he even offered to buy it later. There was even a pair of monkeys that used to greet customers. Also, it’s a giant coffee pot shaped bar!

They’re now better known for karaoke, weekly comedy, and the occasional band. And of course, that divey, tiki-bar kitsch. We’re talking cheeseburger lamps, bus seats for bar stools, a ceiling covered in signed and defaced dollar bills or doodles on napkins, Christmas lights, and fake plants galore. Even a crude Freddy Kruger painting adorns the bathroom wall.

Rolling up at 8p on a Saturday, I was ready for the goods. I walked in to see a young woman behind the bar dressed down in yoga pants and a black hoodie. A young man in a trucker hat and tee shirt was bellied up at the bar with a Heineken. I couldn’t get over how such an innocuous choice, like a beer, could stick out so blatantly. Heineken is a beer no one asks for, it only appears when they’ve bought the rights to a venue or event. There was a mutual exchange of looks between us three, all of us expecting something different when I opened the door. It was dead in there, but I took a Rainier to the back to scope it out. The coffee pot is only the front end, there’s a big extension in the back that opens to booths and the stage. But there was no action there either. I sat at a booth for about 30 seconds before returning to the bar.

“I guess I should sit with you all, not alone back there.”

“Yeah, we just recently started opening at 4p, but no one knows yet. We used to open right at 8, so everyone is still on those hours. I’ve been here for four hours and had two customers.”

I learned it was her first night at the Jive and he was visiting up from Olympia. He was also a magician. While seeing some tricks, the Rainiers kept flowing, and soon enough the owner was at the bar. I’d read about the previous longtime owners and the bar being passed down through the family for fifty or more years. But that family had just sold the bar and this guy was the new owner. He was giving tips on where to go in the city while drinking with me and reading through mail. The look on his face throughout said they were probably bills he wasn’t expecting. When the second bartender showed up, I learned he’d been at Guttermouth too. Seemingly everyone that entered was a friend.

At some point the magician Nick had handed me his card. But later, between beers, I looked up and saw another card on the bar top. This card represented the business of “Buckwheat Catapillar – Musician, Philosopher, Provocateur,” a man wearing white face paint with red lipstick, blacked out sunglasses, and a newsboy hat atop long, curly green hair. “Is this yours?” I asked. “No, it’s yours.” I took it without asking questions but it felt like a low-grade prank. That, or Nick had himself a second gig.

Inevitably karaoke came up and the bartender asked if I liked it. I told her not really but that I did have a song if I’m forced on stage. She encouraged me to sign up and I kept pussyfooting around and never sharing my song. The owner said I sounded like the girl who claims she doesn’t have sex on the first date, but inevitably does. But this time around, I wasn’t, I never even checked to see if they had my song.

There was a little action at the bar by 9:15, people trickling in, and the karaoke machine warming up. Best of all, the steady flow of Rainiers had me shaking off the disco nap and keeping the buzz modest. A man in his 60’s wearing a Trump MAGA shirt slipped in the front and sat a couple seats down from me. He was a fish out of water, seemingly unaware of it, as if he’d walked into a nondescript bar in rural Washington. There was something altogether sad about him, and I was in a cheerful mood, so I chatted with him about nothing of substance as the rest of the crowd paid no mind. He must’ve finally got a read on the room halfway through his beer because he got up unannounced and never came back.

Soon after a group of three entered and sat next to me at the bar, two guys and a gal in their early 20s. They had that hipster look, some mix of old and ill-fitting clothes, with one item that looks to be legitimately fashion forward. But there was no sense of pretense, what they owned seemed a little mismatched and just happened to look good. There was a genuine joy for the night plastered on their faces, it was clearly the big night for them. They’d come down from Seattle, the gal was their designated driver. As they described it, it was their regular weekend routine to do a big night out somewhere with a DD, usually Tacoma. This routine had my approval. She was fully accepting of the hand she drew, but not particularly happy with the long sober night staring her down from the bar. Rather than be an obstacle in drunk talk, she quickly switched seats with me to allow me and the two guys the chance to shout closer to one another’s face.

I don’t recall much of the conversation – there was plenty of small talk, explaining how we ended up at Bob’s, having magic tricks shown to us, assigning karaoke songs to one another (that were never sang), and bringing in the bartender for her opinion on any topic. Everyone kept the momentum of laughter going. But there was no one owning the conversation, everyone was getting made fun of and howling like we’d known each other since childhood. It was a perfect group of strangers. There were no expectations or stiltedness, just a welcoming of who, and what, Bob’s offered up. Being introverted in new groups I can’t tell you how much I appreciate a person, let alone a crowd, who can quickly show me their happy-go-lucky irreverence and push the biting of the tongue to the wayside.

But then around 10:30 I overthought things and followed through on my plan to check out a new spot. It’s best to never change scenery when things are going well at a particular locale, especially if you’re already drunk. There’s no rebuilding that camaraderie elsewhere and it’s not going to be there when you return. I let my new friends know I was heading to the Mule Tavern, but I’d be back. The bartender told me to check out the Church Cantina across the street, but I doubled down on my stupidity and never did.

The long bar top of the Mule was packed with people, several games of pool and pinball were being played, and tables were covered with board games and Jenga, surrounded by groups of friends. I snagged one of the remaining bar seats and ordered some chips and salsa along with my beer. In all of that action, someone walked by and asked me about the chips and salsa. At a dark bar not known for its food, who asks a stranger about the chips and salsa? I could barely even see what I was eating. The Mule seemed like a good hang, but as I suspected, there was nothing for someone arriving at 11p with a seven beer jump on the night and a room full of strangers.

I returned to Bob’s knowing the evening might’ve been shot. Walking in, the bartender was now on my side of the bar and immediately lit up, “You actually came back!” After grabbing a beer she offered me the open spot on her bus seat, two people side by side. We chatted and it felt like maybe, in fact, this night was going better than planned.

But after hanging for a while, I went outside to check on the rest of the group, though I made it clear I’d be back. I opened the patio door to, “Zach’s back!” from my friends. But the group had grown with several new faces in the circle, and one guy was controlling the conversation. The previous magic felt fleeting and any quick wit from me was fading.

Reentering, I saw the bartender now with another group, and a guy uniquely focused on her. She seemed only mildly interested in him, but he was engaged and fresh, and I was now on the outside with an army of tall boys butting heads against a hangover and 16 mile run. My charisma was slipping, it felt like I’d lost my place on both fronts, and I had no interest in trying to earn back my spot. I got a Rainier thinking maybe the tides would turn in the next ten minutes, but it was more of the same. I pulled the plug and went home at 12:30a rather than making a futile attempt at a hook-up opportunity that was available only for a fleeting moment.

I was a frustrated drunk, despite visiting a long lusted-after dive and getting the exact evening I wanted from it, albeit cut short by my own poor decision. To that group, thank you for a great night. It was a night that had more to give if I’d never left Bob’s, but I loved what I got in those few hours.

In life, there are hours long stretches where time doesn’t exist and basically nothing is done because no one has, nor is discussing, any obligations. There is no agenda, not even an agenda to go engage in a new fun activity. The activity is simply hanging out. And every conversation is filled with wild laughter. No problems or contentious topics exist. Not because people are holding back, because everyone is satisfied in that moment and living in it. Happy, relaxed, comfortable. Goals are too ambitious for these brief stretches, though if there were one, it’d be to keep the group laughing and the good time rolling. If you’re lucky, you can find these stretches every few weeks, but more than likely it’s every few months.  But these brief moments of complete satisfaction, along with their elusiveness, are what make living worthwhile. For a few hours, that’s what Bob’s was for me.

I woke up the next day with an equally bad hangover. I shuffled around the house packing and drinking bad coffee. I went for another run to shake off the hangover angst and get some new neighborhood views. The nice thing about burning the candle at both ends during a short trip is that you’re usually willing to leave when the time comes. Routine and familiarity feel like the best salve for the sleep deprived. There’s not a feeling of wanting to repeat the previous days actions or to try to find relaxation in a foreign place.

I went to Bluebeard and again their atmosphere gave me resolve for the drive home. At the recommendation of the Bob’s bartender I did peek my head into Dirty Oscar’s Annex, a place she touted for brunch, but it was too busy and the lack of natural light felt suffocating. I left before speaking to the hostess and hit the road.

Tacoma is sometimes referred to as the Grit City, and while the origin of that name is shaky due to the nickname appearing throughout its history with different definitions of the word grit, I think it encompasses them all. The city is a little dirty and rough around the edges, it’s not built around new shine. But it’s also shown resolve after years of press lowlights while sitting in the shadow of Seattle.

A lot of mid-size cities are forced to prove why they’re worthy of the outsider and hope they can lure visitors in. I think Tacoma has stopped putting emphasis on such approval and just goes about its business. With it comes an authenticity that makes the place stand out. It knows the reality of its standing in many people’s minds, coupled with a firm hold on the truth; that it’s a kick ass city if you choose to know it. If not, it doesn’t seem to bother wasting much time convincing you of that fact. But if you’re looking for a Pacific Northwest city without the bullshit accoutrement, Tacoma hits hard.

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Off the beaten path is such a cliché in travel. Everyone says that’s what they want, but they don’t. They want to visit the newest, slightly under-the-radar alternative to the over-hyped tourist destination; to find a hidden-gem locale within a booming region; to know about the hole in the wall that only locals visit in a major metropolis. If truly off the beaten path was what people were seeking, they would have seen a buffet of destinations to choose from right here in the United States. Most cities here are completely overlooked as places to visit but they represent the true road less traveled.

These second rate cities are some of the best destinations one can visit. Not only are they typically very cheap, but they’re also not overrun with tourists or gimmicks, and they’re often a time capsule to another era. They remain as they did decades prior, persisting despite the constant and instantaneous change elsewhere. What seems to live on in these cities is exactly what’s watered down in our most popular destinations. These cities have generational continuity in their community, both with the people and physical spaces.

In second rate cities you’ll see money and progress peppered in but it’s a slower drip than the rapid gentrification of those first tier cities. With our major destinations progress has rolled over well-established neighborhood businesses in favor of convenience and exclusivity. Community has been devalued in favor of attracting new money. That’s not to say major destination cities don’t still have great landmarks and institutions to showcase, it’s that the preservation is focused only on those cultural institutions and historically significant, not the less sexy neighborhood stalwarts – the bars, coffee houses, diners, and mom and pop shops. The prevailing culture is new, sleek, shiny, and comfortable in its uniformity. This makes them stale and homogenous, a sort of suburbanization of what should be our cultural centers. The lesser loved cities offer a sense of pride held by the people that have always been there and a retention of the cultural that makes them unique.

I began stumbling upon these cities through my own curiosity while living in New York, where so many were a short-haul flight away. In mentioning these cities there was always a common theme. Everyone had an opinion about a city like Detroit, yet few had ever visited or even entertained the idea. I felt it was important to see these places for myself and gain a better perspective on them. In exploring a few, I quickly learned that they fostered all the things I loved most about neighborhoods I’d lived in before and the cities I enjoyed the most. And yet when I visited, locals always seemed shocked. During a Lyft ride in Milwaukee my driver asked what I was doing there. I said I was just visiting because I’d never been there before.

“So, you’re visiting friends or family?”

“No, just visiting Milwaukee.”

“No work here or anything?”

“No, I’ve just always wanted to see Milwaukee.”

“Huh, I’ve never talked to anyone who was just here for Milwaukee.”

But why? It’s a beautiful city with interesting history and plenty to do. This is what I couldn’t figure out.

These were often short weekend trips and I quickly found that the best bang for my buck in experiencing them was literally running and bar hopping through them. The combination provides a lay of the land, interaction with the people, and access to history and culture. So much ground can be covered, and the most fun will be had with this approach. Plus, the two help to balance each other out.

Running brings to life hours of staring at, and internalizing, maps. I can visualize the map while running and build a sense of direction almost immediately. This is key in getting comfortable in a place I’m only in for a couple of days. I obsess over maps, but they only get me so far, running helps complete the picture.

With running I start connecting dots and fleshing out the city. I get the good, bad, and unexpected. It provides a full, unfiltered view instead of seeing a place only within the walls of my destinations. If I only Lyft from spot to spot, I feel totally disconnected from the city itself. It’s like skipping over all the connective tissue that makes the city what it is and instead drops you from one comfort zone to the next. I suppose many people want just that – highlights only. I prefer walking away with as much of a defined feeling of the place as possible. Give me the blight and scars that come with each block. Running provides that broad overview of the city, not just the layout, but overall accessibility. How are neighborhoods connected or segregated? Does it value the pedestrian, the car, or public transportation? Is it walkable? Is green space easy to come by? How much development is occurring on new ground? How many old buildings are being demo-ed for new ones? You can see a lot of this with a well-planned run.

I do love running in of itself – the access it provides to see so much, the competitive nature of racing, the meditative side, the disconnect from tech, and simply staying fit. But I also love that it provides me an always-renewing free pass to be a degenerate.

I like to ride my runner’s high into a nice buzz. Running puts me on top of the world, and I like to try and get a little higher than that. Too many runners I know reward a hard effort with food from a diet trend or an early night in, or if they’re feeling adventurous, some sweets. What a shame. I want a shower beer and the rest of the six-pack to follow. Or even better, a quality hang at a bar. Where running builds an overview of a new city, the bars (and businesses in general) provide that closer look at the community itself.

And man, do I love a good bar. Ideally that kind of place where I can’t help but crack a smile from the palpable energy felt the moment I set foot inside. The bartenders are boisterous and drinking with the friends they serve. The conversation alone fills the air, but with music matching conversations, everyone’s just a little bit louder. The songs might be something I know and love but likely I don’t know it, making the place just a little bit cooler. It’s coming from the jukebox and a random patron has set the tone, or maybe it’s the bartender in control. The liveliness has made the air a little thick yet there’s still a stray seat at the bar open.

A good bar will have a pool table or darts, or some video poker and foosball, and there’s certainly a singularly cheap beer and equally inviting beer and shot special. With patrons from all walks of life and varying levels of intoxication, there’s still some mystery and potential for chaos. I love that first drink as I settle into what hugs me like the warmth of home, complete with the freedom from any judgement.

That’s what really resonates with me, is the license you’re given at a good bar. You’re in a public setting, yet free to lose yourself or mingle with strangers without a whiff of conceit or retribution from those around you. In an ideal state you’re at the bar because you’re completely unencumbered, no obligations now or tomorrow, the only goal is finding the enjoyment behind the next drink. It is the pinnacle of self-indulgence, the ultimate freedom. But the strange beauty is that a bar is also a perfect place for the antithesis of that, a hideout to escape from the obligations you do have, when life it too overbearing.

The first bars I went to were in New Orleans and they represented that. I had next to no money, and that was enough for a good time at the places we frequented. They were old and in some phase of disrepair. They were also unwilling to change. They became my benchmark for a good bar, and it has yet to change.

Perhaps I’m chasing that high of some of my early and fondest bar experiences. In exploring new cities and their persistent watering holes, I’ve rediscovered that spark and gotten closer to recreating those barroom memories. Of course, replicating them can rarely be achieved. I’ve done it so many times now, the pure excitement of a bar has diminished, and I’m no longer in that state of freedom and bliss where no obligations exist. Now obligations always exist and fucking around for a few hours at a bar can result in a ripple effect that’s felt throughout the week. It’s just inevitable. Bars giveth, and they taketh away.

The morning after a night out I often feel some mix of self-loathing, anxiety, regret, and ambiguity hanging over me. This, despite not doing something embarrassing (which was a staple of my younger days). Running, in spite of those feelings, pushes my mind past them all and allows me to move through the day without the burden of unjust emotions. And although counterintuitive for many, it also eases much of the physical pain. But there is no cure for a hangover. The closest you’ll get comes in the form of hydration and exercise. And it’s remarkably effective, especially with food and a drink on the other side of it.

And that in turn keeps this cycle in perpetual motion. While I don’t recommend it for a permanent lifestyle, it provides the semblance of structure with a hint of well-being during what might otherwise be considered a bender. And in turn keeps me balanced and exploring as much as I can of our Second Rate Cities.

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