Afterwards we pick up some cold drinks and wander The Heidelburg Project, a mind-blowing site-specific installation by artist Tyee Guyson. Blight becomes beauty; art acts as catalyst for community, conversation and creativity.
At the Cass Cafe, we are treated to Beet And Berry Gazpacho, exquisite bathroom graffiti and VIP icepacks. Thanks, Sandy!
After this lovely interlude, it's off to the Hostel Detroit, the location Mike D's friend Lisa D (does everyone in this town have a last name beginning with "D"?) suggested for this evening's screening. I've heard Detroit described as "a Southern city in the North" and this little pocket of Corktown (the city's oldest neighborhood) certainly fills the bill... In the shadow of Michigan Central Station towering dark and vacant on the other side of the freeway, there is a real neighborhood here with well-kept homes and community gardens with bees and trees situated proudly amongst the empty lots and abandoned buildings. Dogs roam freely through twilight fields filled with wildflowers. Lisa D says a house in move-in condition in this area would run me somewhere in the $7,000 range. It seems unbelievable.
We set up in a big open grass field across from the Hostel Detroit and wonder who tonight's audience will be. Dave from the much loved and recently in limbo Burton Theater is here. Mike D and Lisa D are here. But who stays at a hostel in the hinterlands of a crumbling metropolis? Folks from Austria, Maryland, France, Russia and Texas, that's who. Folks who are on around-the-world trips, folks who are looking for a place to settle down, folks who fell in love along the way, folks who have Jack Kerouac fantasies of finding themselves on the road, folks who want to prove to the folks back home that Detroit is safe and welcoming to travelers. Several cyclists, out for their evening ride, are drawn to the light and join us as well.
The last member of our party tonight is another fellow from the neighborhood; let's call him "E." E tells us he buried his son three days ago and is looking to distract himself with some human interaction. He asks questions about the films, sings along during the musical portion of the evening (we dedicate a song to him and I believe I see him shed a tear during "You Are My Sunshine") and offers to help us pack up at the end of the night. Sweet man going through some hard times, we think as he ambles off into the night. After we arrive back in Ferndale, I realize my phone is missing from the place I left it on the dashboard of the bus. I search everywhere. No phone. The only person onboard that night besides Paolo, Mike D and me was E, for just a split second when he handed us a piece of equipment.
Paolo calls my phone. A man answers, barks "Wrong number!" and hangs up. Paolo calls again, introduces himself and explains the situation. On the other end, a fellow we'll call M says he just bought the phone for $50 because he's been "wanting one of these things for a long time" but, given the circumstances, he's willing to make a deal with us and return it. This is approximately 45 minutes after we said so long to E.
Suddenly we find ourselves starring in a Paul Thomas Anderson movie involving a three-year-old iPhone, the hottest night of the summer, a rolling blackout, two handsome Ferndale police officers, breast milk, intense negotiations and multiple locations, unmarked bills, the parking lot of a well-lit McDonald's, 8 Mile, a baseball bat and the phrase "We're cool here, right?" Suffice to say, adrenaline is running high. The upshot: an hour later, we are back on Mike D's porch, drinking Mexican cokes and downloading photos from my iPhone. As the handsome cops told me: Welcome to Detroit!
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