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New Times Staffers Weigh In on Why They’re Not Leaving Phoenix Anytime Soon

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Published on September 24, 2008 at 11:42am

It happens all the time: I'm someplace outside of Arizona, I mention that I live here most of the year, and the Phoenix-bashing commences.

"Oh, no! Phoenix!" moaned Dennis, the first time I met him. Dennis owns Parkside Vintage, an amazing antiques store I always visit when I'm in Warren, Ohio. "I used to live in Phoenix, back in the '60s and '70s," he reminded me when I was there last week. "But it got so big-city, and the weather was so morbid. So I moved back here to Warren."

Dennis sent me next door to the Blue Iris Café, where I had a remarkable meal. "I wish we had a really good tapas restaurant like this in Phoenix," I confided to Chef Melissa when she came by my table.

"Phoenix!" she bellowed. "Oh, my God!"

You guessed it. Melissa used to live here, too; she worked as a pastry chef at one of our better resorts, but the endless summer was too much for her, and she, too, headed back to Warren.

"I know," I moaned to my new friends when they started trashing Phoenix. "I hate it there, too. I hate worrying that I'll get heatstroke every time I go out to get the mail. I hate how, after leaving my car parked in the sun for 20 minutes, it turns into a convection oven. I hate that most of the shops and restaurants are chains, and that my favorite galleries and theaters are always struggling to stay open."

"Plus your symphony sucks," Melissa reminded me.

"And the place is so transient!" I practically yelled. "Everyone is from someplace else, so there's absolutely no sense of community! I don't even know my neighbors in Phoenix!"

That's one of the reasons why I bought a house in Niles, the city next door to Warren, about a decade ago. Niles is my hometown, one of those small, Midwestern cities where everyone knows everyone else; where the local greenery is abundant and not dangerous to touch; where summers are so mild that most people cool their homes with only open windows and an oscillating fan or two. In other words, the opposite of Phoenix. Living there in June and July, I decided, would make living here the rest of the year more bearable. I knew there was no point in trying to move away from Phoenix altogether; I'd noticed long ago that pretty much everyone who moved away from here always ended up coming back. But a summer home in a cooler clime seemed the perfect answer.

I lasted exactly three weeks. I can't tell you that my experience as a resident of small-town Ohio was so dreadful that I came racing back to Phoenix, never to return. Or that I came to realize how beautiful the desert is and that I'd been too stupid and ungrateful to appreciate how wonderful living here actually is. But I can tell you this: Humidity is a fucking drag. And people who live in small towns don't watch television; they watch their neighbors.

Things I'd never thought about much before began to matter to me. Like air-conditioning. And Democrats. And being able to carry a bag from my car to the front door of my house without one of my neighbors hurrying over to ask what I'd bought and what I intended to do with it.

It's trite and more than a little embarrassing to admit, but living elsewhere, even for a little while, made it clear to me that there's no perfect place to reside. Especially if you are, like me, a chronic malcontent who's always looking for something to gripe about. I love the frequent late-summer rains of northeastern Ohio, but eventually it's November there, and I can't drive in the snow. I love February in Phoenix, but by March I'm already whining about the heat. I hate that my neighbors here don't want to be pals, but it drives me crazy that I can't fart in the privacy of my own Ohio home without the guy across the street mentioning it to me the next day.

In other words, the Phoenix Symphony may suck, but at least we have one.

Robrt L. Pela, critic

I recently returned to Phoenix after a year and a half in Portland, and people always ask me why I came back. Why leave a relaxed, eco-friendly cultural hotspot for the dusty, dry desert?

Because here I have friends I adore, a kickass job at the coolest paper in town [Editor's note: We paid Wynter to write this] and a throng of Ren Faire geeks, er, "medieval enthusiasts" who accept me as one of their own. Because I can always find a parking spot. Because I can use the pool in January or enjoy Christmas dinner on my patio. And when the monsoon rains come, I sit on the stone bench outside of my back door and soak up every wonderful drop, rather than sinking into a depression to rival Sylvia Plath (which was especially scary with all those bridges around!).

But most of all, the people of Phoenix make me feel welcome. They don't judge me for throwing away a plastic bottle instead of trekking to a recycle bin. They don't scoff at my love of mainstream action flicks or my resistance to eating tofu, fungus, or raw fish.

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