Love Note #2: Don't Touch That Dial

Name: Ana Liss

I am: part of the economic development team in the NYS Executive Chamber; Rochester lover; southpaw 

Years in Rochester: 21 if you count birth through high school graduation and 2.5 years working there as an adult

Current Home: Albany, NY

Dear Rochester,

I live about 202 miles away from you now, well outside range of your satellite signals. But I can’t bring myself to change the presets on my car radio. The order on the FM dial is 88.5/90.5/91.5/93.3/94.1/95.1/96.5/97.9/98.9/100.5/101.3/102.3/103.9/106.7/107.3; and my AM presets are simply 1180 and 1370. I miss Beth Adams’ voice anchoring my morning commute, and the Saturday funk parties on WDKX. But maintaining the stations right where they are on the dash of my Honda is somehow reassuring in an uncertain, callous world. 

The act of changing them just seems so permanent and wrong. Like, if I did, it would be akin to switching football teams…giving up carbs…or becoming a citizen of a different country.

Sometimes, when I come home to visit family, I’ll park my car along Buckingham Street, where I used to live. I walk around like it’s still my neighborhood, and I shop at East Ave. Wegmans as though it’s still my grocery store. I’ll even buy milk, despite the 3.5-hour drive back to Albany. 

I think I fell in love with you sometime when it was dark, in the dead of winter, when snowflakes were quietly falling on the ice below the Broad Street Aqueduct. I may have been snug in a booth at Dinosaur BBQ, looking out the window. 

You’re just wonderful. You make me feel warm when it’s freezing. You give me comfort when life is harsh.

I love you just the way you are. The same goes for my car radio presets. 

Love,

Ana

Love Note #1: Bike Kids

Name: Tanya Mooza Zwahlen

I am: Wife, mother of two, city planner, Massachusetts native

Years in Rochester: 10

Current Home: Highland Park

Dear Rochester: On Wednesday, August 24, 2011, my five year old daughter, Claire, learned to ride her bike without training wheels. I stood in the road with four or five of my neighbors and their kids for several hours that day, watching as they rode up and down the street. Every few minutes someone would yell, “CAR!” and we would step to the curb to let a car pass.

Sometime around dusk, a group of 30 bicyclists turned onto the far end of our block. I remember hearing a boom box and seeing the group move quietly down the first half of the street. After a few seconds, a few of them let go of their handlebars, sat up and clapped their hands. One of them excitedly shouted Claire’s name, and they all hooted and hollered. She stopped pedaling in little circles around the street and looked at them in amazement. We all did.

After a few seconds, they were upon us. Thirty people on bikes. Taking up the width of the street. All of them smiling. A few of them high-fived Claire. One of them was our next door neighbor, Scott.

The group was Critical Mass, whose purpose is to “celebrate cycling and to assert cyclists’ right to the road.” They choose different routes each week. That night, Scott had shared with them the story of Claire learning to ride, and suggested they swing down Mulberry Street to congratulate her.

As quickly as they had come and enveloped us with cheers, they were gone. Off to explore the rest of the city. Those few moments transformed me. That night, I thought long and hard about this little gesture of encouragement, made by 30 strangers to my daughter, and it made me realize that I really love this city.

It is remarkable in and of itself that Scott, a bachelor, noticed that Claire had learned to ride her bike that day. It is more remarkable that he convinced 30 people, some of whom he didn’t know, to alter the course of their night. That would not have happened in the suburban Massachusetts neighborhood where I grew up. There were no biking advocacy groups cruising down our cul-de-sac. It would not have happened in the North End of Boston, where I lived after college. Critical Mass was active, but the roads were too busy for children to ride and we didn’t know many of our neighbors. I’m not even sure it would have happened in Ithaca, a community known for its appreciation of alternative modes of transportation, where we lived during graduate school.

It happened here, and I am so proud that it did. Rochester, thanks for being a city where people encourage each other. I love you.

Claire (and Hartley) Zwahlen, August 24, 2011, moments before critical mass came down the block.

Coming soon!

Rochester Love Notes is a project inspired by Philly Love Notes, and is intended to provide a platform upon which those of us who are smitten by the Flour City can proclaim our love to the world.

Reach us by email at lovenotesrochester@gmail.com if you have questions, or are interested in being part of the project. Very simply, we're seeking brief love letters - no more than about 600 words - that begin with "Dear Rochester..." We'd love it if you could also submit 1-3 pictures with your letter, too. Nothing inappropriate, of course!

Stay tuned...