Guess the City…

As I entered city limits, I glanced up briefly.

Cloudy and dank. Perfect.

I bisected the Olmsted park, knowing full well that its beauty was harder to see under a blanket.

But I saw it anyway.

I would have stopped to gather some Instagram fodder, but I was on a tight timeline. Real life beckoned, so this getaway would be quick.

Once through the urban sanctuary, I pulled in to the state university—the smaller of the two in town—and sorted out the parking situation.

Not rocket science around these parts.

The first stop was an art museum.

I was alone, but if ever a city were designed for solo travel, this was the one.

Its people—knowledgeable, balanced, and always willing to talk—had made it that way.

I paid the $10 entrance fee, exchanged a few pleasantries, and started to explore.

My eyes immediately landed on the works of a famed watercolorist, the one for whom the museum had been named. His creations live on in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Smithsonian, but as he was a local product, the largest collection was staring at me.

Those thirty minutes could have been sufficient to make me feel cultured (I eat microwave meals and listen to pop music), but the space was also a gallery for regional artists, and I still had work to do.

There was a generous shout out to the Roycroft movement, instrumental in the trajectory of 20th-century architecture and design. There were canvases, sculptures, and quilts displaying the ruminations of community creatives.

And then, one floor up, there was the art glass collection of a local couple—one a newspaper publisher and the other a marketer. An art critic would show more eloquence in describing the 50-piece collection, but I was left with just one word—insane.

As always, I landed in the gift shop, and I did not leave unscathed, adding a gem on the intersection of science and art, written of course by a native daughter.

It was not a bad haul, considering the world-class art museum—right across the street—was closed that day.

I got back in my car and headed south, driving through what has been recognized nationally as a model for mixed-use, urban neighborhoods.

I normally would have grabbed a bite, but the clock was ticking.

The next stop was city hall.

But it wasn’t just any city hall—this one was the second largest in the country, an Art Deco masterpiece overshadowed by taller contemporaries like the Empire State Building, but hardly less impressive.

Outside was a 96-foot monument to the American president who had been assassinated nearby, and inside were busts honoring two other presidents with local connections, one as a lawyer and the other as mayor.

I took advantage of the free daily tour, teaming up with a guide for what turned out to be a one-on-one education session.

As we chatted, he pointed out murals, lunettes, and architectural details, later taking me to the second-floor office of the mayor himself (though sadly skipping a formal introduction).

We slowly made our way up the building, stopping to check out the 13th-floor digs of city council and eventually ending on the 28th-floor for a 360-degree look at the grand metropolis.

Prior to parting ways, my guide encouraged me to return for a more comprehensive tour of the city’s architecture, as in the one that attracts enthusiasts from all over the world.

And from there, it was on to the final stop.

This metro could not be fully appreciated without dabbling in its cuisine, and my not-small stomach was reminding me of that fact.

I headed south yet again, this time toward the grain silos, specifically the former home of a barrel manufacturer.

The space had been reconfigured to brew beer and and serve food, and as above, it was the latter that had drawn me there. (The former may have had a minor role.)

Before ordering, I had the good fortune of crossing paths with the manager, who exuded pride in recounting his role in the city’s story, a player in the continuum and a star in the current chapter. For a burg that had come up from the water, it was only fitting to have that same water repurposed for the new economy.

I willingly took his advice regarding nourishment, not that I needed much help.

I was, after all, in the home of one of the world’s most simple delights, a unique show of affection to meat on bread. And when done correctly, it is quite possibly the best sandwich you’ve ever had.

This one was done correctly.

As I savored the last bite, I looked around, noting once more the name of the establishment.

Resurgence.

Indeed, I thought to myself.

One day, I would get wasted and jump through tables, but on that afternoon, I felt honored to have seen the real Buffalo.