the kalamazoo countdown begins (#10: 10th floor)

So, in an effort to begin reconciling myself to the fact that I almost don't live here anymore, I've decided to use the next three weeks or so to count down the top ten things I will miss about Kalamazoo. Although there are so many things happening all at the same time in my life right now, most of them worthy of at least one lengthy blog post, I feel that publicly discussing the aspects of Kalamazoo I will most sorely pine for will be a therapeutic means of letting go of the town where I've been living for twelve (gasp!) years.

It is my intention to post ten times in the three weeks I have left here, counting down my days and my experiences, giving you a brief description of what it is I find so wonderful about each of the places or things that made the list. So, without further ado, I give you the beginning of the end, and it seems the most auspicious of beginnings for this countdown that the 10th floor of Sprau Tower on WMU's campus is #10 on my list.

Now that I think of myself as being from Kalamazoo, it's hard for me to remember at times that college is what originally brought me here. Despite my lack of school spirit, I suppose I've spent more time at WMU than several of my professors and certainly more than most of my friends. For that reason, something from Western needed to be on my list, and Sprau Tower is probably my favorite thing about WMU.

It's pretty simple, really: from the 10th floor of Sprau Tower you can see the whole town. You get this amazing panorama with downtown pretty much visible behind the football stadium, across East Campus and the Crazy-Persons' Tower, down Stadium Drive, over to Video Hits, across the Valley dormitories and over the treetops of what's left of the Basswood preserve, and over all the little turrets and domes of K college. It's particularly spectacular in the fall because it's town, except with these incredible swathes of orange, red and yellow bursting out in every direction. At night it's usually deserted, and the Little Skyline That Could looks almost formidable from up there in the dark. In a good snowstorm, the town totally disappears and you feel like you're in a giant snowglobe, and during a lightning storm you feel like the gatekeeper and the keymaster rolled into one.

There's a kitchenette and comfy chairs, and nobody really ever goes up there except for the occasional janitor or English professor. Plus, you have to have keys, so I get to be the one who bestows this view upon the uninitiated, one of the few perks of being a graduate assistant sharing an office that used to be a storage closet with four other people.

So that's it, I guess, for #10. Stay tuned.