I come from the Midwest, from the bluffs along the shores of Lake Michigan. It is not an exotic place, though it is very beautiful. You might stumble on an arrowhead, and there are a few trees, bent and tied to the ground a century before by Indians, which mark trails. But other than that, there is nothing remarkable about the part of the world I come from. -Marry Morris, Nothing to Declare: Memoirs of a Woman Traveling Alone
I don't know if I'm in the Midwest. When I go 90 minutes northwest to Columbus I certainly am, if one defines the Midwest culturally. But here in Athens I'm surrounded by trees and gentle but assertive hills. It's Appalachia watered down (and heightened) by academia, transplants like me who come in to do their graduate work and teach.
I was born in a suburb of Chicago. Lived in Minnesota. Michigan. Certainly there was something remarkable about the places I grew up. I flip through mental photographs. Curbs, sidewalks, planted trees, middle class houses. Chain restaurants, some local ones. (The Plush Horse, an ice cream parlor in Wheaton, IL. The Ideal Cafe in downtown Northfield, MN.) Not exotic to me because I lived there, but maybe to a foreign traveler (or one from New York).
A Californian friend told me once that people who claim the desert is bland--awash in brown--have never really been in it. The color is all there. You just have to look closer, get down in it. After he told me this I moved to Albuquerque, and I found his observation to be true.
Outside of Athens, there is a hillside, now dark brown from lack of leaves. Three birch trees stand at the foot of it, brilliantly white, offset by the neutral backdrop. I can see detail I never could in summer with the green veil covering the hill. Every ivory branch is visible. When I see it I flash pictures of the nervous system, the insanely intricate tendrils that stem out from the trunk of the spinal cord. I feel a heat underneath my ribcage and I blink to make the image clearer. How can anything not be remarkable?