This is the 18th post of a blog by Matt Porubsky called “satisfactual,” which will be updated whenever he damn well pleases, discussing odds and ends about Topeka history and culture, with a little opinion thrown in for good measure.

Today is my and Leah’s three year wedding anniversary. This prompted me to go through some old files of writing and I found this article that details our first road trip together. It’s not just about my “Illustrious Travel Companion” and me, though. It is a time capsule in a point of Topeka’s history on the cusp of change. Four years ago this month, I submitted this piece of non-fiction to Washburn University’s arts and entertainment magazine, the ARGO. Leah, the then Editor-In-Chief of the ARGO and I had recently completed our first big arts event, The Jayhawk Theatre Revival, and were ready for a break. The Revival had a great showing and we did raise some funds to help the theater, but it seemed to us that the rest of downtown Topeka was still stagnating. This was pre-seveneightfive magazine (its premiere issue wouldn’t be out for another few months) and the ARGO was the only publication trying to push change along and have the voice of Topeka be one of pride and less of defense.

The idea of our downtown was heavy in our minds as we saw the similarities and differences.

I’ll also say that this is a LONG one. There is a contemporary epilogue at the end when you need me to wrap it up.

***

Stemming from a growing disillusionment with my surroundings and the simple things that are here in Topeka and aren’t here in Topeka, I gave my Illustrious Travel Companion a wink, packed lightly, purchased a variety of crackers, created a makeshift pallet with old pillows from my closet in the back of the Explorer and set out for the North. Escaping a town can be simple but there is something that lingers along that can’t be hidden behind music and miles and hours of silent speech.

Finally existing in Waterloo, IA.

A road trip consisting of two daydreamers sharing directions and driving isn’t the safest of ways to travel. It could be a elderly man grooming a overrun cemetery on the side of the road or a strangely shaped cloud or cracker that causes road signs and off-ramps to be shrugged off until it is finally realized you are eighty miles off course in the middle of Iowa. Along with this, a quick u-turn and an old highway is the way we cruised into Waterloo, a small college town in Eastern Iowa.

Coming into town we were instantly transported back to Wanamaker Street in Topeka by the generic strips of stores, corporate roads to parking lots moving in casino circles to trap you in to commit reoccurring commerce, clone-like store signs pushing constellations to blindness in hopes of that one person who will love their new triple-patty Philly cheese steak burger that is only around for a limited time. So we sought the usual escape and searched for a drink.

The walls of A.J.’s were lined with windows filled with a classic collection of beer cans and bottles, shining dim through dust and rust spots, with peeling labels reading, “Big Cat Malt Liquor,” “Hamm’s Real Draft” and “Metbrew Near Beer.” For a Saturday night the place was relatively vacant except for the usual construction workers playing pool, the absent-dated ladies scowling in the corner, servers drinking more than serving and silent drunks waiting to speak. I stepped to a table of young noisemakers to see if this place was the spot.

“This a blue collar bar, a getaway,” commented Nelson who was defined by his friends as being his own brand of cattle. “It’s amazing how many people you meet here that are from somewhere else and I say, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ What the hell are you doing here?” I started to respond that I was writing a piece for an arts and entertainment magazine in Kansas but was quickly ceased by the whole bar singing Garth Brooks’ “Standing Outside the Fire.”

My Illustrious Travel Companion asked with blinking bronze eyes if the bar was chorusing, “Standing Outside the Barn,” and then I realized we weren’t far enough away from home yet.

Subtle Rockford, IL.

The landscape began to filter away from familiar Kansas’ coils and overgrowth to a prim and shaped line of sight in fields and freeways as we made our way into Illinois. The farmway roads took us deeper through thick tree canopies and wide tilled and fertilized fields with a vision of a nuclear power plant fuming in the distance on the way to downtown Rockford.

The downtown was quiet and still but, as opposed to Topeka’s, had filled store fronts and stood classic with few renovated sections keeping the downtown the way it was started and sustained with a air of concern and circulation. There were pool halls, numerous restaurants and bars, theatres and shops embracing the Rock River’s slow streaming.

Visions of Topeka crept along in an envious fashion: the idea of being able to walk with a river without having to climb through rocks and tall weeds watching for trash and broken glass that adds insult to inconvenience, the idea of walking downtown and not seeing as many empty shops as filled. I reconciled myself to a white cheddar Cheez-It, where I knew I would find satisfaction.

It’s pronounced, “Eau Claire.”

Wisconsin brought on the northern trees, tall, pined and thick, and a much more adventurous view along with a total dead deer count for the day of 23. We believed Eau Claire, Wisconsin to be a fine place to stop for the evening when we continuously viewed signs stating the direction for the downtown, thinking them to be providential challenges.

The signs ceased and we arrived in downtown to find it in sad shape. Not many storefronts, even less people about and the only signs of life consisting of bars and auto repair joints and strange reproductions of DaVinci’s “Mona Lisa” attached to the sides of random buildings. To escape from the void of absence and Renaissance art, we sought refuge at the end of the main strip in a tall green bar with wide windows by the name of Wigwam Tavern.

Now this was a blue-collar bar. Dropping eaves as I usually do, I overheard patrons stating they were coming in for a drink before going to the shop and talking about their weekly hangover Sundays. I didn’t work up the gumption to ask the name of the man who stated matter-of-factly, “So I just threw some sticks of dynamite in the living room.”

My Illustrious Travel Companion ordered a salad but neither of us were prepared, and I’m not telling tales here, for the mountainous amount of cheese on the damn thing. The rumors of Wisconsin are indigestibly true.

Just to hear the accent and for general information, the waitress had to be questioned. “The downtown is in the middle of a re-do,” Elisa informed in her own Sconnie way, “The town started as a loggin’ town and when that went away so did a lot of everything else.” She continued about how they have a farmers market daily on the Chippewa River, which runs by downtown, and how they have local art shows where the art is displayed from a projector onto the side of a building before she told us she had to go check on the fryer. It sounded as if the community was realizing and becoming involved with what could happen instead of the way it is. A concerned community is something every downtown should have.

We were directed to another bar that Elisa said that we would, “luuv,” called Clancey’s. I was leery of the suggestions based on stereotyping but the place was tops! We were served vodka tonics in mason jars, fell into two free games of pool and the jukebox, for any sized town, was phenomenal having choices of Ryan Adams, Buena Vista Social Club, Shins, Bob Dylan, My Morning Jacket and a mysterious version of “House of the Rising Sun” by Nina Simone. There were distracting paintings of parrots in sunglasses muralling the place and a head of a mountain goat mounted facing the bar, but yes, Elisa, stereotype away. My Illustrious Travel Companion gave me a knowing wink and I felt like I was truly on vacation.

Unbeatable Minneapolis, MN.

The trip continued in that fashion as we flew through St. Paul to Minneapolis and its spotless streets and gutters, northern air and simple welcomes of skyscrapers and brick buildings, the looming presence of the arts embraced as we picked up magazine after magazine focused on arts and entertainment in the cities.

Dinkytown is near the University of Minnesota just over bridges and across streets where there are numerous bookstores and coffee shops that call in the most pleasing views of community. Just downstairs in the Dinkytowner Café you can find a special of eggs and toast for two dollars and fifty cents and have a New Castle as you wait and play pool on red felt. The walls are mirrors and there is no way to be unhappy with what is seen all around.

From there we smiled our way to Nicollette Street where there are fourteen blocks known as “Eat Street,” comprised of restaurants, Chinese markets, bars and some of the finest scents in the city. My illustrious travel companion suggested Malaysian cuisine and we strutted into The Peninsula, which was said to employ the finest Malaysian chef…well, this side of Malaysia. I suggested a tall glass of Sapporo and the shrimp pancakes. It sounds unimaginable and that is the same way it tastes. Outside the window, volunteers picked the street clean of trash.

The cascade of classiness in each establishment continued. There was the Loon Café downtown where they call Jäger Bombs Viagras and there was Dulono’s with its small bluegrass stage in the back, shingled roofs inside and a pizza comprised of tomatoes, onions, green peppers, pineapple, pepperoni, mushrooms and garlic and a scent in the place that seeps into your clothes.

More impressive than this was a place called Bryant Lake Bowl on Lake Street. The front sidewalk was a dotting of pews and tables for hipsters, artists, mothers and smokers. The front half of the joint was a bar and restaurant offering drinks like a Russian Spring and a Palmer along with portions of grilled salmon, salads and gourmet pizzas. Toward the back was a full bowling alley, greased and primed for whoever had the guts, and over to the left of that was the theatre where that week you could see “Attack of the Atomic Trash Monster’s Bride.” Later that week was performance art and a controversial puppet show.

Speak-Easy Chicago.

My Illustrious Travel Companion was reading to me from a poetry book by William Stafford called “Kansas Poems” and we again lost our way and I sweated as a Kansan in Chicago traffic. With near misses and sporadic movements, we made it to the Lucky Platter on Main and Chicago Avenue. The stage for the brunch was set by folk art around the café; a picture of John Kennedy with an over-sized head, a mongoose made of cans and forks and golf-ball-sized foil balls glued to the ceiling. I had grilled turkey hash topped with mozzarella beside thick, crisp toast and two eggs over medium. I felt as if we were eating in my kitchen.

A long ride on the El-train around and under the city took us to China Town. Its elaborate buildings and coercing aromas made us wish the Lucky Platter had been hours ago. As the rain sifted down in drops nearly mist, we decided that there had to be some kind of taste made of China Town, so headed up a long flight of stairs to Won Kow for some authentic sake.

The old Asian Bartender repeated our orders and poured us two servings. He then filled two tea kettles with steaming water and put our sakes inside after pouring our first shots. Burnt fingertips are a small price to pay for euphoria. I saw a map of the United States on the wall and wasn’t sure where I was.

The Green Mill is one of the most famous bars in Chicago, having a rich history from the prohibition days, including both jazz musicians and mobsters, which probably excuses its horrendous bathroom, dank with only bar soap, and the overly moody staff. The stage was set for an 18-piece band that evening and the regulars were adamantly discussing sales tax as my companion and I drank vodka tonics from miniature fish bowls.  A customer made an order and our waitress/bartender stepped to the place in the bar in front of us, bent over to lift something, all this followed by a loud slam and the sound of a latch. The woman then sank in steps behind the bar and was gone. In amazement, we peered over the bar to see that she had entered and secret room where they once must have stored moonshine and had hidden good times and laughs away from any cop who hadn’t been paid off or was drinking themselves. The others in the place hardly noticed, but my Illustrious Travel Companion and myself knew there was nothing like this back home, and we would be on our way back there the next day.

Talkin’ Top-City Blues.

From circumstances beyond our control, someplace between fortune and fate, our road trip ended in Chicago and we hopped a plane from O’Hare back to K.C. We were shortly back in Topeka with articles to write and lingering memories of recent glories. Driving downtown proved to be slow and disheartening. It all seemed a vague reflection of what could be if the city had some gumption to take a step away from its normal movement West and stand strong in the true heart of the city. I saw many things that this city could be in our trip: embracing of the arts, courage to make a change, realizing the attributes this city has and punctuating on them. There is no reason for this place to seem somber and lacking…unless really nobody cares and this town stays the way it has always been, full of nothing but talk.

***

The ending seems a little harsh. It was very true, though. Four years ago nothing was happening downtown. Since then, our community has gone beyond talk and taken leaps and bounds. Let’s take a roll call: RowHouse Restaurant, Warehouse 414, Break Room, Tinkham-Veale Up/Down Gallery, Hazel Hill, Marion Lane, Wrap City, Buttercups and Daisies, Kansan Grill, Upstage Gallery, The Office, Giovanni’s Pizzeria, Topeka Community Cycle Project, Three Flowers Metaphysical Treasures, Dupree’s, Avenue Hairstyling and Day Spa and not to mention the newest members Blue Planet Café and GIZMO Pictures. BOOYEAH! We all should be proud but realize there is a lot more work ahead of us. In 2012, the renovations of our Capitol Building will be completed…kind of exciting to think about what else will be downtown by the time that ribbon cutting happens.

Matt Porubsky is not a licensed therapist, statistician, historian or medical professional. But he is the 2009 Distinguished Kansan of the Year in arts and entertainment. Take that! Most of the time he just makes stuff up. But all of these stories are based on actual events.

[ July 2010 | Matt Porubsky | reprinted from the ARGO (via right reversion) June 2006 | photos by Matt Porubsky and Leah Sewell ]