Painted women luring the farm boys. Crooked. Gunmen. Brutal. Smoke and dust. Stormy and brawling.
Sound familiar? Those lusty words are from Carl Sandburg’s “Chicago.” And he was being nice.
Take all of them and add one word–Supplicating–and you’ve got Windsor.
“Windsor,” says Marty Gervais, resident journalist-historian-poet-playwright-professor, “has always been different from the rest of Canada, as far as feelings toward Americans are concerned.
“Our girls take off more clothes than your girls there. We’ll do anything to get American dollars over here.”
Which probably explains why there’s both a bridge over the Detroit River and a tunnel under it. If one doesn’t bring you, the other will . . .
When you arrive in this city of 204,000, you will find a large casino, a downtown devoted mainly to processing beer one bottle at a time, strip clubs unlike those found in most stateside municipalities, $40 Cuban cigars, hookers (you have to know where to look; this isn’t Tijuana), a street with several blocks’ worth of Italian restaurants, at least one French bistro that serves horse, plus, within a short drive, wineries, world-class birding and a petting zoo that, at press time, included a baby black panther.
In short, if you do come, you could have a very good time. How you define that is up to you. The pleasures of Winsdor are disparate and, beyond the casino and other party-style indulgences, not all that obvious to the casual visitor.
One more point: From this side of the river, Detroit–unavoidable Detroit–has never looked better.
A little history:
Windsor, it seems, has always been about moving things from the United States to Canada, or from Canada to the United States, and we aren’t just talking maple syrup. The city was a key stop on the Underground Railroad in the 1850s (there are tourable reminders). During Prohibition, by one estimate 80 percent of the liquor illegally smuggled into the U.S. from Canada came through Windsor.
“There were a lot of speedboats going across to Detroit,” says Francine Webb, of the area’s tourism board. “In fact, Al Capone was a frequent visitor here.”
Our own Al Capone . . .
“He used to own a home in Amherstburg [a suburb],” says Pat O’Neil, a retired local merchant who knows the territory. “The mayor of Amherstburg and Al Capone, they partied together.”
There was one Jim Cooper, another dealer in illicit fluids, who is said to have disappeared somewhere in the Atlantic, not by his own choice. Then there was Harry Low, for a time a very successful rumrunner who funneled some of his profits into a fabulous house in Walkerville, distiller Hiram Walker’s company town, now part of Windsor. Low wound up living in a rooming house, penniless; the mansion eventually was lived in by a political family, which will bring a tear to the eye of any Chicagoan.
The house is still there. City tours point it out, with good humor.
Walker, by the way, came here from Massachusetts, opened his distillery (Canadian Club is its most famous product; tours available) in 1858, then built Walkerville. Eventually, he added a church and hired its first minister after the clergyman promised never to rail at his congregation about the sins of alcohol. The minister, in his first sermon, did exactly that–and Walker fired him. The second minister waited a couple of Sundays before damning spirits, whereupon he, too, lost his job, and Walkerville lost its church. Walkerville eventually lost Walker, and the heirs built a new church.
Later, the city became an industrial center when the Big Three automakers built plants here and other companies built widgets that fit Chryslers, Mercuries and Buicks. That might have been more wholesome, and tax-generating, than bootlegging, but it left Windsor with two legacies it can’t seem to shake: a dependence on the United States far more direct than any other sizable city in Canada, and a declasse image that brings sneers from the likes of high-brow Toronto and Ottawa.
“Because of the automotive industry,” says Webb, “we’ve been considered a lunch-bucket town.”
“It’s our industrial heritage that misleads people,” says Steven Brooks, who owns Grape Tree Estate Winery (tasters invited) south of the city. “People don’t want to move here because of the images. But once they get here, they never leave.
“Some of the perception of just being bars and strippers is a little far-fetched,” says Joe Colasanti, whose petting zoo, indoor miniature golf course and other kid-friendly amusements have turned his huge garden shop into a Winsdor treasure (and mostly free). “Yes, we do have bars downtown, but there’s other types of entertainment.”
Sure. Strippers.
“The table-dancers, they’ll come up and [achieve shocking proximity] if you want ’em to, as long as you’re an American,” says O’Neil. “Make sure you have a little American bill sticking out of your pocket, so they know you’re an American and not a Canadian.
“You walk into a bar and flash a Canadian bill, they’ll hand you a broom and say, `Here, sweep the floor.'”
Yes, beneath the Windsorians’ ever-warm welcome to Americans–whatever the motivation–is this residue of perceived humiliation. The fact that the Canadian dollar has dropped to an all-time low vs. ours (recently $1.57 Canadian per $1 U.S.) has helped business here–they want us–but not without embarrassment.
I gave a cashier a U.S. $20 bill for a ticket to a Casino Windsor magic show. The ticket price was $12 Canadian. The cashier punched it up.
“This can’t be right,” she said, and tried it again. No mistake. I thought she was going to cry.
My change from the U.S. $20 bill, in Canadian cash: $19.
And yes, yes, I did duck into a strip joint (local term: “the ballet”), but everyone–strippers included–was leaning against the bar that night, garments on, watching the Canadian Olympic hockey team get pounded by Swedes. (It was an early round game; the Canadians did better later.) Tables were empty, dance floor deserted. The little American bill never left my pocket.
As for the party bars–most of them downtown, on Ouelette Avenue–they were relatively quiet as well, especially for a weekend night. There was the game, which kept people home. There was also the fact that the temperature, measured in Celsius, was a bitter number. (A couple of clothes-on dance clubs with live music were busier, but I would’ve been the only person in them above the age of 19 [the legal drinking age here], and that makes me feel creepy.)
I’m told summer, when many bars open onto fenced-in sidewalks, is better.
“Patio season,” says Brad Wright, assistant brewer at Walkerville Brewery (tours here too), “is very good around here.”
The casino is, if you like casinos, about as good as casinos get.
It has been operating in its present space since 1998. Detroit built three in an attempt to keep the players’ money in Michigan, which briefly dented Windsor’s business. Then someone remembered that in U.S. casinos, the house immediately takes a tax bite out of large jackpots on behalf of the IRS.
In Canada?
“You win here,” says Webb, “nothing. They’re supposed to declare it, legally. They just don’t.”
Casino Windsor rebounded nicely.
Casino Windsor also has a deli-restaurant called Lotsa Matza. On the other hand, the magic show–even with the favorable exchange rate–would’ve been laughed out of, say, Toronto or Ottawa.
But that’s the casino’s problem. Windsor has a resident symphony, and live theater is alive and well in the handsomely restored Capitol Theater and in the Chrysler Theater, on the riverfront. The Art Gallery of Windsor has a solid collection of mostly Canadian canvases, sculpture and intriguing multimedia setups.
When the weather moderates, festivals happen most weekends on a riverfront that, with its jogging path and sculpture garden, would be the envy of many U.S. cities, including Capone’s other corporate headquarters.
If you don’t mind the usual nightly wait, the Tunnel Bar-B-Q has been doing what it does at its downtown location for 60 years. If you’d rather skip the cheval, Elaine Bistro can substitute a nice canard. Erie Street–Windsor’s Via Italia–has at least 20 Italian restaurants jammed into a few blocks. Around town there’s Vietnamese, Chinese, Lebanese and the usual steakhouses. Plus Canadian bacon and, if you search, Montreal-style smoked meat.
Wash any of it down with wines from one of the half-dozen local vintners.
“We’re probably where California was in the 1970s,” says Grape Tree’s Brooks. “We’re starting to establish reputation.”
As Windsor tries to shake its own.
“It’s a nice little town,” says shopkeeper Lina Shanfield, “and it’s safe. S.A.F.E.”
You hear the “safe” thing a lot in Winsdor. It’s meant to suggest a contrast with what’s across the river, but nobody ever finishes the thought.
“You can walk around anywhere here at night and nothing will happen to you,” said a cabby. “We are lucky in Windsor. We’ve got the wonderful view, and . . . “
And Detroit gets the exchange rate.
They’ll be right over. Pucker up.
IF YOU GO
Windsor box
GETTING TO THE BORDER
It’s about 300 miles from Chicago to the Ambassador Bridge or the Windsor-Detroit Tunnel that carry visitors over or under the Detroit River and into Canada. Figure 4 1/2 hours, almost all Interstate driving. There’s also an auto ferry from Sandusky, Ohio, into Ontario via Pelee Island, if you happen to be in Sandusky, Ohio; and daily Amtrak train service from Chicago to downtown Detroit; public buses or prearranged shuttles can take visitors across the border from there. (This item as published has been corrected in this text.)
CROSSING INTO CANADA
Officially, it’s about the same as Mexico: birth certificate or a passport may be requested, though a government-issued photo ID (driver’s license or the equivalent) is often enough. On the other hand, I drove in on the bridge (fee: $2.50, $3.50 Canadian) and wasn’t asked for any documents at all. I was asked where I was from. I told the agent. His reply: “Jerry Springer’s hometown!” He let me in anyway.
Time for crossing by car: Negligible. Lots of lanes; just two cars were ahead of me at my toll booth.
CROSSING BACK INTO THE U.S.
You should have a government-issued ID. I drove back into Detroit via the tunnel (fee: same as the bridge) and once again wasn’t asked for any documents. On the days right after Sept. 11, on the other hand, waits were as long as 16 hours. They had to bring in PortaPotties. Locals came by offering sandwiches to truckers. But these days, waits of any kind are unusual. Time for crossing by car: Less than negligible. No cars were ahead of me at the toll booth.
(For instant traffic info, tunnel or bridge, either direction, call 866-899-BORDER [2673] or check www.bordernow.com on the Web.)
SIDE TRIPS
Birders rave about Point Pelee National Park, particularly in spring for songbirds and in fall for monarch butterflies. About an hour’s drive. . . . Pelee Island, reachable by ferry from Leamington (Point Pelee), is best known for its nature trails and its winery, a survivor of what once was a thriving regional industry. . . . More birds await seasonally in St. Clair National Wildlife Area on Lake St. Clair, also a one-hour drive. . . . Stratford, with its Shakespeare Festival, is about 2 1/2 hours by car; Toronto is four hours. . . . And, of course, there’s Detroit.
INFORMATION
For Windsor and vicinity, including Pelee Island, call the Windsor, Essex County & Pelee Island Convention and Visitors Bureau at 800-265-3633; www.city.windsor.on.ca/cvb.
— Alan Solomon
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E-mail Alan Solomon: alsolly@aol.com
