This Crusty City
Have you ever fallen under the spell of someone you never wanted to date? You know, that guy who had no social skills, an addiction to ranting, and a rusted-out 1978 Gremlin with imitation denim seat covers? No? Well, I have a history of periodic fascination with such thorny misfits, so I’m not sure why I’m so surprised to find myself engaged in a serious relationship with Cincinnati. I never liked this city. It always seemed such a grim place–dirty and neglected and backward, populated by loud, angry bigots and run by the bourgeoisie. When my husband took a job near here in 2005, I dragged my heels for a year before finally making the move–just months before the housing bubble burst, effectively evaporating any opportunity for a quick escape. I felt like a prisoner. I hated our house, hated our neighborhood, hated the litter and the pollution and the stink and the poverty and the radical conservativism that are a very real part of Cincinnati life. But, I also became a Saturday morning regular at Findlay Market. I joined the Mercantile Library, and began showing up at noon concerts, evening talks, and workshops in its lovely, bright space. I learned how to snake my way across town and through Eden Park to the Cincinnati Art Museum, up to Spring Grove Cemetery, and down to the Anderson Ferry for a quiet ride across the river. I began attending plays and gallery openings and concerts. Along with my husband and dogs, I found all of the best trails in Mt. Airy’s 1500 acres of woods and creeks and meadows, and put them into a nightly rotation of quiet walks. I found dozens of great bars and restaurants and some incredibly odd and interesting neighborhood joints and hangouts. I fell in love with Northside and Over-the-Rhine and Camp Washington and the crowded, rusted industria of the Mill Valley corridor. I dig the look of this place–its Italianate row houses, its ancient industrial backbone, its square-jawed urban architecture, its tree-covered hillsides and shining river. I’ve made friends, some of them native Cincinnatians who I now love like long-lost soulmates. I still dream of buying another home in the country, but I don’t want to give up my foothold in this funky, crusty city. I get it, when I talk with my friends who live in laid-back havens of liberal thought; I understand the appeal of being surrounded by people who pretty much look and think and act just like you do. But everyone can’t live in the Pacific Northwest or along the Hudson River, and there’s something to be said about digging for jewels, rather than having them lavished upon you. I may not spend my life with Cincinnati, but it’s taught me a lot about myself and about the fear and resentment and resilience of people struggling through a time of massive social change. Like every misfit boy I ever dated, there’s more to this place than you can know from casual observation–and a lot to love. I may not spend the rest of my life with Cincinnati, but if I leave, I’ll know just what I’m giving up.