Staff's Quarters

Rethinking lots of stuff...

Photo by Kayra Siddik on Unsplash

“You are going to love it!” my friend Sally said when I told her about my Airbnb in Detroit. “My favorite stays have been when Chris and I stay with the hosts. I can’t explain it, but it’s awesome.”

“Really?” I asked. I was about 15-20 minutes away from my destination and was feeling a little apprehensive, which is normal before I land in a new place. Although my tolerance for the unfamiliar has grown exponentially this year, coming into a new location and place to stay creates a little bit of anxiety. This was the first time staying in a shared space Airbnb—something new on top of all the other new stuff I have done this year with new variables. Sally’s comment made me feel better. A little.

“Really,” Sally added. “Chris would agree. We always had the best time!”

I hung up and navigated the freeway offramps and streets until I found my Airbnb on Grand Avenue in the Islandview neighborhood of Detroit. I had never been in this part of town. I chose it because I wanted to see what it was like and check out the new Riverfront and Belle Isle. I need to land in a place where I can walk and walk and walk, and this seems to have that potential. Not to mention, I felt like I needed to give my brother and his family some space. I would be over there for Thanksgiving and cooking leading up to the big feast, but some space would be good.

I parked my car in front of the large Tudor house that matched the Airbnb description and made my way up to the front door. I unlocked the lockbox attached to a post on the front porch per my instructions and unlocked the front door. As soon as I put my key in the lock, I heard the barking of Stella. My hosts warned me that she would bark, eventually calm down, and was harmless.

The small entryway opened into a large room that could have been a time capsule except for the flat-screen TV in the corner. I was greeted by Elena, who was holding a baby.

“Welcome,” Elena said. She was beaming, holding her baby close, and moving with the subtle bounce/rock ubiquitous for infants' parents. It must be working since he seemed unphased by Stella’s barking. “This is Phillip,” she said, her face beaming even more as she turned her body so I could see her son.

“He’s adorable,” I said. He was. A perfect little three-month-old, looking around with big eyes and a curiosity that reminded me of my son at that age.

Just then, Devin emerged. He, like the room, looked just like the Airbnb profile. This was comforting. Nothing like the disappointment of the pictures not matching reality. So far so good.

“Hello, I’m Kristine,” I put out my hand to shake his.

“Welcome,” he said. “Your room is this way.” He motioned toward a grand staircase, the likes of which I have rarely seen outside a tour or in a period drama. It was wide and interesting, with carved details that wouldn’t ever show up in modern construction. I took the first flight up onto a large landing where more period furniture lived, and I felt for a moment like I was in a movie—the wide-eyed ingénue looking around with wonder at her new digs. This house was cool!

The second floor was where this family lived, and I tried not to rubber neck into their room or the baby’s room too much, but it was hard not to sneak a glance. A fireplace with a beautiful mantle in what was certainly Elena and Devin’s room caught my eye, and the details of the wooden molding in Phillip’s room also made me look.

“Up this way,” Devin motioned to a straight, much narrow staircase up onto the third floor. He led the way, and I followed.

Devin opened the door into a large bedroom furnished with a desk, wardrobe, a comfy-looking bed, two chairs, and an old radio that looked like the kind that people would gather around when FDR was giving his fireside chats. Cozy. Comfy. My home for the next 6 days.

“Just let us know if you need anything,” Devin said.

“Thank you,” I replied. “This is perfect.”

And it was. Sally was right.

Devin and Elena had included a brief history of the place on a bulletin board along with different postcards and stamps for their guests. Books on Detroit and its history were placed around the room, offering me lots of options to familiarize myself with my temporary home. It was evident that this couple loved their city as much as their home.

As I suspected, their writeup on the history of the place stated that this room was most likely the staff’s quarters at one time. Made sense. The staircase up to this floor could be hidden by a door at the bottom. It was functional, not grand, and this room was its own little oasis. Very different feel than the rest of the house.

In the past, when I have toured old houses built by Gilded Age Tech Bros like Vanderbilt, Frick, and Dupont, the staff’s quarters are usually part of the deal. Tour guides point out the sparse accommodations. The fact that they were removed from the rest of the house and that these rooms were more than adequate to accommodate meager possessions that could also fit into a medium-sized carpet bag. The contrast of the rooms speaks to immense wealth disparity and power imbalances and operates under the assumption that more is better. I remember looking at the uncomfortable cots and wardrobes at places like The Biltmore and feeling sorry for whoever lived in one of these rooms. Certainly, their life was lacking. How could life be fulfilling if all that one had fit into a tiny room?

Part of my intention for staying in a different part of Detroit, besides giving my brother and his family a break from playing host to my peripatetic butt, was to explore if different parts of the city spoke to me. Whether I like it or not, Detroit keeps pulling me back. Not with Michael Corleone in Godfather III pulling me back intensity, but something keeps nudging me to give Detroit another chance. There are lots of logical reasons for me to settle longer term in Detroit—family, work connections, familiarity, a good airport, friends close by—but I threw out logic somewhere between Indianapolis and Santiago de Compostela. Was something else at play?

Detroit is experiencing a resurgence. And as I walked from my Airbnb down Grand Avenue to Belle Isle and the Detroit Riverfront, that resurgence was palpable and evident. Tyvek covers buildings undergoing renovations, work crews are out early in the cold fall air, and houses along Grand Avenue that were all vacant when Devin and Elena bought their home 7 years ago are occupied. Change is happening.

The Detroit Riverfront is lovely. On a crisp Sunday morning, I was astounded at how many boats were out on the water. I wondered what it looked like in July. I crossed the bridge into Belle Isle and was greeted with natural beauty and echoes of what was certainly a grand past. The park was designed by Central Park architect Fredrick L. Olmsted and has an aquarium, conservatory (an obligatory feature for anything designed during this era, it seems), statues, and playgrounds. The Belle Isle Boathouse lives close to the bridge and is home to the oldest rowing club in North America, according to their website—The Detroit Boat Club Crew. Trust me, if I end up here, I will be joining them. Cyclists, joggers, dog walkers, and lots of goose poop peppered the walking trails and streets. It was nice. Peaceful. Beautiful. Serene.

Elena recommended that I walk over to The Red Hook in the West Village, so I did. This six-block span seemed to be a microcosm of the city as a whole. New construction popped up next to vacant lots. Abandoned homes showcase early 1900s beautiful craftsmanship and brickwork that implore someone to lovingly restore them, as Devin and Elena have done with their home. A church on Kercheval has a food pantry that was active every time I walked by. People dropped off produce and canned goods and baby supplies; others received the generosity of their fellow community members.

A dog park/bar lives on the corner of Kercheval and Van Dyke, and on a Sunday mid-morning, the big outdoor space was filled with people in their 20s and 30s with their fur babies and sometimes human babies in Baby Bjorn-type carriers. No doubt, it is the kind of place I would have brought my dogs and then infants back in the day. I didn’t see any solo middle-aged women in the mix. Not our kind of place anymore.

I walked into The Red Hook on Agnes in West Village and was greeted by a warm staff. I got my chocolate croissant and latte for here because hey, one never knows what’s going to happen in a coffee shop. The crowd was eclectic, including what appeared to be an unhoused man about my age, who was enjoying the warmth and some coffee and had his possessions in bags next to him on the bench and under the small table. He greeted me with a smile and a nod. I returned the gesture. The other tables were filled with people younger than us--friends, couples, and young families out on a Sunday morning. I ate my croissant and sipped my coffee slowly, trying not to rush through it, reminding myself I didn’t need to be anywhere else. Everyone seemed at home.

I spent Thanksgiving Day at my brother’s place, enjoying the food and company of my nephews, sister-in-law, my brother, and their neighbors from across the street. The food was excellent. I wrestled some kitchen time away from my brother and made our mother’s roasted red pepper soup, and we all watched the Lions almost blow a decent halftime lead over the Bears. Phew. I FaceTimed with my kids and did an inventory of all that I am thankful for. The list is long. Overall, a great day.

I left for Pittsburgh the day after Thanksgiving and am writing this from there. I have returned to the apartment beneath the one I rented in July, so things feel familiar. More on that later.

What keeps drawing me back to Detroit? I don’t know yet. Certainly, I love the idea of a comeback and a community coming together to create something beautiful and sustainable from what was once seen as ruined. I love that people are investing and are excited and looking forward. I love that new is emerging from the rubble. These are things I want to get behind and be a part of.

Last winter, when I was unsure how I was going to navigate the upcoming months, a friend said, “You can’t rebuild your life. It’s on the floor in a million little pieces.” The moment she said that I felt something in me relax and make space. She was right. I couldn’t rebuild. There were too many pieces to pick up and glue together. “You need to stomp on that glass until it becomes sand, plant some seeds, and see what comes up.” A part of me already knew that and didn’t want to rebuild. A part of me knew I needed something new.

Months later, I feel little shoots take root. Like when grade schoolers plant a dried bean in a Styrofoam cup, water it, and wait for something to happen. It’s happening. The little sprigs haven’t differentiated into their particular plant yet, but something is emerging.

There have been shifts inside me that I could not have orchestrated or would have even necessarily wanted. My tolerance for outside discomfort is huge and is almost inconsequential when it comes to my happiness; my tolerance for crap is less than it ever has been. It is clear which relationships I want to put energy into; I am letting others fall away. I am more likely to take a risk for something I want; I am less likely to do something solely to please another. I am more likely to see the benefits of being in the staff’s quarters; I am less likely to equate having less with lack.

Like Detroit, I’m a work in progress.