An American Abroad

Detroit: The Hipsters Move to Corktown

There are signs of an artist/hipster presence in Detroit’s Corktown neighborhood. Near Michigan Central Station, some abandoned buildings have been painted up and turned into giant urban canvases.

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Other buildings show signs of being brought back to life, albeit slowly.

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There’s a cool bicycle shop and several new bars and cafes near the station, as well as a redeveloped commercial district designed to appeal to the lovers of vintage watering holes.

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And then there are some businesses that look like they’ve been there for decades.

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It’s easy — chic, even — to deride the hipsters who have settled in Detroit in the last six years. But it’s almost always a cheap shot and seems more aimed at their sartorial and tonsorial choices than at their values. Their critics also tend toward stereotype; not every dude in a pork-pie hat, horn-rims, and a goatee drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon is a pretentious jerk. Yes, hipster disposable income and insistence on certain amenities drive local rents up and may displace longtime residents. But if the alternative is keeping rents low while the neighborhood crumbles and dies, then I’ll give at least two cheers for a hipster influx.

Detroit: We Did It to Ourselves

Detroit’s Michigan Central Station is now an American icon, a metaphor for the ruination of American industry and the hollowing out of once-vital American cities. Its very existence is commentary on our current inability to construct buildings that are grand, beautiful, or even functional. In his essay “Detroitism,” John Patrick Leary wrote:

The station is the Eiffel Tower of ruin photography and probably Detroit’s most recognizable modern monument other than the downtown Renaissance Center complex, as shown by the hobbyist and professional photographers who descend upon it on every sunny day. An imposing, neoclassical behemoth even in life, the windowless station has become a melancholy symbol of the city’s transformation in death.

The first view I got of it yesterday was from an elevated highway. From that vantage, I could see through the building from front to back. Light streamed through the ruin unimpeded by office furniture, walls, or workers. One might have thought it was a Potemkin building, a grand edifice thrown up to impress visiting dignitaries as they drive by in air conditioned comfort. But as I stood on the street directly in front of the station, it became clear that this was no two-dimensional facade, but a very real place where real people had worked, a place of heft and substance that had been allowed to fall into ruin.

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The placement of a new American flag in front of the station puzzled me. Was it supposed to instill pride? To symbolize determination in the face of adversity? Or, as Leary might suggest, to commemorate America’s new national monument?

As I looked at my photo, I recalled another photo, one I did not take:

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That image of the American flag planted amid the ruins of the World Trade Center, backed by strong vertical lines, always seemed to me to be an expression of perseverance, national unity, and determination to wreak vengeance on the men who destroyed the twin towers.

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But here, the men who eviscerated American industry and gutted our cities were not foreign terrorists. Pace Walt Kelly, we did this to ourselves.

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Inside the shell of the building, a handful of workers were engaged in labor whose purpose was obscure to me. It didn’t seem to be restoration or renovation. Perhaps they were securing the structure against trespassers. For their own safety, of course.

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Roosevelt Park sprawls in front of the ruins. A group of elementary-age kids sat in a semicircle under a tree, presumably getting instruction of some kind. The scene was almost pastoral. And it called to mind yet another image, Giovanni Paolo Panini’s painting of Apostle Paul Preaching on the Ruins:

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I didn’t get close enough to hear what was being preached to the children in the shadow of the derelict Michigan Central Station. I think I was afraid to listen.

Using Divvy Bikes to See Chicago

One of the cool things about Chicago is its network of 476 24/7 bicycle rental stations spread out across the city. Divvy Bikes are purpose-built, durable, three-speed machines. No one is going to confuse them with speedy road bikes, but they are serviceable and well-maintained.

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Their special bike racks feature a small solar panel tower, a credit card reader, and a small touch screen to set up your bicycle rental.

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I used Divvy Bikes to ride from Hyde Park along a zig-zaggy route north to the Adler Planetarium, a distance of about eight miles. I wasn’t in a particular hurry and hopped off the bike from time to time to admire the lakefront view and take photos.

While it was great to have a bicycle to tool around on in Chicago, Divvy’s fee structure makes their bikes a less than optimal choice for someone like me who wants to take his time to see the city from a bicycle seat. The headline rental price is just $7 a day for unlimited use, but there is a BIG catch. You have to check your bike into a Divvy station every 30 minutes. You can check it in and take it right out again (though this is something of a hassle), but if you ride for longer than 30 minutes without returning it to a station, 1) you get charged additional fees of at least $3, and 2) you have your 24 hour usage rights cancelled, which means you have to pony up another $7. For a traveler like me without a set route, it was annoying to check a bike out, meander for 15 minutes, and then spend the next 15 minutes frantically trying to reach another Divvy station so as to avoid extra charges. For commuters with regular routes, this wouldn’t be a big factor, but for me it was. I felt rushed and anxious.

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All this being said, Divvy Bikes can be a good way for a traveler to get around Chicago, but only if you plan your route carefully before setting out and stay cognizant of the time elapsed between stations. For people with a daily commute, though, Divvy Bikes are a very viable alternative to public transit and private vehicles.

Nicaragua 2008: Down the Rio San Juan from San Carlos to El Castillo

Following our miserable night on the Lake Nicaragua ferry, we arrived in San Carlos, a town our guidebook charitably described as “scummy.” Situated on the southeastern tip of the lake not far from the Costa Rican border, San Carlos indeed seemed to have nothing whatsoever to recommend it, except for its being situated at the source of the Rio San Juan.

As I shivered in the pre-dawn light and made inquiries about a boat heading downriver to El Castillo, Spencer set off in search of coffee. He brought back two small paper cups of watery lukewarm Nescafé into which had been poured several heaping tablespoons of sugar. It was vile, but I drank it anyway. It did nothing for my chilled, sleep-depraved state.

We found out that we could get passage aboard a riverboat that would leave in several hours. With nothing to recommend San Carlos to us, we made for the nearest hostelry we could find in hopes of getting a morning nap.

I don’t know the name of the place we stayed. I don’t know if it had a name. But it was as scummy as the rest of the town, complete with damp dirty beds, insects, and river-rot. It was built up on stilts over a filthy stagnant stream that slithered into the river at some point.

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It was actually colorful and cheerful-looking, so long as you didn’t peer too closely. Of course, we arrived on wash day; the clothes hanging everywhere hid things that I’d just as soon not see.

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Our room had a Sandanista slogan painted on its door.

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I slept fitfully, occasionally wondering what I had gotten myself and my son into.

We were here:

Near noon, we checked out and went back to the docks. Along with a couple dozen other passengers, 300 cases of beer, sacks of mail, some chickens, sheep, and a goat, we boarded the riverboat.

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At the appointed time, we shoved off and headed down the river and into the jungle.

We passed by jungle hamlets here and there, places marked by a dock and a few wooden buildings, but without roads. At some of them, we stopped to drop off a passenger or two, some beer, and a sack of mail.

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The day turned to night and we continued on, more slowly though. The boat’s searchlights cut a sliver of visibility down the river, but otherwise everything was black on both banks.

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It grew late. Finally, after about fifty miles, our destination was announced: El Castillo. The boat docked and we stepped out onto a dock shrouded in darkness. We could see no artificial lights anywhere. We struggled to get our luggage together in total blackness. We were here:

We wandered around until we heard the thrum of a generator and saw a few gleams of light coming from a two-story building with porches up and down on the front. It seemed to be a guesthouse of some sort, so we knocked. A middle-aged woman answered and answered yes to our question about beds for the night. We were delighted. She then led us up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, and out to the porch, where two hammocks hung from the porch beams.

Spencer and I looked at each other, unsure and disappointed. But then the woman let loose a deep laugh — just kidding! — and led us back into the hallway and into a dorm-style room with real beds. Maybe showing us the hammocks first was just clever product positioning on her part, because by the time we got into our spare but clean bedroom, I was incredibly grateful just to have a mattress under my body, a comforter draped over me, and a roof over my head.

I fell asleep almost immediately, wondering what the jungle would have in store for us come the morning.

Nicaragua 2008: A Most Uncomfortable Night

After three days at the luxurious Hotel Colonial in comfortable Granada, it was time for us to begin the second phase of our journey. Our plan was to get a ferry across Lake Nicaragua to San Carlos. There I would walk around the docks til we found a boat going down the Rio San Juan, talk or bribe ourselves aboard, and head out to the jungle settlement of El Castillo. This required a leap of faith on my part. I didn’t know for sure whether we could find a river boat — do you just hail them like taxis? — but I told myself that the last thing I wanted was a Cook’s tour where everything was precisely planned.

Little did I know that finding a boat going to El Castillo would be easy, but that passage aboard the ferry crossing the lake would be a very uncomfortable affair.

We found the lake dock in Granada from which the ferry departed and bought our tickets. I’d read that it was advisable to pay a little extra to get a spot on the upper deck of the ferry and to string a hammock there. I had no problem paying for a place on the upper deck, but in a fit of senseless economizing, I bought only ONE hammock.

What was I thinking?

I guess I figured that I would find a place to sit or lie somewhere on the ferry and that I would let my son luxuriate in the hammock. There had to be chairs, right? And probably an enclosed cabin to escape the elements in?

But no. There were no chairs, benches, or other accommodations. No cabins. Just steel deck-plating. We tied our lone hammock between a mast and a wall cleat and began the overnight lake crossing.

At first, it was pretty nice. We were thrilled to pass within sight of Concepción, the world’s most perfectly formed volcano, on the Isla de Ometepe.

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The afternoon sun still warmed our bones. Spencer read Heart of Darkness as he swayed in the hammock. We looked down — literally, that is — at all the people on the lower deck trying to find a place to sit where they would be sheltered from the sea spray amid the bicycles, motorcycles, and other cargo.

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We congratulated ourselves on the decision to buy upper-deck tickets. We saw people on our deck laying down and it really didn’t look so bad.

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Many of our deck-mates strung up hammocks and looked quite comfortable in them.

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Others on our deck found places to sit: not chairs, of course, but better than the metal deck plate.

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The sunset on the lake was so beautiful that at first I didn’t feel the approaching evening chill.

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Ah, novice-traveler hubris. By the time darkness fell, we were both getting cold. The steel deck seemed to suck the heat right out of my body. Although we weren’t getting drenched, we shivered in the mist thrown up by the boat as it plowed through the waves. By midnight I felt chilled to the bone, damp, tired, and miserable. I did take turns with my son in our one hammock, which gave some respite, but I felt so guilty about making him sleep on the deck plate that I took most of the time there.

From this wretched, sleepless night, I learned that you can never be too hot out on the deck of a boat at night. The lesson etched itself deeply into my mental library of travel wisdom. In later experiences with nighttime boat rides — for instance, my trip up the Ganges River in Bangladesh aboard a paddlewheel ferry — I made sure to pack warmer clothes.

And if I ever travel across a body of water with a companion, I will be sure to buy two hammocks.

Nicaragua 2008: The Perfection of Granada

Granada is located along the coast of the Lake Nicaragua, the world’s twentieth largest lake. It was founded in 1524 by Francisco Hernández de Córdoba, and claims to be the first European city on mainland America. In the first centuries after its founding, the city was witness to and victim of many of the battles with English, French and Dutch pirates for control of Nicaragua.

In more recent times, though, Granada avoided most of the violence of the aftermath of the Sandinista revolution in the 1970s and ’80s. Back in 2008, I found a city that had managed to preserve and restore much of its Spanish colonial architecture and its pleasing public streets and squares. I’m not alone in this observation. The story is told that when Pope John Paul II visited Granada, he was so charmed by the town that he told the people not to change a thing.

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When we first encountered this bandstand in a public park, it was empty as you see it here.

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But the next time we happened by, it was mobbed with people. A band played. Different couples took turns dancing in front of the crowd, not so much to show off hot dance moves as to have their time in the limelight. The audience approved.

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We headed down to Lake Nicaragua, not so much because we wanted to beach it, but because we wanted to scope out where we would be catching the ferry across the lake. It being a holiday weekend, many people were heading out for some sun and swimming.

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Nicaragua 2008: Granada Signs

Looking back at my photos from this 2008 trip, I can see the beginnings of the same fascinations that still characterize my travel photography. Signs and graffiti, to name two.

Some of the signs for professional offices had a beautiful, simple elegance about them.

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Others were cheerfully cluttered with text and gave me the impression that you could obtain any kind of service within.

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And then there was this sign for a fried chicken joint, which amused me every time I passed by.

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I’m not sure, but I think this was a little love poem, a declaration of affection for one lucky Dario. But maybe some of my more fluent Spanish-speaking readers can set me straight.

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There were a lot of political murals and signs. And many, but not all, of them were in support of Daniel Ortega’s Sandinista party.

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This, below, was a popular political sentiment at the time. Still is.

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Nicaragua 2008: Good Friday Parade

As night fell on our first day in Granada, we heard the sounds of a crowd and the buzz of a small engine coming from the street. I grabbed my camera and went out to see. The streets were aswarm with people. Considering their numbers, though, it was a pretty quiet affair. A long line of people passed quietly by us.

We saw the focal point of the evening toward the end of the subdued parade line. A wood and glass coffin, surrounded by flowers, was being carried atop a cart. The coffin was lit by spotlights powered by a portable gasoline-powered generator, which was sitting on another cart riding behind. Inside the coffin was a female department store mannequin which had been, shall we say, repurposed to resemble the popular image of Jesus: soft features, long curly locks, beard, white skin, and an almost effeminate countenance. Compounding the androgynous appearance was the fact that the figure was wearing a white lacy skirt. His (her?) body was streaked with blood-red gashes. Behind the coffin were two angels and a large cross draped with white linen.

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Not having been raised in a Catholic neighborhood, I wasn’t sure what was going on at first. Then it clicked with me that this was Good Friday, a holiday about which I had only a dim secular humanist awareness and understanding. I soon figured out that this parade was a reenactment of Jesus’ burial. I wasn’t sure what was cool to do. Could I join in the parade? Could I take pictures? I didn’t want to piss anyone off on my first night in Nicaragua, so for the most part I stood curbside and watched.

I was struck by the immediacy of the proceedings. This was not the abstract American Jesus; this was a bloody, mutilated likeness. It was the barbarous act of crucifixion made real. It wasn’t a priest saying “Jesus suffered and died”; it was showing, not telling. My son and I appeared to be the only gringos in the crowd. I felt privileged to be there.

Later that evening, when Spencer and I ventured out for a beer, we saw this figure (Mary? a local saint?) apparently waiting to be seated at the café.

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Strange big-headed blow-up dolls also circulated among the throngs of Good Friday celebrants.

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The religious procession by this point had given way to more secular concerns of eating, drinking, and relaxing. Strolling musicians came by and parked at our table for awhile.

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Tired from our travels, but feeling delighted and welcomed by the parade we had just witnessed, we then returned to the hotel and a sound night’s sleep.

Nicaragua 2008: Arrival in Granada

I traveled to Nicaragua in 2008 with my son, Spencer. It was my ur-trip, the experience that formed the template of much travel to come:

  • A faintly exotic destination that had experienced civil war in living memory
  • A mixture of luxury digs and down-and-dirty hostels
  • A stay in a town noted for its architecture, followed by a trip into the countryside

I’ve since taken this kind of trip over and over since then. But back in 2008, it was all new to me. I’d never traveled in the developing world before. I had a little Nikon point-and-shoot (my first digital camera) the I scarcely knew how to use. I had a plan I’d cobbled together from travel magazines, back when such publications were printed on dead tree media. I remember that I was so anxious and excited that I hardly slept the night before we left.

Since that trip seven years ago, Spencer and I have taken two other journeys together, one through Vietnam and the other through Morocco. As he moved into adulthood and independence, I wondered how we would relate to each other. Travel, I’ve discovered, bonds us as adults, further deepening my appreciation of fatherhood. I’ve learned to rely on him, something that was a little difficult for me, since I can’t quite shake the old parental habit of thinking of him as a mere kid sometimes.

Back in 2008, flew to Managua, waded through the dozens of touts at the airport, and selected one who drove us in a van to Granada. It was about an hour away. We checked into the Hotel Colonial, a small but beautiful hotel built around a courtyard with an inviting pool and large-leafed tropical plants.

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We were here:

After resting up, we set out to explore Granada.

Advice to a Foreign Traveler Visiting America

I connected on Twitter recently with Joanna Bieleń woman from Stalowa Wola, Poland who, like me, has traveled some but wants to do more.

(By the way, if you’re not following me on Twitter, you should. My feed centers on travel and living abroad.)

Joanna and I were chatting about our travels when she asked me a great question: “What are your favourite places in the USA? It is really interesting for me. My passion is tourism, culture and history.” As we chatted further, she clarified that she was interested in the lesser-known American destinations.

I accepted Joanna’s challenge, put on my thinking cap, and came up with my own best-of-list. My selections are based on personal visits to each of the places I recommend. Like all such lists, it reflects the interests and biases of the person who wrote it. I like a to see a mix of big, medium, and small cities and rural locations. I’ve included several towns associated with excellent colleges and universities; I find college towns to be vibrant and interesting, though others might disagree. I’ve tried to include a representative sample of American regions and cultures. And I’ve tried to avoid the obvious; no one needs me to tell them that New York and the Grand Canyon are amazing places.

The pictures here are not mine and are believed to be either in the public domain or used under license.

Here, then, is my list for Joanna — and for anyone else who wants to see a good variety of the USA.

Vermont

Surely a candidate for America’s most beautiful state, Vermont is located in New England, the oldest corner of the country.

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The rolling green hills and well-tended farms make for pleasant driving, biking, and motorcycling. All of the best aspects of New England are on display here among the locals: flinty self-reliance, supportive communities, common sense, tolerance for the occasional eccentric, and an appreciation for the land and its beauty. Fall is the best time to visit; the trees flame red and gold all over the hills and valleys.


Ithaca, New York

Ithaca is an old city of 30,000 people located in a beautiful part of upstate New York.

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For years now, the city has promoted itself with the tagline “Ithaca is gorges,” which puns on the similarity of the word “gorgeous” and the word “gorges.” It’s an apt slogan, since outdoor recreation opportunities abound there. The town is located at the tip of one of the Finger Lakes. Parts of Ithaca appear to have been literally carved out of the nearby granite cliffs. There is a sense there of something very old, unquestionably American, and faintly mysterious. Though Ithaca is a small town, it’s got a vibrant cultural and intellectual life, thanks to the presence of Cornell University, an Ivy League college.


Chicago, Illinois

Although Chicago is America’s third most populous city, it’s sometimes overlooked by foreign tourists who focus on the Atlantic and Pacific coasts.

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Its downtown is far more concentrated and architecturally distinguished than Los Angeles, and its streets are broader and have a more muscular feel than those of New York. Chicago feels more livable than either of those coastal cities and its people have a midwestern down-to-earth attitude that is sometimes in short supply on the ocean coasts. It has many distinguished universities, great shopping areas, lots of parks, a rich architectural heritage, and a wealth of cultural and athletic activities. For those reasons and more, Chicago is my favorite of America’s ten largest cities.


Iowa City, Iowa

When you’re in Iowa City, you’re definitely in what Americans confusingly call “the midwest” (even though much of it is located in the eastern half the country).

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Some people cynically refer to the American midwest as “flyover country,” suggesting that there is no reason to actually touch down there. Those people, though, have obviously not been to Iowa City. It’s a university town, home to the highly-regarded University of Iowa and the celebrated Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Bricks laid into some of the sidewalks there bear the signatures of some of the many great writers who have passed through that program. The university’s presence has also brought banking, high-tech, and educational publishing/testing companies to town, giving the place a hip, intelligent, prosperous feel. There’s plenty for a traveler to do by way of attending concerts, plays and lectures, going shopping, and cycling around town.


Eureka Springs, Arkansas

Eureka Springs is in the south, but not entirely of it.

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It’s a small town in the Ozark Mountains that’s unlike anything else in Arkansas. Originally built as a spa town for the movers and shakers of the late 19th century, Eureka Springs has quaint old mountain Victorian houses and grand hotels. No two streets run parallel or intersect at right angles. While this part of the country is generally very conservative and traditional, Eureka Springs has attracted an outsized share of LGBT people, artists, and other free spirits. For those more religiously inclined, there is the beautiful contemporary glass-and-wood Thorncrown Chapel set into the woods nearby. Sitting in its pews feels almost like sitting alone in the forest in the presence of the divine.


New Orleans, Louisiana

New Orleans is one of a kind.

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Alhough it has a different culture, heritage, legal system, and accent from the rest of the United States, some of America’s most famous contributions to world culture come from the city they call The Big Easy. You can still hear traditional jazz at the Preservation Hall, dig the roots of blues on almost every street corner, and dance to authentic zydeco just a few miles out of town. Gumbo, jambalaya, voodoo, ghost stories, mardi gras, musical funerals, and every manner of intoxicating spirits known to humankind all mix together in the city they call The Big Easy. There is no other city in America remotely like it.


Austin, Texas

Austin is the capital of Texas, but it’s much more than that.

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Austin is home to a fabulous music scene, including the Austin City Limits Festival and the South by Southwest music and film festival. Music pervades the city. The airport there is the only airport I have ever been to where there are live musicians playing. Eccentricity is not just tolerated — it is officially encouraged with the same of “Keep Austin Weird!” t-shirts and paraphernalia. Though much of Texas is a very conservative place, Austin (like Eureka Springs and Iowa City) is far more progressive than the state to which it belongs.


Taos, New Mexico

Taos, a small city in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of northern New Mexico, has been home to many artists and writers who are drawn there by the brilliant blue skies, the dry desert climate, and the artful buildings and design of the old pueblo there.

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Home to such artists and writers as Dennis Hopper, Georgia O’Keeffe, D.H. Lawrence, Mark Rothko, Aldous Huxley, and Ansel Adams, Taos surely has more art galleries per capita than almost anywhere else in the world. There is a thriving art colony there that continues to draw creative people to this unique American community. Hiking, skiing and river rafting also attract their share visitors. Taos Pueblo, the Native American village that adjoins the town, is a UNESCO World Heritage site noted for being “a remarkable example of a traditional type of architectural ensemble from the pre-Hispanic period of the Americas and unique to this region which has successfully retained most of its traditional forms to the present day. Thanks to the determination of the latter-day Native American community, it appears to be successfully resisting the pressures of modern society.”


Ouray, Colorado

Ouray is comprised of elegant mountain Victorian buildings nestled among the San Juan Mountains in southwestern Colorado.

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This is one of the most beautiful places in the American west. The mountains surrounding the town are visible in all their grandeur everywhere you look. Like Eureka Springs, it was originally built as a hot springs spa town, but today is better known for its variety of outdoor recreation activities, from skiing to cycling to hiking to hot air ballooning. The people there seemed almost unnaturally fit. The political culture is generally liberal, but with more than a dash of libertarian don’t-tell-me-what-to-do rebelliousness.


Portland, Oregon

Thanks in part to the popular Portlandia television show, Portland is experiencing a wave of hipster chic in the US today.

Portland

Portland a medium-sized city that is home to a number of craft breweries, mild weather, strip joints, bike paths, and food trucks selling chow from every corner of the globe. There’s a strong ecological consciousness there at both the personal and governmental levels. There’s also a quirky intellectualism about the town, a larger-scale version of Reed College, the academically intense and socially eclectic liberal arts college that’s located in one of the residential neighborhoods. Foodies will enjoy Portland for its culinary adventuresomeness and variety, while readers will want to spend a full day in Powell’s Books, one of the world’s largest used bookstores. The town is handsome, but not stunningly beautiful. Beauty, though is provided courtesy of nature and the Cascade Mountains that rise above the valley where the city sits.