Ann Arbor

 

My heart sank when I slipped inside the Ann Arbor library and I saw further entry was blocked by a barricade and shelves of books for pick-up.  I had been looking forward to some sit-down time and finding out from a librarian where the Carnegie was located, which had been replaced by this building in 1957.  Wikipedia was vague about its location.  As I approached the barrier to see if I could spot a stray librarian I heard a voice ask, “May I help you?”  It came from an unmasked woman on a video screen, as if she were the Wizard of Oz.

When I asked her the location of the Carnegie, I thought she would know off the top of her head, but she had to bow her head (in shame) and consult her computer.  “The article I’m reading says it is at State and Huron,” she said, “and was remodeled and enlarged.  One can see the stone exterior of the old building in contrast to the red brick of the new building.”

It was just several blocks away.  I was able to ride on bike lanes part of the way, some even protected.  They were the first bike lanes I had come upon in the 250 miles since I left Chicago.  There weren’t many cyclists out and about in this college town with the temperature barely above fifty and not many students on campus.  A few were bundled in Michigan sweatshirts, mostly women, some who didn’t let the cold deter them from going about in shorts.  I was among them, as I hadn’t resorted to tights yet, even starting the day bare-legged with my thermometer registering 39 degrees.

I’d encountered more Amish in horse-drawn carriages than cyclists.  The lone cyclist was a 30-year old on a spiffy new carbon fiber bike on his four-mile commute to his job as a bee consultant.  He spent his day helping people in the area who had bee hives, often having to drive considerable distances in the company car for on-site diagnoses.

I didn’t immediately spot the remains of the Carnegie Library when I got to State and Huron.  The lone red brick building was a huge seven-story university building.  I feared I was at the wrong location, as when I asked the librarian if she had a specific address for the library rather than the vague Huron and State she said,  “500 South State” which was several blocks away.  But as I circled around I spotted the unlikely site of the grand facade of the Carnegie sticking out of this characterless monstrosity that had totally consumed it.

It was admirable that its frontside had been preserved, but an outrage that it had been so denigrated.  And the bland red brick and glass library a few blocks over that replaced it was a further outrage.  The Carnegie had been a majestic building that the community could truly be proud of, something that residents would take visitors to see.  The new library was an utter blah.  At least the Carnegie’s history was acknowledged by a storyboard on the side of the building along the sidewalk, complete with a photo of its former glory.

Despite the letdown of this Carnegie I had the glory of the Carnegie in Hudson, sixty miles to the southwest, still fresh in my mind from the day before.  It was a spectacular castle of a building built in stone that hadn’t been marred by an addition, just a street level entrance in the rear.  I arrived after it closed so could only peer in through the door, which had a sign saying masks required and no more than four people allowed in at a time.

The ride from Hudson to Ann Arbor took me through the Irish Hills, a region settled by the Irish in the 1850s fleeing the Great Potato Famine that reduced Ireland’s population from eight million to five. Most of those fleeing the country came to the US.  A monument along the road complete with the Irish flag explained the woeful tale of the An Gorta Mor (The Great Hunger).  The hills weren’t too steep or prolonged, but they did get me over 2,000 vertical feet of climbing for the day for the first time in these travels.

Most of the signs along the road were endorsements of Trump.  One farmer included a denouncement of Michigan’s governor calling her an idiot and mocking her with a play on Michigan’s motto of Pure Michigan.

Biden signs finally popped up in Ann Arbor.  Along with them were the typical college town emblems of hammocks on porches and strings of Nepalese prayer flags.

The central part of Ann Arbor offered blocks of old homes, many rented out to students evidenced by the bikes locked out front and other accoutrements.  They were a welcome contrast to the sprawling developments on the outskirts of the city of cloned all-too-big two-story homes utterly lacking in character or individuality. It was hard to imagine who would want to live in such compounds with minuscule yard space between each and the danger of returning to the wrong one late at night after imbibing beverages that might impair one’s judgement.