Detroit is not an easy city to summarize. It resists simplification. It was once a French trading post, then a British stronghold, then a burned-out shell in the War of 1812. In 1805, a fire destroyed nearly every building in the city. Father Gabriel Richard penned its motto in response: “Speramus meliora; resurget cineribus.” We hope for better things; it will rise from the ashes.
It has done exactly that—again and again.
From Parker Alley, we moved through The Belt, a revitalized corridor where murals and light installations now occupy what was once just delivery access and forgotten airspace. Artists have reclaimed it. It feels alive. Around us, you could hear the city breathing differently. There’s still grit—but now there’s color too.
Detroit’s real boom began in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. First with shipbuilding, then with railroads, and finally—and most fatefully—with cars. Henry Ford’s assembly line turned this city into the beating heart of the American century. Packard. Chrysler. General Motors. At its peak, Detroit was a global engine of innovation and labor. People poured in from the South, from Europe, from Canada, drawn by the promise of good wages and a home of one’s own.
But the city was never only mechanical. It was also musical. Motown was born here—not just a record label, but a vision of what America might sound like if harmony could triumph over division. The Temptations, the Supremes, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder—all of them launched from studios just a few blocks from where we stood.
We reached Campus Martius, the city’s reclaimed center, once lost to traffic and now lovingly reimagined as a gathering space. There were people here—real people, not just tourists—reading, talking, working, living. It felt like a small civic miracle. The very idea of public space, well-used and well-loved, seemed revolutionary again.
We passed the Soldiers and Sailors Monument, a 19th-century tower to Civil War dead, and veered onto Griswold Street, into the Art Deco sanctuary of my dreams.
The Penobscot Building stands tall—red granite, Native American motifs, setbacks that suggest ascent. It’s not flashy, but it doesn’t have to be. It was built to impress without pleading for attention. Then, a few steps later, we entered the Guardian Building, which doesn’t suggest heaven—it declares it.
Walking into the Guardian is like stepping into a kaleidoscope carved from stone. Vaulted ceilings, mosaics, stained glass, and elaborate tilework in oranges, blues, and golds. Built in 1929, on the edge of the Great Depression, it was meant to project confidence. It still does. This was Detroit at its most optimistic, its most ambitious. A temple to commerce, but also to beauty.
We returned to Woodward Avenue, that old river of asphalt that bisects the city, and followed it past The Spirit of Detroit—that stoic green figure holding the flame of faith and the family of man. Past the Joe Louis Fist, hanging like a metronome of defiance over Jefferson Avenue. Joe was more than a boxer—he was a Detroit hero who knocked out Nazi propaganda with one mighty swing and gave Black America a moment of vindication in a century of humiliation.
And then, we reached the river.
Hart Plaza stretches out like a palm at the city’s edge. Across the water: Windsor. Canada. From here, you can almost feel the pull of two nations. A crossing that’s been used for commerce, for love, and—most hauntingly—for escape.
There, by the water’s edge, was the Underground Railroad Memorial. A bronze family frozen mid-flee, their eyes locked not in fear, but determination. On this side of the river: a farewell. On the Canadian side: a welcome. Together, the statues tell a story that no textbook ever quite captures. Detroit wasn’t just an industrial hub. It was a final stop on the road to freedom.
Before there were factories and fast cars, there were footsteps—desperate and deliberate—made by people running from bondage toward something better. Many of them passed through here. Through the city. Through this very place.
Standing above that monument, with the skyline behind us and the river below, I thought about Detroit’s motto again.
It will rise from the ashes.
It always has. From the fire of 1805. From the riot of 1967. From white flight, redlining, and bankruptcy. From deindustrialization and decades of decay.
And here we were, two travelers on foot, tracing that resurrection in real time. Through murals and monuments. Through pizza and granite. Through history and heartbeat.
Detroit isn’t perfect. It still bears the scars. But it walks with purpose now. It’s upright. It’s in motion.