For most of my life, I have lived in cities. Not New York, not London, not Seattle, not Houston: those places are too large and sophisticated for me. I live in flyover country. You know these cities, or do not. Some have gutted-out centers and a pinwheel of thriving suburbs; in others the downtown is dead, but urban neighborhoods flourish.

When I moved to what I call “deep flyover country,“ a good friend asked, “Where exactly is X City?” It was a joke, but at the same time, not. And alas! we never saw each other again. At first we corresponded. Then it was occasional phone calls. Then it was just Christmas cards.

Millions of people live their entire lives in flyover cities. These cities may not be glamorous but are perfectly okay places to live. A bit bland perhaps. As one kind friend put it, “It’s a good night’s sleep.” As another friend said, “It’s like a glass of milk.” Or as another friend said: “There’s nothing to do but drink.”

My generation was always on the move: I followed my spouse, who followed his career, to our first flyover city. But I did not understand flyover culture. People stayed put there. Some families had been there for generations, and they were very defensive about their city.

These people stayed put. Many families had been there for generations, and they were very defensive about their city. I was nostalgic and homesick and often very bored. But I got a grip on myself when I took a day off from work to fly to a university town. I went to a reading by Toni Morrison, then out with my friends, the sensible ones who hadn’t left town, one still working on a dissertation, the other cheerfully underemployed. I could be underemployed, I thought wildly. But, no, I had made my home elsewhere. And so I went home with a better attitude and the will to adjust.

Another flyover city was much more beautiful, had clement weather, and was lushly green, with wooded parks. And people were more outdoorsy, always bicycling or walking to get ready for that bucket-list hike on the Appalachian trail. I liked the ambiance.

And yet I still read midwestern literature about characters with the opposite dream, to move from a dull small town place to a city. Still, I identified with Mrs. Forrester in Willa Cather’s A Lost Lady, who was unhappy in “one of those grey towns along the Burlington Railroad.” After her husband dies, she will do anything to claw her way out of there and return to Denver, where she and her husband used to spend the winters.

But I am more like Carol Kennicott in Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street, a culture vulture who lived in Minneapolis before marrying a doctor. When they arrive in Gopher Prairie, the small town where her husband grew up and now practices medicine, she is horrified by the ugliness. And she resolves to bring culture to the town, but it doesn’t work out. Later, when she is older, she spends several months in a city for the culture, but finds herself missing her husband and home. She has become a citizen of Gopher Prairie after all.

Like and unlike Carol Kennicott, I feel at home in small (university) towns rather than cities. And yet it is an empty dream. The cost of living is very high, or on a par with, or slightly higher than in the cities. Wealthy retirees flock to these towns, because they are charming, have great libraries, and offer free classes for people over 60. They have what the websites call the “state-of-the-art facilities.” Concert halls and hospitals perhaps?

Every day I give thanks for what we have, but if only we could also have a SUMMER SUBLET in a university town. Wouldn’t that be heaven on earth?

No, Carol Kennicott, because it’s here!