I returned to Buffalo nine months ago a guilty prodigal. My career, bank account and marital status benefited greatly from my voyage, but after 24 years I still loved the old girl and wanted to make it right.
With one daughter graduated from college and the second choosing to stay in Georgia to finish, my St. Louis-born, retired husband and I had the perfect opportunity to be urban pioneers.
Not only is the old L.L. Berger building beautifully redone, I told him, we can park the cars much of the time. We'll walk and take the train. We'll attend concerts, shows and games right up the street. We'll have the world at our feet.
It wasn't until we moved in that we learned that Buffalo's Main Street is the ultimate Cinderella and midnight comes at about 6 p.m.
We moved in on a July Saturday and took particular glee in the Chinese delivery menu we found under the door. It said it was open seven days a week. We had a doorman, high ceilings with pipes and ductwork, exposed brick, AND a Chinese restaurant that delivers right across the street. Welcome to senior Seinfeld, the Buffalo years.
That glee lasted until we got hungry Sunday afternoon and headed across the street. No closed sign. It was just closed. We looked up the street. Absent Gary Cooper and a few tumbleweeds, it could have been the set of High Noon. A man in a maintenance uniform came out of the Hyatt to make our same discovery. "Can't even get a burger around here on Sunday," he said, shaking his head with disgust. (To be fair, the restaurants at the Hyatt were open, but after the first $9 cocktail, we knew this would be a rationed luxury).
But we found joy in being among the few who could simply waddle home from the Taste of Buffalo and in sharing our "cool place" with suburban nieces and nephews.
We fell easily into the new rhythms. On Tuesday, I'd come home for lunch and walk the Farmers' Market with my husband bringing back most of our fruits and vegetables for the week. On Thursday, the library is open late and we have the concerts in the Square.
My office is just a few blocks from a train stop. We are considering becoming a one-car family when his lease is up this winter. Our cars are gated and protected on the Pearl Street side of the building, the only place we can enter the our building without going through the Hyatt or its related tunnels.
Last night we celebrated by husband's 60th birthday with a perfect (except the score) baseball night with our up-the-street neighbors, The Bisons.
We watched the end-of-game fireworks stream over the stadium as we waited at the Seneca stop for the train and silently congratulated ourselves again for our very smart choices.
It was hard not to smile beatifically at the others with miles to go before they slept as we got off the train two stops later. The Electric Tower was bathed in blue and gold light and the M&T Dome seemed to shine particularly bright.
We remembered that the Hyatt entrance closest to our building is usually closed after six and headed to the main entrance of the main hotel on Main Street... and at 10:15 found it locked. Side doors, revolving doors, all doors shut down tighter than a submarine on descent. Our address is 514 Main St., but we apparently have no front door at an hour when most school children are still doing homework. We had to walk around the block to the Pearl Street entrance of the Hyatt, guilty vagabonds walking through the registration lobby without luggage.
I don't regret our decision to live where we live, but wonder how simple things (like getting Sunday newspaper delivery - we're one for seven at this point) have to be so hard.
People who visit us are always impressed with the apartment.
We just have to remind them to arrive early if they want to come through the front door.





Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs