I love traveling alone. In a new city where no one knows me, I am stripped of my context. As a stranger, I can be anything. At the same time, that lack of context offers an unusually clear mirror in which to see myself, if I run into any especially friendly and accommodating people. I can both leave myself behind and find myself - navel-gaze and sightsee. Best of both worlds.
My weekend in Kalamazoo gave me plenty of opportunity to do both, and to drink some first-rate beer besides. I made the decision about 24 hours beforehand that I would spend a couple days doing something I’d wanted to do since moving to the Midwest: visiting Kalamazoo, Michigan, craft beer hotspot and home to one of my favorite breweries. I was also inspired by a recent article that touted Kalamazoo as something of an up-and-coming writers’ community with quality bookstores and a literary scene. So I bought a train ticket and booked a night in the King’s Tower at Henderson’s Castle, because when “tower room in a castle” is an option, why would you sleep anywhere else?
Thus it was that I stepped off a train at 10am on Friday morning and into the adorable Kalamazoo Transportation Center in downtown Kalamazoo, Michigan, with too many electronics and not enough toiletries in my backpack. I’d made my own way here across the currents and tides of mass transit, and felt an outsize sense of self-satisfaction and freedom. All the nearby breweries opened at 11, so I ambled into the first coffee shop I saw to sit down and write a bit, so inspired was I by the thirty seconds I’d spent in this new city.
First impressions were of a town rich in both religion and beer - the first building I spotted outside the train station was a mission, and the second was a brewery. That impression would ring true for the remainder of the trip. Church after church after brewery after church. I don’t think I saw a church that was a brewery or vice versa, but wouldn’t that be cool? Someone should do it. Maybe I will.
Also a running theme in Kalamazoo is trains. At least three busy tracks run through the downtown area, and as I sat in the coffee shop, I saw more than one trundle by on grade-level tracks. I’m no stranger to trains; growing up in Texas, Mom and I used to count their cars whenever we were stuck at a crossing, and if I were up into the wee hours of the night, I could hear their whistles from my bedroom in the suburbs. The tracks there are at grade too, but they’re far enough out on the margins of civilization that the audience consists mostly of cows. Here, if I weren’t certain I’d fall and lose a foot, I could have grabbed ahold and hopped a ride straight out of downtown and south to… well, I just checked Google Maps, and I guess it’s the Pfizer plant or bust, but I won’t let that spoil the romance of the idea.
I have no patience for delayed gratification, so as soon as I was able, I went straight to Bell’s brewpub for lunch. The place was eclectic: high ceiling, wood everywhere, a cross between an Alpine lodge and a 1990’s Catholic church. Curios suggesting Africa, Polynesia, the Himalayas mingled with vintage beer advertisements on the walls, and in one memorable case, a stained glass window that sported a half-melted beer bottle emerging from its colorful planes. The world-wanderer theme dovetailed nicely with my own journey and with the fact that I was rereading Travels with Charley, an old favorite. In fact, Steinbeck and I crossed in our journeys, he heading west into Chicago while I rode the train eastward, waving to him across sixty years.
I spent a happy three hours at Bell’s. The food was good and the beer was excellent. I took notes on the flights I enjoyed, but they were mostly absurd keywords with a few emojis for nuance, and frankly you don’t care about that. Go there and check it out for yourself. It’s worth the trip.
Stories of Kalamazoo will continue in Part 2.