There’s a reason you are seeing my boxers here
Those are my pants. They are hanging to dry in my hotel bathroom. I’d been wearing them for 48 hours prior to the hobo style washing in a sink – and they perfectly sum up my first Detroit Motor Show experience.
It all started so well – a comfortable BA flight out of Heathrow, tasty beef dinner, lots of legroom and a few hours kip.
Then we got to America. If you’ve never been to the States, the queue at immigration will come as a shock. It’s like Alton Towers without the happy ending. Some would think they don’t really want you to come in. What’s that? They don’t? Oh, that explains the hour-and-a-half wait to have our passports stamped then…
The hold-up put our connecting flight from Chicago to Detroit in peril. We flustered. We ran. We were met by a very kind man who said he’d take our bags and promised to get them on the flight.
And that he did. All of them bar mine and one other motoring hack. My colleague was fortunate – his made the next flight. His pants were safe viagra in griechenland. Mine? Not so much.
I remember having one of these. Those were good days.
American Airlines’ baggage claim department was a busy place. It should’ve rung the alarm bells. It didn’t.
I trusted the lady when she said it’d be here the next day. I even relaxed and laughed about it on the way to our hotel. If only I’d known.
After a trip back to the airport the following morning – the morning of the press day of the show I’d come out here to cover – we hit a brick wall.
Not literally, that would’ve made my day even worse. Nope, this brick wall was called Joan – and Joan, it seemed, wasn’t having much luck with a computer.
‘Well, Mr Barr-gort,’ she said. ‘I’m awfully sorry but we can’t seem to find your case in the system. It’s not showing on my screen.’
Oh. Ok. That’s not good.
‘Nope, not good at all – have a nice day!’
Have. A. Nice. Day. Seriously Joan?
God Bless America. Just not American Airlines.
A trace is put out for my missing case (whatever that means) and I’m told to wait by the phone.
With a show to cover, I decide to head back to Detroit and hope my fermenting socks, two-day old t-shirt and Converse trainers make me look California car designer cool and the pong will help clear a path to the cars.
The enforced trip back to the airport at least offers me the chance to see some of Detroit. Or what’s left of it.
The driver takes a detour through some of the more run down suburbs and it’s like a scene from the blitz. Block after block of derelict buildings, many burnt out by angry residents trying to drive out drug dealers.
‘See that street down there,’ says John, who is carefully manoeuvring our Lincoln around huge potholes. ‘If you walked down there at night you wouldn’t come out the other side. There were two shootings there last week.’
Is it really that bad? I ask him.
‘You better believe it. There are many parts of Detroit that aren’t safe to walk around during the day, let alone at night. Shootings are common, muggings even more so. You wouldn’t be safe.’
And this wasn’t bravado. This was John being honest. Over coffee and sticky apple fritter ‘donuts’ he tells me how the city has changed in the 48 years he’s lived here. From the boom days when the car business was good, to the dark days of recent years.
The population of the city has shrunk from 2.5million to just 700,000 – and with the amount of empty houses around you can well believe it. The most people I see are gathered outside a homeless shelter.
John adds: ‘It’s a huge shame – I love this city – but the best thing for it now is to bulldoze it and start over again. These suburbs are lost.’
Inside the Detroit show halls you wouldn’t guess the levels of desperation of some people outside
SHOW TIME
All this heartache isn’t apparent in the show halls. Car companies put on the glitz. Kelly Rowland sings badly at the launch of a Mercedes and American cheese is spread liberally over all the staged car launches.
Inside the cars are the stars – and the sheer volume of important models showing their faces here for the first time shows how important Motor City is still regarded.
After a day of sweating under the lights, my socks need a press pass of their own. I sneak away with Kia’s press chief, Steve Kitson, (my host for this trip) who’s found a shop where I can buy some clothes.
A block away from our hotel in Dowtown Detroit is Showtime – a shop I can only describe as Burtons on acid. The store’s tagline (yes, it has one of those) is ‘Dressing bands and entertainers since 1989’ and it’s like I’ve stepped into Ozzy Osbourne’s dressing room.
Mad leather jackets with tassles, shirts even James May would describe as ‘gaudy’ and shoes covered in fur are among the more conservative offerings. And there are no pants. Or socks.
Owner Dan can’t believe his luck. He kits me out with jeans which I try on as a man plays guitar and sings soulful tunes for my benefit alone. It certainly beats piped-in Justin Bieber in a sweaty Topman changing room.
James May’s wardrobe department would have had a field day…
I’ve never laughed so much shopping for clothes in my life. Dan takes great delight in picking me out the most hideous shirts known to man. One even had leather cuffs and collar…
‘Slash comes here for his clothes,’ says Dan.
Is Slash blind? I ask.
‘Nah man, we’re bad ass here. I’ve got customers who come all the way from Vegas for this stuff,’ says Dan.
I don’t have the heart to ask for a plain white t-shirt. I pick the more conservative offerings he serves up and hand over my card.
A card which 24 hours later the bank cancels as it thinks it was fraudlent. Brilliant.
‘If you call me tomorrow I’ll drive you to a dollar store and you can get some socks,’ adds Dan. ‘I don’t open until 12pm so will be more than happy to.’
I take his number and thank him.
Think what you like about Detroit – with people like Dan, their huge personalities, big laughs and humbling generosity still around, I’m pretty sure there’s some light around the corner for Motor City yet.
Right, I’m off to wash my socks.
Like numbers? Crunch quadratic equations like Vorderman? Good at herding cats? Then Blackball Media needs you!
