Let me tell you a story of my experiences in suburbia. One year, I had really terrible vision and my mother had refused to get me new glasses under the (terribly misguided) assumption that if I just stared at trees for long enough, my vision would recover. Well, for a year, it did not recover. In fact, it did quite the opposite. But in that year of consistently blurry vision, the world was a beautiful place. Suburbia was a beautiful place. Everything resembled some brilliant stroke of impressionism.
Then, my mother finally accepted the reality of my deteriorating vision. Naturally, the concern came when my grades began to drop because I was having problems seeing the chalkboard clearly. Nothing like academics to finally procure contact lenses that actually fit my prescription. But once I had restored vision, the world suddenly looked like a very different and a far uglier place. I began to notice that all of the houses in my development looked identical, and particularly angular. The trees were the worst infraction. Before, they had seemed so majestic, so flowing with color and beauty. Now, they just looked dinky.
This anecdotal experience (complete with the crazy parental assumptions and all) summarizes the journey of my regard for suburbia. I’m not some hater just for the sake of hating. I’m reasonable. But I can say this, I am happy to leave it behind.
And let me just be clear, I’m leaving it behind for Detroit. We’re not talking about glamorous penthouses (though they do exist here) or streets buzzing with activity at night, or even walkability! We’re talking about a sheer love for cities.