Sometimes I miss the smell of hay, dirt, grass, BBQ, conservatism, ignorance and grease. So, I return to Kansas City, MO. (not to be confused with Kansas City, Kansas. Don’t ever go there. It’s bad. Real bad. ) My roots. Sort of. I’m from a small town outside of Kansas City, which no one knows about, and I spent little time in, and Kansas City was always much more fun growing up, so I say KC is my home by default. Anyway, it seems I’ve been hungering for trips there about once a year (read: my best friend lives there and I go visit her and her husband in their big, comfy house for a $100 plane ticket). The last few times I was there, I was reminded of how glorious an escape, if only for three days, Kansas City really is. I roll in to this idyllic neighborhood called Brookside which is lined with trees and happy families and kids walking to school, and actually has the street names tiled into the sidewalk. On every block there are these old, stately houses from the 1910s & 20s. It’s much like Stepford, but without the robotic wives.

We start every morning with a walk to central Brookside where we have a reserved corner table on the patio at The Roasterie Cafe, and we people watch, bag on fat, unstylish KC people, and happily eat ham and cheese croissants and drink lattes.

Then something else happens during daylight hours, not incredibly important. Then we go out at night. And this is maybe when I love KC the most. The entire city is lit up like a Hollywood back lot. There are all these gorgeous old buildings in downtown with large lighted signs on the top that always transport me to the industrial times of the 1900s when the city must have been really bumpin’. Western Auto. Folgers. Abdiana Futons. Howard Johnson.

This Western Auto sign happens to be my favorite.

Then comes the best part of the evening where we have been rendered too inebriated for words and must soak up the booze with the best hamburgers ever made on a greasy grill. Town Topic.

You sit at the counter and a woman, presumably named Flo ( who looks like “throw mama from the train”), takes your order without showing any emotion, mechanically hands it over to the line cook, and begrugingly gives you drinks in a brown glass with rabbit turd ice. It’s magical. And, I recently found out if you sweet talk the mute line cook, he’ll throw some extra bacon on your burger for free. That’s livin.

All in all, it’s a nice escape from reality. Friends. Pretentious latte drinking. Greasy burgers. Remnants of old industry. Perfectly kept lawns and even more perfectly kept timeless homes. It lures me back time and time again. That yearning to experience a life unlike my own. And burgers.

-Sarah