How I Pissed Off Coastal Elites

I hadn’t set out to piss off coastal elites.

To be honest, it was just another day in the life of an anonymous blogger. The only thing out of the ordinary was that I brought a friend—a typically solo mission, in other words, was performed as a duo.

It all started in immensely humdrum fashion. I mean, how much more mundane can it get than visiting the den of government workers?

I took a few pictures of the obelisk outside, and to add to my presidential collection, I nabbed a couple shots of the statues as well.

Then, I took a deep breath and stepped into City Hall. My friend had entered a few minutes before, and together, we knew there was only one place to go.

When we reached the top floor, we were taken aback. First, there was no one else there. But even more shocking was what surrounded us.

No matter where we looked—all 360 degrees of it—was stunning.

There was a huge lake that fed a river. When we tracked the river northward, we saw evidence of a massive waterfall. As we turned, we noted an NHL arena, an NFL stadium, several grand avenues, and one last thing—another country.

After fully absorbing the scene, and knowing that our $2 parking was set to expire, we reluctantly made our way back to the ground floor.

The next order of business, of course, involved nourishment. Without an obvious destination in mind, we drove north along the river and ultimately stumbled upon a bazaar with free parking. The place, we learned, was a magnet for immigrants, a place where they could share their cultures and cuisines—and earn a livelihood.

Briefly browsing the options, I settled on poulet braisé, a chicken dish that happens to be the national dish of the Republic of the Congo. I had to have it with fufu, according to the woman who took my order and then proceeded to make it from scratch.

She was the owner, and as she toiled away, I learned about her life in Africa, France, and then the US. Along the way, I received an impromptu tutorial on the Republic of the Congo, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Angola. Sensing a forgiving audience, I took the opportunity to show off my (disastrous) French.

Meanwhile, my buddy had befriended a Bangladeshi woman who gave him two free copies of an English translation of the Quran. Somewhat predisposed to verbosity, he also met a pair of young men from New Zealand ironing out the details of their startup in the workspace on the building’s upper floor. (I noted they left shortly thereafter.)

The poulet braisé turned out to be exactly as advertised—a blend of leek, ginger, rosemary, thyme, and garlic that created an explosion of flavor in every mouthful. Dipping the fufu in the gravy was a scrumptious bonus.

Well-nourished and still enamored with the river, my friend and I decided to explore an island within its bounds, one whose park was named for the freedom granted to slaves who had made it to the river’s other bank. Parking, again, was free.

Projecting from the southern tip of the island was a mile-and-a-half-long pier, particularly inviting at the time given the need to work off the Congolese meal. As we walked south along the pier, there was one country to our left and another to the right. We walked under one of several bridges that connect the two, eventually reaching the point where the aforementioned oceanic lake—shared by both countries—feeds the river.

Many pictures and a few thousand steps later, there was only one option—ingest more calories.

To make it happen, we found street parking and hit an old and dark pub, the kind with musty carpet and bathrooms that make you gag. But this one was special—it was also the kind where you could keep the paper placemats.

One placemat listed when every state joined the Union, along with tidbits like state flowers and nicknames. The other listed all 45 US presidents, their states of origin, and their term(s) served. The point was to prepare patrons for a popular trivia night.

Knowing that more quotidian tasks beckoned, we limited the indulgence to one Labatt Blue Light each, said our goodbyes, and started to make our way home.

In transit, I realized that what I had done could be construed by coastal elites as extremely disrespectful. According to them, they had a monopoly on all things natural, cultural, international, and intellectual.

I was supposed to be talking about how steel would be making a comeback soon. Granted, I would have, except the most prominent steel mill had been replaced by an urban wind farm.

Instead, I had spent a grand total of $25, and I had received both a free Quran and a free US history lesson.

At least the coastal elites could take solace in the fact that job options where I roamed were limited—I would just leave out the part about driving past a Fortune 500 company and several corporate law firms.

Now, with a few extra days in the rearview mirror, I’ve recognized it is quite possible that these coastal elites won’t care one bit. They might simply continue to congregate with one another and discuss just how much better they are than interior dwellers.

Stated another way, this whole thing can remain a secret.

After all, no one reads this blog, especially when it’s about Buffalo.