(Book-Cadillac Hotel, in the Day.)

Day three in Detroit marks the beginning of the season of discontent. The easy stuff has been done, the free parties are over, and the prospect of breaking it all down and heading on to the next thing looms.

My comrades were starting to fade, as was I, but there were a few things that still needed to be accomplished in this sad, wonderful old place that history has so wronged.

Truth be told, there is not much to do downtown that is not in Greektown or one of the three casinos. There are other things, but they are few and separated by blocks and blocks.

I glanced at my notes- I wanted to see the fabulous $200 restoration of the Book-Cadillac Hotel. And there was the matter of the competition between the American and Lafayette Coney Islands. I decided to not wait for anyone and just do it, which suited the mood. This far west in the Eastern Time Zone, the sun was just going down, the faint red rays still bathing the Financial District with light.

I grabbed a cap and asked for the Book-Cadillac from the Chaldean driver. I asked him if things were really starting to improve- there seemed to be things happening, and the Westin itself had only re-opened in 2008.

“No,” he said, “No change. Everything the same for the last three years.”
“It was Coleman Young who killed this town,” I said.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” He dropped me on Michigan Ave in front of the hotel, and I wandered in to take the escalator up to Registration. Aleysia was very kind, her dark eyes sparkling as she talked with pride about the place, and although there was a function in progress she directed me to the Venetian Ballroom on the fourth floor. I wanted to see it, because it was the wreckage of that room that made the Book-Cadillac one of the poster children for the abandonment of the city.

(The Motor Bar of the Book Cadillac. Photo Socotra.)

It looked great. I went back down the escalator, passing heroic sculpture, to the Motor Bar on the second floor and had a vodka to steel myself for the night. The temperature was plunging. The Capitols Hockey team was losing, and the television showed cold mist emerging from the mouth of the picture on the mound over at Commercia Park.

Michigan, I thought, back in Virginia the flowers are in full riot of color, and it is still winter here.

(Elegant modern sculpture in the equally elegant and totally refurbished Westin Book-Cadillac.)

I finished my drink when the Caps lost, and thanked the staff for their attention. They too were proud of their hotel, comparing number of rooms (500, down from 1,000 when built) and that it has been once the tallest hotel in the world.

That was a long time ago, though.

I was hoping to find the Coney Island Capital of the known universe, and that is how I found myself on an empty Michigan Avenue, in the dark, on foot, chilled to the bone, and wondering what the hell I was doing.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com