Everybody loves a parade, unless it’s in southwest Detroit, apparently.

That’s the case, it seems, with last week’s Cinco de Mayo parade, probably the most fascinating and varied parade in the city, but which draws about 17 people from outside the neighborhood to join the thousands lining the street.

The Freep mentioned the parade on its front page the day before, so I expected an influx of newcomers eager for a glimpse of the city outside the usual downtown radius most people think of as “Detroit.” Instead there was a mere handful, consisting either of pale hipsters exposing their pasty flanks to the climbing sun, or several odd academic types in their 50s, complete with standard professorial attire like a tweed jacket (seriously), whose confused demeanor suggested they came to observe this mysterious and heretofore unfamiliar phenomenon called Local Mexican People, who constitute nearly the entire population of this area.

The prof types near us looked slightly disappointed or bewildered as the parade plowed forward, as if they expected to see perhaps a solemn procession paying tribute to ancient Mayan roots, or marchers carrying effigies representing genocidal conquistadors imposing an alien culture on meek native peoples, the kind of scene that brings a flutter to the modern academic heart.

Instead they got chihuahuas, Virgin Mary tapestries, low-cut shirts, pit bulls pulling children in wagons, child boxers, tortillas handed out from floats, and hot rods galore, painted in varying levels of gaudiness and beauty. Their facial expressions suggested that they were seeing brazenly and merrily paraded before them the same supposed stereotypes they’ve likely lectured their students to avoid assuming.

But every ethnic parade is a host of stereotypes, or cultural icons, depending on your point of view. One person’s stereotype is another person’s “screw you, I actually do like hot rods.”

The parade was more than oversimplifications by me, however. Little children were driven by on flatbeds, decked out in rainbow-explosion colored traditional costumes amid settings featuring cactus plants in pots, thin horsemen wearing sombreros ambled through, campy marchers dressed as Mexican wrestlers pestered the crowd, and the usual hangers-on like area politicians and businesses waved with their logos on signs, trying to get a free commercial.

Enthusiastic crowds stuck to the sidewalks, stepping out gingerly here and there to check out each successive hot rod. Nothing thrilled the crowd more than the cars. Every squealed tire drew whoops from the bystanders. A person of possible homelessness riding an old bike tried joining the parade but was a bit unsteady and wiped out hard. The crowd cheered. A motorcycle cop tried to show off at the start of the parade and wiped out, falling sideways off the bike. The crowd applauded. Strange crowd. Had he hit someone they’d probably have given him a standing ovation.

When it’s the St. Patrick’s Day parade on Michigan Avenue and tradition consists of everyone being publicly drunk in broad daylight, suburbanites arrive in droves, but when it’s sober, comparatively reserved families quietly enjoying the day, the tourism rate here drops to near zero.

There are a lot of people who think Detroit consists of a few dozen restaurants and bars between Jefferson and Grand Circus Park, or a handful of traditional events within those borders. But the city has almost 140 square miles containing thousands of interesting things beyond those boundaries, countless things to do that remain undiscovered and unknown by most people only because they lie outside downtown’s narrow reach, and outside many people’s conceptions of what Detroit is.