My friend flew in from New York just this past week. She's from the area, lived in Ferndale, dated me when I lived in Hamtramck and she was looking for some lunch.

"I want dill pickle soup," she said to me over the phone.

We went to the Polish Village. It was during the lunch rush.  The place was filled.

However, before we walked through the door, down the steps and through the other door, the first thing I noticed was the parking lot – that huge, underused parking lot. Remember that thing? It's pretty much always empty. It was that one that was such an issue with the restaurant people. It's that parking lot that, according to some, would be eaten up by the Aldi development, stealing the spaces like a thief in the night and reducing business just as quick. Well, that parking lot was, maybe, a third full during the lunch rush. From what I saw, as far as I can tell, and I've always believed this, there won't be a problem with spaces.

Besides, no one likes to pay the parking meter anyway. I'd rather walk two blocks then drop a quarter in any meter – and I do.

Anyway...

We made it in. There was a rolling mumble of a filled restaurant in the air and the sound clinking silverware on ceramic swooped in every five seconds.


I ordered the Polish plate and ate most of it. She got the same and ate half.

"I want to see Hamtramck Disney Land before I go," she said to me as we walked the two blocks back to her car. We parked two blocks away because, as I stated earlier, I refuse to pay for a meter.

Hamtramck Disneyland, you know about that. That piece of art that joins two housing lots with men-shaped wooden slabs holding guns, plastic horses, paintings, and strings of lights that never seem to be lit. It's in the alley between Commor and Carpenter, sandwiched between Klinger and Sobieski.

As we turned the corner I could see it peaking out at us, going straight out into the sky. Bright colors and weird shapes staring back at us as we inched closer. It never ceases to amaze me, though. It's colorful and creepy and interesting and playful.

"I'm getting out," she said when we pulled up and parked. She swung around to the back of the car, quickly moving toward the installment. "I love this horse, he painted it gold," pointing as she stood in front of the garage door that was facing the alley.

She walked up and down, back and forth. I just leaned against the car and laughed. We've both seen it a hundred times. Still, she gets so excited. And still, Hamtramck Disneyland makes me laugh.

And the size of it, too, man, it's huge. It shoots into the sky. The whole thing reminds me of those blowfish with the spikes sticking out of it. I know it's not exact, obviously, but there are so many poles and figures jutting into the sky that, for me, it's the first thing that comes to mind - a spiny blowfish. One piece is a slab of wood made to look like the Statue of Liberty. It's a flat board, cut with two legs, painted green, crowned and holding what looks like a giant flashlight to symbolize the torch.

"My mom said she wanted to get that Statue of Liberty tattooed on her," she said. I shook my head.

She would stand as far away from installation as she could, right up against the fence of the yard directly across from it in the alley, trying to take in the whole thing. That's hard to do because you don't know exactly what you're looking at. You recognize all the shapes – horses, trucks, "people" – but piecing it all together, each little nail and screw and piece of wood and dollop of paint, well, that's not as easily recognizable.

We weren't there for long, about 15 minutes or so.

"My mom loves that place," she said. "I love that place."

For me, I like it. It's a one of those things that makes Hamtramck, Hamtramck. However, what I love is that when my friend from Brooklyn comes here she has to eat dill pickle soup and come see this thing, come see Hamtramck Disneyland.

So, that's what I love. Well, that and dill pickle soup.

I swear it feels like yesterday when I was standing in my kitchen, looking out the window, and listening to my editor tell me about how she screws up her kids' grilled cheeses.

"One side is always black," she said, or at least something like that.

"Yeah, me, too," I said. "I'm too impatient, I get the pan too hot."

We continued about grilled cheese for a bit until she mentioned a story idea about the bus. It was in passing, and we went on to other ideas, and more talk about grilled cheeses.

Later that day I thought about what she said, about the bus idea. She said something like; "We want you to give up your car for a week." It was a great idea, I thought. A lot of work, but a story that should be told.

I guess it's a simple thing. Just get on the bus, pay, and get off. But here in Detroit, it's not as simple. There is a lot of stigma attached and a lot of apprehension. I found, though, after one ride, most of that goes away.

I took the idea and expanded it to a month.

Excerpt:

I told a friend when this first started that I wondered if when people saw me waiting for the bus, getting on, or getting off, they thought, "I bet he doesn't have a car," or "I bet he doesn't have a job," or "I bet he doesn't have a car or a job."

Why would I think that? When I am in New York, Chicago, or Berlin, that kind of thing never crosses my mind when I see people using mass transit. In those cities, you don't think twice about using the bus. But here, in Detroit, I wondered what people thought when they saw me at the bus stop the first few times I rode. Did this self-consciousness come from the disappointing attitudes of a racially polarized region? Or having the merits of owning an automobile burned and beaten into our Motor City brains? Or from the anti-urban sentiments in a region that views anything that smacks of city life – like using mass transit – as subpar to the suburban, strip mall, McMansion lifestyle?

These issues have been tearing Detroit apart for decades, and they still find a way into the smallest of things – like riding the bus.

Here is my story in three pieces; my pure experiences, a how-to guide, and improvements that need to be made.

I should have been more careful. I should have known that a lock on a pole wasn't enough. I should have known that unless it is bolted to the concrete I run the risk of losing it in this town. But still, I was shocked when I walked out of Whisky in the Jar at about 6:45 p.m. and my bike was not where I left it.

My baby blue one-speed that I bought for 50 bucks from my roommate who bought it for a hundred is gone. For nearly a month prior to the theft I had logged somewhere between 15 and 20 miles a day on that thing.

I took to the streets as part of a project I was doing for www.modeldmedia.com where I tested how viable Detroit's transit was. I rode my bike and the bus for 30 days. And, well, almost fittingly, on the last day of this experiment, outside of Whisky in Jar, my bike was stolen.

After work on that fateful day I was meeting a friend for dinner at the Polish Village Cafe and had some time to kill. I rode around a bit then decided to unwind with a few drinks. Two to be exact. Two drinks in 45 minutes. I sipped them, read a bit, watched that crazy Japanese game show on the TV, then left.

I walked out and felt very confused, as if I misplaced something. It was that feeling you get in a large parking lot when you can't find your car times about a thousand.

"Where the hell is it?" I said aloud. A heat washed over my body. I convinced myself that
I locked it up somewhere else.

"It's over here, I put it over here, I know it," I kept thinking. But no, it was gone.

I have a feeling it was someone in the neighborhood, someone who saw me lock it up and then walk into the bar. And I have a feeling that they lifted it up over the post and did not cut the lock. Of course, this is neither here nor there. It's gone.

I keep my eye out for it everywhere. I think I see it everywhere. Of course it's not there and I'll probably never see it again.

Two days later I caught someone trying to steal Citizen Editor Chip Sercombe's bike right outside of the office on Caniff. It was three in the afternoon. He had small wire cutters and was trying to sever the bike lock. Maybe if he had another hour he may have gotten through. I walked up to him and asked him what he was doing.

He gave me a few stories. One about a guy who lost his bike lock key and was gonna pay him to get it back, one about a crackhead who wanted the bike, and one where he told me he was gonna sell it to a crackhead that was "just right over there."

I took the pliers and he walked away.

Anyway, I guess it goes to show you, no matter how much you love or care about a place, it will still bite you on the ass. It'll still sneak up on you and steal your bike while you're having a few drinks.

If you see a baby blue one speed that says All Pro on the frame it's mine. Call me up at The Citizen so I can start riding again. (313) 365-9500.

Be safe and keep your bikes locked up better than mine.

Barbecue in Grosse Pointe? No car? It can be done. Easily, as long as you have patience.

You can't do mass-transit if you don't have patience, which is, and I truly believe this, a virtue (I'm talking about patience. Unless you're stranded in Brooklyn with no money expecting a check from the company you work for (not The Citizen) but it's "two days late" and you get an email two days late telling you it's gonna be "two days late." When that happens, throw patience out the darm window.)

Anyway, Ferndale to Grosse Pointe on the SMART bus. It's $1.50 to ride the bus. Throw in a handful of change, or slide a couple bucks in the console, and you're on.

I grabbed the bus on 9 mile, in front of that god-awful Monkey Bar place (or whatever it's called these days). It was about 25 minutes late.

"You know, the bus broke down coming from Eastpointe earlier today," this guy said. He reminded me of Chris Cooper's character in Adaptation. Long, greasy, stringy hair under a sweaty ball cap. He was wearing cutoff shorts and a black tank top.

"Oh yeah," I said, leaning on my bike.

"Yep." Then there was a pause while we both looked on, hoping to see the bus. "I got a ten-speed. It's old. The bike shop in Eastpointe wouldn't work on it though."

I told him it was a bummer. I don't know a lot about bikes, so, I didn't really have any advice.

"Yep," he said. Another pause. "Man, it's hot. Too hot to have sex... huh?!" He laughed. I half hoped he was missing his front teeth like the character from Adaptation but he wasn't.

"To hot for me," I said.

I'm not sure if he was coming on to me, or what. But the bus showed up just in time.

The SMART buses have bike racks that hold two bikes. If it is filled, you're out of luck. You can't take the bikes on the bus - it is forbidden. I was lucky, one free spot. I researched how to put the bike on the rack on the SMART website. I didn't want to look like some rookie - though I am. But, actually, it's pretty self explanatory "Put front wheel here," "Pull up lock," "Get in the bus."

I threw a bunch of nickels and dimes into the slot and took the 9 Mile/Crosstown bus from Woodward to Greater Mack. It was about a 35 minute drive, filled with bumps but no bruises.

There was a old white lady with white hair wearing white gloves. I imagined, to myself, that she was insane about germs. She rustled through one of her bags when she sat down and pulled out a purple, long-sleeved shirt and wrapped it around her neck. The Chris Cooper guy, when he jumped on, got in the back. I sat in the middle. Another man was sitting behind me. When that guy got off, The Chris Cooper guy moved right behind me. I can't get pretty girls to follow me, but I have no trouble with middle-aged dudes from Eastpointe, apparently.

The bus was fairly empty, moving further east. Just a few of us. Maybe a mile from my stop, everyone got off and I was alone. For a second, since I'm new to riding, I thought maybe I messed up and this was the last stop. I didn't get off though, I stayed, hoping for the best. Chris Cooper, however, got off and started to walk away. At which time the bus drive blared the horn, "YOUR BIKE! YOU FORGOT YOUR BIKE!"

"It's not mine, dude," he said, or I hope he said. He just moved his lips and shrugged.

"Actually, that's my bike," I told the bus driver.

"My bad, sorry."

"No prob."

And then Greater Mack showed up. Grabbed my bike and rode to the shindig.

I'm not gonna bore you with the details of the barbecue. I will say that I was deterred from riding my bike back to Ferndale at 2 a.m. with no reflectors on my bike and wearing a black t-shirt. The bus, my bus, stopped running from Greater Mack at 10:23 p.m.

Woke up to my hosts' kids screaming/crying/laughing/playing.

I never saw a bus stop with signage. Or, better said, never noticed a bus stop with signage. But the stop I left from Grosse Pointe had a sign. Of course it didn't matter. The bus was late. Well, technically, it wasn't, I suppose. The sign on the stop said something along the lines of: Between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.: every 45 minutes. What the heck does that even mean?


So, I waited 35 minutes, watching some lady hit a million tennis balls from a machine in a cage - at least that's what it looked like.

It was earlier, about 9:30, 10 maybe. The bus on the way back bumped more than the one on the way there. We picked up workers the entire way. I pulled the cord to stop the bus when we passed Woodward.

I gotta get a bus pass.

By Terry Parris, Jr. – July 25, 2008

            I swear I saw nearly 10 ice cream trucks. Some of them were parked, some of them being worked on, and some of them trying to sell ice cream. The funny thing is that there were more ice cream trucks than kids – actually, there weren't any kids.

            That was Monday.

            I'm giving up my car for a month. Gas is too high, my belly is too big, our environment needs a break and, really, why the heck not?

            I've been doing it for a week now; I plan to do it for two more. I don't live in Hamtramck (anymore). I've moved north, to Ferndale. It's about an eight-mile journey through treacherous roads and unfriendly drivers. By treacherous roads I mean cracks and glass and potholes. By unfriendly drivers I mean just that.

            Actually, to be honest, it hasn't been that bad when it comes to motorists. The only thing that I've noticed, so far, is when I'm biking down the middle of Jos. Campau (which I shouldn't be doing) the oncoming cars swerve just a little bit too close to my bike. Of course, I may just be paranoid and looking for a fight, but I swear that's what they are doing – a friendly neighborhood reminder 'spose.

            Anyway, I'm a week into this adventure. I've driven up and down a handful of streets, some easier on my posterior than others. And despite the aches of jumping on a bike and riding nearly 20 miles a day when I haven't ridden 20 miles ever, I feel good – not to mention I now have am wicked farmer's tan.

            I’m looking forward to the street resurfacing on a number of the Hamtramck roads, but I wish there were bike lanes included. But I'll make due.

            Next week, assuming I'm not in the hospital for a scraped knee, I'll have another installment to this car-less puzzle.