Inspirations from East town, Grand Rapids:
Residential: Imagine a place that has twisting, hilly streets laid with cobbles and lined with aging trees. These trees watch while children play hopscotch on the sidewalk below and, if the knobby oaks are lucky, an adventurous child (away from parental view) may make their way up the old yet sturdy pulp. The wonder of the shade comes close only to the wonder of an orange popsicle on these hot summer days, but the possibilities of this tree reach much further than the sticky mess of a frozen treat. The joy of a popsicle lasts only until ingestion, but the trees will stand there, day after day, ready to make a pirate ship out of a large limb or a wood world known only to those who have the right password and the right currency.
Restaurant(al): A few blocks from this place, a couple eats breakfast that looks like sunshine. Simple ingredients are fine for most restaurants, but this one uses something out of the ordinary to feed its guests. This place creates dishes (not bakes or broils or fries, but creates) not for the love of money but for the love of food and community. Over their last sips of hazelnut coffee, tastes of a magical breakfast dance in the bellies of the young lovers as ease dances in their hearts.
Fundamental: Just a skip away from the laundromat (which is equipped with giant rotating fans that could provide an airplane with lift-off and an oversized black labrador with the nicest disposition in all of Grand Rapids) is the local Farmer's Market. Inhabitants of the area flock here, finding gems as small as blueberries and as bright as sunflowers and, knowing they've helped their neighbors, leave with smiles and satisfaction and baskets full of goods.
Essential: In this moment, I find myself enjoying my umpteenth cup of magnificent coffee with the sounds of motown wafting through the bean-filled air. This tea/coffeehouse is hipster heaven, with racks of off-the-beaten-path periodicals and enough lit-up Macbook apples to light a small home. Two men sit to my left wearing wingtip shoes and bowler hats but they only have enough money to drink the free cups of water. I feel oddly at home here, with the poor yet fashionable outcasts, willing to invest more in art and music than in food (which is why so many of us are vegetarians). And, when we do find some spare change, we spend it on coffee, the perfect appetite suppressant and bitter yet smooth, just the oxymoron we were looking for.
Conclusion(al): The truth is, I've felt at home in all of the places I've described above, a rarity for a Traverse City native (one who has felt out of place since she left for college three years ago). I suppose it is a rarity for anyone to start to feel at home any place that isn't where they grew up. But, I am growing accustomed to these uneven roads, the cobbles concaving and convexing alongside my feelings of displacement yet comfort...
...just the oxymoron I was looking for.
