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INTRODUCTION,
Losing Lakewood Sally Errico,
BEST DESERVEDLY SPENDY RESTAURANTS,
We Are Good in Glenville: A Visit to the Honey Do Night Club Neighborhood Bar Kathrine Morris,
BEST NEIGHBORHOOD BARS,
Tremont: A Product of Its Past, a Piece of Its Future Tara Vanta,
BEST COFFEE SHOPS,
A Walk Through North Collinwood Benno Martens,
BEST PLACES FOR LIVE MUSIC ANNIE ZALESKI,
THE PARIS OF CLEVELAND Sam McNulty,
The West Side Market Illustration by David Wilson,
On The Cusp Harriett Logan,
BEST GALLERIES MICHAEL GILL,
Before It Was Hingetown Greggor Mattson,
HOMAGE TO THE VELVET TANGO ROOM,
The Little Italy Historical Museum Maryann De Julio,
BEST MUSEUMS,
In the Place of No Place Peet McCain,
BEST PLACES TO GO IF YOU ONLY HAVE ONE DAY,
Agony in the Garden: A Lapsed Catholic's Ex-Pat's Field Guide to Our Lady of Lourdes National Shrine and Grotto Don Pizarro,
BEST LOCALLY OWNED STORES,
Snippets of Lee-Harvard in the 70s Janice A. Lowe,
UNEXPECTEDLY GREAT REASONS TO LIVE IN CLEVELAND,
What's In a Name? Tom Orange,
BEST DIVE BARS,
League Park Vince Guerrieri,
The Dog Pound Illustration by David Wilson,
Slavic Village: A Guide Michael Broida,
BEST NEIGHBORHOOD RESTAURANTS,
The Isolation of The Flats Sandy Griffith,
BEST HIKES MATT STANSBERRY,
Neighborhood Lessons in Diversity Phyllis Benjamin,
BEST BOUTIQUES AND THRIFTING CLAIRE MCMILLAN,
Pretty Gritty: Living Off Lorain Avenue Lee Chilcote,
BEST PLACES TO LIVE,
Sweet Spot in the City Diane Millett,
HOMAGE TO ON THE RISE ARTISAN BREADS,
When Your Neighborhood Just Can't Get No Respect Sally Martin,
Observatory, Sea Monster Douglas Max Utter,
The Opposite of Cool George Mount,
BEST BREAKFAST,
Holton Avenue, Kinsman's Other Corridor for Opportunities Greggor Mattson,
Shiloh Baptist Church Illustration by David Wilson,
Excitement Sprouts in Hough Mansfield Frazier,
BEST PLACES TO BUY LOCALLY GROWN FOOD,
Chasing the Ghosts of Coventry Village Brad Masi,
The Rapid Illustration by David Wilson,
Shaker To Asiatown: The Bikepath Review Amy Hanauer,
Contributors,
Losing Lakewood
SALLY ERRICO
* * *
I moved to Lakewood a few weeks after breaking up with my boyfriend and, not coincidentally, a few weeks after I started sleeping with Adam. My boyfriend and I had lived together on the east side — his native stomping ground — and as soon as the first winter hit, I became desperate to leave.
"You realize the snowbelt that goes all the way to Buffalo starts here, right? Like, specifically here. If we lived 20 minutes west, we'd have an entirely different climate."
"I like the east side. Now hand me the ice scraper."
There were other reasons for moving to Lakewood. It seemed to me a city in the best possible ways: progressive in both its politics and its society, a place where a proud Cleveland met a cultured liberalism. It was full of shops and restaurants and bars, and their interconnectedness — the sheer number of them and their proximity to one another, and to residential streets, and to Cleveland itself — was to me a characteristic of what urban life should be.
On a more practical level, Lakewood was also where Adam lived. I met him at a party in December, and when he mentioned that he and his girlfriend would be moving in together in May, I thought, I have six months to make you fall in love with me. I had known him for an hour. The intensity of my attraction was unlike anything I'd ever felt: He was tall, slim, and impeccably dressed, with curly brown hair and eyes so dark they were almost black. As we got to know each other better over the next few months, I also discovered he was sometimes vain. He could be jealous and resentful. But his flaws made him more appealing, which is why I maintain that my attraction wasn't just physical. I was in love.
The situation was complicated by 1) my boyfriend and 2) Adam's girlfriend. For a while, I imagined that Adam and I could just ... hang out together forever, complacent in our respective relationships, no rocking of boats. We had mutual friends, so there was always an excuse to see each other; we enjoyed the same things, so if we happened to find ourselves at, say, the same concert, hey, what a coincidence! But then one night, after we attended a wine-fueled fundraiser for the Cleveland Public Theatre, he kissed me. I was living in Lakewood by the end of the month.
I found my apartment by driving around and looking for "For Rent" signs in the windows of buildings (it was a kinder, simpler, realty app–free time: 2004). I checked out houses, duplexes, and apartment complexes, some near the lake and others closer to the airport, some beautiful and others one leak away from being condemned. When I called the number in the window of a building on the corner of Detroit and Riverside, the owner said he could show me a one-bedroom immediately — he was there now, renovating it. For $525 a month, it was mine.
The neighborhood was everything. I could go to the dry cleaner and the liquor store on the same walk. Sushi, falafel, and pizza were just a short drive up Detroit. And if funds were low, so were prices at Marc's, that T.J. Maxx of food, with its dented tuna cans and inexplicably large selection of peanut butter. Stores and restaurants flew rainbow flags year-round, and the one business I knew of that was openly homophobic — a taxidermy shop that appeared closed even when it was open and had a bumper sticker reading "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" in the window — was also openly mocked. I could go for a morning run in the Metropark, and in the evening, have a glass of wine at Three Birds. By comparison, my hometown near Cedar Point had not one single store at which to buy a CD, and there was opposition to plans for a Taco Bell because the locals believed it would attract gangs. Lakewood was a Shangri-La.
And just off of Detroit: Adam's apartment, the seat of both my joy and misery. He hadn't broken up with his girlfriend yet, but soon, I just knew, it would happen. They'd never have the chance to move in together. In the meantime, my plan was simple: continue sleeping with him and wait for him to give in to our obvious chemistry. But I'd forget this on the days when I'd drive past his street on my way home from work and see his girlfriend's car parked in front of his building. Her carrrrrrrr! I would be in agony as I pulled into my parking lot, imagining them in a Kama Sutra's worth of positions — or worse, doing something like making dinner, throwing little puffs of flour at each other and laughing, a scene straight out of some stupid rom-com. I'd drag myself up the stairs of my building, collapsing in tears on the slipcovered couch that had been a hand-me-down from my grandparents.
This, as it turns out, is not a way to build self-esteem. I recognized that I'd become the kind of woman I'd always pitied, the "crazy" one waiting for a kind word or sign of affection from an emotionally (and otherwise) unavailable man. But I didn't know how to break out. I'd decide that I was done, that I was too disgusted with myself to continue, and I'd go on dates with other guys. But then Adam would call, and the...
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