The night was still balmy, tinged with smoke
or how to make friends in Kansas City
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Dear friend —
Until a couple weeks ago, I didn’t know the midwest contained two Kansas Cities. The bigger of them, with a population of nearly half a million, is in not Kansas but Missouri. The smaller, population 150,000, actually is in Kansas — but only five miles away from its Missouri counterpart. Technically two different cities, the two are both part of the greater Kansas City metropolitan area, which kind of makes them one bigger Kansas City —
I hadn’t planned a stop in either of these, but a coworker who’d grown up in Missouri convinced me, during a Zoom meeting, to check out the larger one. “It’s really a fun place!” he enthused. “I would say it’s the most exciting city in Missouri!”
What makes a city fun — to visit, to live in? Driving into Kansas City, Mo., I imagined a place akin to Chicago — lively streets, cool architecture, fantastic restaurants. But Kansas City is actually a lot more like St. Louis — stolidly midwestern, largely family-oriented. Even in the shopping and dining areas like Westport and Crossroads, there wasn’t much life on the streets, and what there was had a benignly uneventful air. The Power & Light district was putting on daily concerts to entice people out, but even there the most happening spot was Yard House.
Why did my co-worker talk about Kansas City so excitedly? It probably had been exciting to him as a kid growing up in the suburbs, and that impression had stayed with him. One of the dangers of having lived in a big metropolitan area like Los Angeles for a long time as I have is that in comparison, many mid-sized cities seem quaint and unoriginal, somewhat provincial. That’s fine if a quieter, simpler, more predictable routine is what you’re after — but kind of a bummer if it’s not.
Kansas City had its upsides though, namely its free art museums. The Kemper had an immersive experience by Rafael Lozano, undulating lights and sounds calibrated to thrum to visitors’ heartbeats. The Nelson-Atkins offered not only art within its walls but a sprawling sculpture garden and lawn. Groups of people picnicked, looking lilliputian next to Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen’s gigantic shuttlecocks. There was even a miniature golf course on its grounds, with each station themed a different famous work of art.
And the people were friendly! On July 4 I went out to brunch downtown, and sat next to a woman my age who ordered an entire carafe of mimosa, then fried chicken, and also flapjacks. I was duly impressed, only a little less so when her friend showed up to share the meal.
We got to talking. The two women had both lived in Kansas City all their lives. “But we grew up in the hood!” the late arrival said. “We wanted to get out. Where we grew up — it’s nothing like here,” she said, meaning downtown. “Here it’s nice. There’s always lots of fun stuff to do.”
I asked what I should check out while in town. “Crossroads — so much going on there,” one said. “Oh, Union Station!” said the other.
“Is the Union Station here interesting?”
“Um, well —” she mulled this over. “It’s okay. They have like restaurants and shops.”
One of them was going to a friend’s at a nearby town to for the rest of the long weekend, but the other — Lisa — invited me to watch the fireworks with her. So I met up with her and her fifteen-year-old daughter a little before sunset on the Berkley Riverfront. The city had put on a celebration with an enthusiastic cover band, food trucks, and fireworks, so the entire park was covered with people, everyone from babies in strollers to retirees, dancing, anticipating.
A friend of Lisa’s plus the friend’s teenage daughter joined us. We got ice cream to cool off, the night was still sweltering hot. The girls peppered me with questions about nomad life. Where were you before this? Where are you going after Kansas City? Have you been to New York? Have you been to Hawaii? Have you ever been out of the country?
Finally, the fireworks began! Multicolored starbursts! Whizzing rockets! Sizzling sparklers. What is it about watching fireworks that makes us happy? The show was timed to the music — first Marshmallo’s “Happier,” then a cheery cover of Kansas City, and for the grand finale, an orchestral piece with lots of dramatic crescendos. We all ooed and aahd.
“That’s the best fireworks show I’ve ever seen, I think,” Lisa said, when it was over. Despite having lived her entire life in Kansas City, this was the first time she’d caught the city’s show.
We joined the long train of people walking down the riverfront and over the bridge to get to their homes or their cars. The night was still balmy, tinged with smoke. Lisa and I hugged, urged each other to keep in touch.
The next morning, I continued west, across Kansas —
Love,
Siel
Three links you might love:
Let’s take the whole summer off, as some Europeans do. Amelia Tait makes the case in Vice, though I started quibbling it starting with the subhead, which reads “we need six weeks of time off.” Doesn’t summer actually last 12 weeks?
The five-day workweek is dead. Anna North’s article in Vox is more descriptive and less declarative than the headline suggests — but a four-day workweek does sound good to me —
The thin line between cult and religion. In The New Yorker, Zoë Heller asks what makes otherwise normal women agree to become sexual servants to “charismatic” leaders.