It is finally time for the opening of the underpass and Paul and I are making our way there slowly. I say slowly because my foot is a little sore. I am sure I sprained it last week at the gym. We are going to meet Paul’s family there to see the tile of Paul and his mom. Unfortunately, when we get there, we notice that only one quarter of the tile project is completed. I feel bad because we invited Paul’s brothers and their families, his dad, and his uncle and aunt. Instead of looking at the heart touching picture, we are staring at a blank grey concrete wall.
It is probably better that way though, because when we look at the pictures that are up, we see that there are notable mistakes on the tiles. I think the tiles are supposed to be sepia, but unfortunately some of them are black and white. The artist left a note posted stating that any problem tiles will be replaced but have been temporarily marked with a large red dot. I notice a friend of mine on the wall…with a huge red dot on her face. I apologize to her tile and hope they are able to make a copy of her picture and not just replace it with a stranger whose tile came out correctly. I feel relieved that Paul’s picture isn’t up yet. Hopefully they will work out any bugs before they set up the rest of the walls.
So there we are, with our group, and no tile to look at. We decide to enjoy the rest of the festivities that are going on around us. The opening of the underpass was tied to the city’s birthday this year. Nearly every store, pub, and restaurant within two miles have some “birthday special” going on. Birthday samples, birthday music, birthday drinks, etc. Fourth avenue and downtown are incredibly packed with people swarming back and forth.
“Man,” I say “there is a lot of people out!”
“Well,” says Paul’s uncle” it’s the city’s birthday!”
I have mixed feeling about this. On one hand, I love seeing so many people congesting our downtown. It is nice to see faces about and I am surprised when people leave their homes to be a part of the city. Normally, the only time a big crowd storms downtown anymore is during the street fair or club crawl. Yet, there is a small part of me that is annoyed. The city has birthday events every year and every year it is ignored. No one barely bats an eye when the annual date occurs. When I worked for a newspaper downtown, we would always use ‘birthday week’ as a chance to sell more ads.
“Hey,” I would say “It’s Tucson’s birthday week! Don’t you want to buy an ad to wish the city a happy birthday! I am sure you would, we have special birthday rates and birthday ad space!” Most of the business’ weren’t aware of the birthday but would buy ad space anyways to make sure their business appeared supportive of the downtown community that they were apart of. I felt that most of the people celebrating on the street were barely aware of the cities birthday for the first time in their lives.
I was busy giving passerby’s dirty looks weighing my conflicting feelings, when I saw a sign above Hotel Congress that read, “CITYWIDE BIRTHDAY CAKE CONTEST: FREE SAMPLES TO THE PUBLIC”.
“Yeah,” I shouted loudly, “ It’s Tucson’s Birthday!” I pulled open the doors and beckoned everyone in.
To the left of the entrance, inside the hotels private ballroom, was a scene reminiscent of the Food Network. There were at least fifteen vendors set up at various tables, each with a display cake showcasing attributes of the city and also a spread of cake samples for the people to taste. Each cake artist stood proudly behind their creations and described what they were giving samples of. The ballroom was covered in balloons and decorations, slightly marring it’s usual upscale art deco feel. (Coincidently, we celebrated Paul’s birthday a few years back in this room. I am sure Paul would think it appropriate that the city is celebrating it’s birthday in the same space.)
I tried as much cake as possible, even though I am not a big fan of cake. I even took the samples that Paul didn’t like. It was hard to turn it down when the chefs were explaining the cakes with such passion and detail. Most were chocolate, although some were mixed with berries, others with lemons and the best one , (I think) with hazelnuts. Outside, in the hotel’s new courtyard, bands were playing to good natured crowds.
After the cake fest , we continued our walk downtown with Paul’s family in tow. As we passed each shop and building, everyone had stories to tell about certain shops. Shops that still stood or shops that had long been destroyed and built over. Paul’s dad mentioned a photo of Bettina and him taken nearby. I remember the breathtaking black and white photo clearly from their house. It was a picture of young lovers oblivious to the future. He talked with Paul’s uncle and aunt about all of the buildings they used to know, including the time the Mickey Mouse club was held downtown on the weekends.
As we passed an old wig shop, Paul’s aunt mentioned how they used to go and pick out wigs for the weekends sometimes when the ladies would go out. She still remembered several of the styles and described them to us exactly, including the original color names. She also mentioned how they would pick out wigs for their drag queen friends and fix up their hair. I laughed and it seemed strange that I didn’t think that drag queen’s existed back then.
Around us, there were men in kilts playing bagpipes. Musicians played guitars and sang with microphones, a women was singing very loudly although I couldn’t say pleasantly. Cafes were open and most shops had their doors wide open to invite patrons in. We walked by and saw six men getting haircuts peeking out into the crowd. A man was passing flyers out for a new phone store that would soon be open. It was an invitation for the senses but I seemed too distracted to enjoy it fully. The best part of the night wasn’t the noise, but the stories.
We ended up back at the newly expanded and lit underpass that took two years to build. I remember going through the previous underpass for my twenty first birthday. The old underpass was small and you had to walk single file if anyone was coming in the opposite direction. Somebody always had too much and felt the need to test their vocal cords in the acoustics of the confined space. It had this odd smell and you had to try to hold your breath while you walked quickly under it. Now it was gray, beautiful and large. It smelled like fresh paint, although I can still smell faintly in my mind those nefarious odors of yesteryear.
I thought to myself, you can build over the rubble but you can't build over the memories.
BONUS: Some extra pics
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