I love Pittsburgh. I love its marquee attractions like the Duquesne Incline, the Andy Warhol Museum, Primanti Brothers sandwiches stuffed with French fries, iconic PPG Place, and the way the Ohio, Allegheny, and Monongahela Rivers come together in the shape of a slingshot. But underneath its rising star veneer, Steel City still boasts some grit.
My host for the night is Rob Loveless, a 29-year-old communications executive who moonlights as a novelist (his second book Eleftheria just hit shelves) and producer of an LGBTQ podcast called A Jaded Gay.
Rob Loveless (Photo by Jason A. Heidemann)
He’s much too handsome for Pittsburgh, but I love his charming colonial home in Dormont which boasts an awesome guest bedroom. I invite him to join me for dinner, but he’s aiming for a 9 P.M. bedtime so that he can rise at dawn to hit the gym. I wish I had that kind of discipline. At Ramen Bar in Squirrel Hill South, I slurp my noodles alone.
“How tall are you,” I ask Erica, the super leggy transwoman and bartender whose ginger curls remind me of Annie. “I’m 5 foot 18 inches,” she says winkingly. “It sounds more feminine.” I’m upstairs at 5801, a popular video lounge and bar and the only place in Pittsburgh buzzing on a Tuesday. As Erica slings drinks to assorted barflies I move in on them one by one, curious for stories. There is Daequan who lives in Squirrel Hill right across the street from the Temple Sinai where 11 people were shot in 2018. He has long dreads pulled back into a ponytail and is the director of programming at a local wellness center for people with HIV/AIDS and mental illness.
The most promising cutie in the room is a guy named Dustin who is sitting at the bar with his roommate Kiki and an older toothless man whose name I never catch. They both work at Italian restaurants. Dustin is looking for orchestra jobs and when I inquire about his instrument Kiki chimes in, “He plays the skin flute,” she says. “And he’s also a flautist.”
DAY 4: PITTSBURGH TO DETROIT
The next morning is a frosty one, a reminder that chilly weather in the Midwest doesn’t wait for autumn’s official arrival. I drive through the teensiest sliver of West Virginia’s northern panhandle and pull over in the tiny town of Chester to take a selfie in front of the World’s Largest Teacup. As I roll on into Ohio, the landscape becomes typically Midwestern: commonplace are gentle sloping hills dotted with red barns and shiny silos.
Road Bridge in Cuyahoga Valley National Park (Photo_ Jason A. Heidemann)
The pandemic turned me into a national parks junkie, and today I’ll check another off my list. Cuyahoga Valley National Park in Ohio is only about 20 miles from downtown Cleveland, which is pretty amazing given the remote locations of many parks. Its signature attraction is gushing Brandywine Falls, but I don’t have time for the out-and-back hike, so the helpful folks at the Visitors Center direct me to the Ledges, a simple 1.8-mile loop trail that winds through forested valleys surrounded by layers of Bedford shale. The dramatic views of the Ledges Overlook pale in comparison to the sculpted abs of the shirtless runner who twice passes me.
Mural in Downtown Cleveland (Photo_ Jason A. Heidemann)
Lunch is in Cleveland at the Fat Cat, a funky little eatery in the Tremont neighborhood and just a short walk from one of the city’s Cleveland sign sculptures, famously constructed in cursive script. Fat Cat is a neighborhood gem, a modern Midwest diner with a kitchen that’s doing great things. Think kimchi potatoes, chicken wings confit. and spiced swordfish tacos. Afterward, my mouth craves something long, shaft-like and cream filled, so I head over the city’s legendary West Side Market and order a cannoli from one of the 100 on-site vendors.
Detroit thrums with game time energy as I pull into town right at the beginning of a slugfest between the Tigers and the Mariners (Mariners will win). Though I’m sure its economic recovery is still fragile, the energy in downtown Detroit is unmistakably kinetic. I last visited the city in 2013, the same week it declared bankruptcy. What a difference a decade makes.
My lodging for the night is the Siren Hotel, housed in a historic downtown building with the narrow waistline of a supermodel. It was once home to piano purveyor Wurlitzer Co. and also a music school. The hotel, including guestrooms, lobby, and adjacent Candy Bar are filled with rich colors and soft mood lighting—sultry, bordello vibes are everywhere.
I ride an electric scooter to Corktown, the oldest neighborhood in the city and where Ford Motor Company is turning dilapidated Michigan Central (an icon of urban decay) into a high-tech hub and innovation incubator. Live music roars through every street corner tonight, a midweek musical extravaganza known as Corktown Sounds. I am here to have Detroit-style pizza at Michigan & Trumbell which is only open for takeout thanks to staffing issues. But the cashier who takes my order lets me sit at the counter and enjoy the Packard Pepperoni, a red sauce pie layered with pickled chiles, house made honey, mozzarella, and pepperoni.
The bar scene in Detroit tonight is less appealing. All the action at Menjos, a longstanding queer bar, is happening on the outdoor patio where two red-faced queens are squabbling loudly. I purchase some poppers and a cock ring and a cutie comes up to me and tells me I’m the hottest guy in the bar. I survey the mostly empty room and realize it’s a
depressing compliment.
Temple Bar downtown is livelier and offers the promise of rainbow tiling woven into the brick façade and legit “big dive energy,” but almost everyone inside is straight. I learn that the bar is gay owned, but these days largely hetero frequented. I can’t heartily recommend it.
DAY 5: DETROIT TO SAUGATUCK
The next morning, I rise, shine, and eat. In 2016, Bon Appetit gushed over Sister Pie (the writer happens to be a former colleague of mine). It sits on a fully revitalized stretch of Kercheval Avenue in the West Village neighborhood and right near a hip butchery and a gift shop called Things from Detroit. The warmed up galette with an over easy egg and Dijon mustard is the best thing I’ve put in my mouth this entire trip (NYC Beatle notwithstanding). And when I ask the server about my questionable decision to add on a slice of plum blueberry balsamic pie for breakfast, her answer, “You can eat pie anytime you want” wins me over completely.
Eastern Market, Motor City’s legendary urban marketplace is not open on a Thursday, but a shop sitting kitty corner is. Andrew, the clerk at queer-owned Vintage Eastern Market wears pleated shorts, thick glasses, and has red fingernails. Just for fun, I cruise him multiple times while pretending to bury my face in an old issue of Manscape magazine. I’m scanning the story “My Ass the Masterpiece,” from this vintage periodical, but my eyes are fixed on Andrew.
I am back on the road, but not for long today. The journey from one Michigan coast to the other is a runner’s sprint. I do stop for lunch in charming Ann Arbor at a sprawling deli called Zingerman’s, which is on my radar because I met owner Paul Saginaw in Las Vegas at his eponymous deli Saginaw’s within Circa Resort; both eateries are very much worth checking out.
My sleeper cabin at Campit Outdoor Resort, an LGBTQ campground in gay-friendly Saugatuck, is sandwiched between two others, both lesbian occupied. I love Campit, and it’s awesome to be spending a night in nature. Saugatuck is the Midwest version of P’town, though it’s true sister city is probably a sleepier ‘mo mecca like Guerneville.
The night begins at The Southerner, an excellent waterfront restaurant in downtown Saugatuck that labels itself a place for “road eats,” so naturally it’s up my alley. I chow down on Nana’s fried chicken, a house specialty, and chew the fat with my queer bartender who is looking to make the move with his partner to Chicago. At The Dunes Resort, a sprawling LGBTQ hotel, nightclub, and entertainment complex, it’s karaoke night and eerily quiet. Even drag host Peaches senses the stillness. “I don’t bite unless you want me to,” she says. But this is the calm before the storm. Tomorrow begins Labor Day weekend and every Midwest queer will soon be here. It’s one of those nights where I’m desperate for booty and everyone senses it. I’m back at Campit and treading water in the resort’s swimming pool.
Smile You’re in Saugatuck (Photo by Jason A. Heidemann)
Tonight is a naked pool party and this fisherman in his birthday suit is catching nothing. Not Peter, Justin or Dennis, three pretty hipster boys visiting from Chicago; not the two handsome muscle bears who I catch a glimpse of as they are stripping down, each boasting butts that glow in the moonlight and resemble scoops of vanilla ice cream (covered in mossy butt hair); and not the dudes from Muskegon who regale me with stories of The Diplomat, a gay sauna in nearby Grand Rapids. As I towel off my moonlit cakes I hear someone say to me, “Make sure you call [Saugatuck] S*ck and F*ck in your article.” Tonight, I have no mojo and even the crickets have gone quiet in mournful respect.
DAY 6: SAUGATUCK TO THE QUAD CITIES
This morning I’m playing tug-of-war with the receptionist at Campit. I’m sad to be leaving Saugie so soon and resisting handing over my cabin key.
Driving the Blue Star Highway, where wild turkeys roam freely along the side of the road, reveals the complexity of a small-town America claimed in part by queers. A chic winery and art gallery, for example, sits near a geriatric brick building boasting of an upcoming American Legion pancake breakfast. Elsewhere along the highway, Pride flags are proudly hoisted, but so are Trump banners.
Indiana Dunes National Park, our nation’s second newest, is rumored to have a nude beach and I’m determined to find it. The crescent-shaped park clings to the southeast corner of Lake Michigan and despite the rolling sand hills that give the park its name, it is also partially forested and even ranks 8th in total plant species out of all US national parks. Kemil Beach is the rumored nude beach in the area and either I never find it or there are simply no nudists around today. Regardless, I shimmy out of my clothes to capture a few rays.
In Illinois, the idyll of Lake Michigan’s rustic coastline comes to an abrupt halt as sand dunes turn to suburbia, the rudest of roadside awakenings. I’ve climbed onto the interstate to recapture a couple of hours lost to sunbathing. Roaring semi-trucks trample across this stretch of paved over prairie. I-80, I’m afraid to report, is as bland as chicken broth. To its south are the farm towns where both my parents were born and raised. To the north are the sprawling Chicagoland suburbs where only weeks ago I spoke at my brother’s memorial service.
Starved Rock State Park in Ottawa brings a symphony of layers and textures in the form of sandstone canyons, gushing waterfalls, hiking trails, and breathtaking overlooks to floppy-disk flat Illinois(the second flattest state in the US (behind only Florida). The park’s deep gorges offer air-conditioned respite on this searing afternoon and I chew the scenery while hiking.
Geneseo, IL (pop. 6,512) boasts a lovely town square, and just outside it sits a Disciples of Christ Church featuring seven Adirondack chairs splayed neatly across its front lawn, each painted a different color of the Pride flag. “All are welcome to sit here,” a sign reads. It’s the prettiest small town I’ve seen this trip and I can’t believe an Illinois native like myself hasn’t heard of it.
I crawl into the Quad Cities, a metro area neatly divided by the Mississippi River that registers only blank stares on the faces of people living on the coasts. The Hotel Axis in Moline, IL occupies a slim building no wider than a matchstick and sits on semi-happening 5th Avenue, the small city’s main drag. It’s a comfy little hotel and just what I need tonight. I proceed to order in Quad Cities-style pizza from Harris, a legendary corner pie shop in Rock Island. Tavern cut and famous for its malted crust, I fail to see what all the fuss is about.
Davenport, Iowa (pop. 101,009) is the undisputed “big city” of the four and contains two gay bars right next to each other. But it’s slightly queerer than I imagine as it’s also home to both Gayman and Pansy Avenues. On the back patio at Mary’s on 2nd I meet Mitch, Mark, and Corbin, three friendly guys who namecheck all the queer bars that have shuttered in recent years (R.I.P. Jr’s, Augie’s, Connections and many others). After knocking knees and exchanging furtive glances with cutie Corbin a couple times, I excuse myself to go to the toilet where I wait in the bathroom’s lone stall for him to show up, which he does right on cue moments later.
DAY 7: QUAD CITIES TO OMAHA
A lot of houses in small town America resemble old men on a bench, weather beaten and sloping, but also containing a century of untold stories. This is not the case in Iowa City, the Hawkeye State’s upright liberal beacon and my alma matter. It’s game day upon my morning arrival and one fan I pass on the street is wearing a t-shirt that reads: “America loves Iowa City’s tight ends.” I couldn’t agree more. Students dressed in hideous black and gold colors are swarming in and out of bars like hives of drunken bees, but I enjoy strolling the town’s beloved Pedestrian Mall and recalling the four completely unremarkable years I spent here.
Most of Iowa I dash through. Charming Pella offers a movie set-like downtown featuring a pretty town square and brick buildings with Dutch trimmings. In Madison County, I check out its famous covered bridges, and in front of beloved Roseman Covered Bridge drop my pants for a couple selfies I know will crack up my most fervent Instagram followers.
I have another lodging winner on my hands at the Hotel Omaha Indigo Downtown, in the city’s revitalized and historic Blackstone District. The hotel is emblematic of the city’s underrepresented cool factor with guestrooms boasting rotary phones, mid-century drink tables, and upholstery in earthy, saturated colors like olive and mustard. Plus, the hotel’s privileged hilltop location offers views of downtown and the Missouri River.
I cross that river at dusk. One of the city’s most pleasing features is the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge (aka, The Bob), a 3000-foot cable-stayed pedestrian bridge connecting Omaha to Council Bluffs, Iowa and named for former Democratic Senator Bob Kerrey (who secured its funding).
Chimney Rock, Nebraska (Photo by Jason A. Heidemann)
The skyline is streaked in pastel colors at this hour, and the panoply of singles, couples, and families traipsing across the bridge and stopping for photos at the spot where you can stand between two states is surprisingly diverse. Another fun fact: Because Nebraska awards its electoral votes using a proportional system, in 2020 its electoral votes split, meaning that thanks to Omaha every single place I overnight on this entire trip awarded its electors to Biden.
The staff at La Buvette in the Old Haymarket District are punk, roguishly cute, and look out of place in this cornfed town. Both the bartender and a clocked-out server sitting at the stool next to me (and who I assume is queer) guide me though a fantastic meal that includes a hunk of bread and a slab of butter, burrata and tomatoes on a floating pool of pesto, a half chicken, and an apple tart. The basement kitchen at this place works wonders.
