The Week I Got the Last Laugh

I say last laugh.

But I have a feeling it’s the first of many.

You see, it wasn’t easy choosing to live somewhere that was on death’s door.

At least that’s what I had been led to believe, mostly by people who had never stepped foot in the place.

Thankfully, ignoring others comes naturally. (My wife will tell you I’m an expert.)

It was 2009, and the internet was fully functional.

I had access to blogs, chat sites, and wikis, and they were painting a different picture.

Yes, there was the one that everyone was trying to force me to see.

But I kept seeing something else.

For a while, I was almost afraid to use the word.

Because how could a place that had lost so much still have this?

It was, after all, the land of lake-effect snow, nature’s security blanket for the insecure. And could you blame them?

Xerox had downsized.

Bausch & Lomb was retro.

And Kodak—well, you know that story.

But that was just the tip of the iceberg.

The downtown mall had closed.

Downtown itself seemed closed.

Crime was up.

The population was down.

Yet, despite it all, that word kept flashing before me.

Promise.

***

By 2010, we had completed the move.

And there began the wait.

Promise takes years—or decades—to reveal itself, if it reveals itself at all.

Of course, I had the time—and the distractions.

Work.

Raising kids.

Paying bills. (My wife will tell you I’m not an expert.)

As they say, the days are long but the years are short.

Before I knew it, the toddler we had dragged up north was looking for colleges.

And the one who hadn’t been born yet was almost a teenager.

It was June 2024.

The four of us were strolling downtown along a unique street—unique in that it hadn’t existed when we first moved to town.

In its place had been a classic American eyesore—a highway that encircled center city and choked it off from surrounding neighborhoods.

The city had taken the bold move of removing the highway, creating space for apartments, townhomes, shops, restaurants, and a hotel.

It had been considered a cutting-edge decision by urban planners, though not one without risks.

The verdict: A blossoming success—in fact, the project has become a model for the rest of the US.

But we were actually passing through the new neighborhood with another goal in mind—the annual jazz festival.

In its 21 years, what started as a humble music event had become one of the premier jazz festivals in the world.

9 days.

20 stages.

326 shows.

Over 1,750 artists.

More than 211,000 visitors.

At the heart of the festival was Gibbs Street, aka Jazz Street, just in front of the Eastman School of Music, one of the world’s best conservatories.

It was 78 degrees, and the evening revolved around food trucks, beer tents, and live music.

Let’s just say that things could have been worse.

When we finally got in the car to head home, I soaked in the vibe one more time.

The city was alive, accent lighting and all.

By that point in my trajectory as a transplant, I recognized all the buildings—except one.

Atop the unfamiliar structure were a shooting star and the words Constellation Brands—as in the beverage enterprise that owns brands like Corona, Modelo, Pacifico, Simi, Robert Mondavi, and Casa Noble.

The Fortune 500 company had just finished moving its headquarters downtown that week.

Once home, I took a moment to catch up on a few texts.

My friend had sent an article that I briefly perused.

The Demographia International Housing Affordability Report had looked at 94 major markets in eight countries (Australia, Canada, China, Ireland, New Zealand, Singapore, the United Kingdom, and the United States) in terms of the ratio of median house price to median household income.

By that metric, the second most affordable metropolitan area in the world was Rochester, NY.

I laughed.

And I thought, sometimes it’s okay to not listen.

(Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons.)