I consider Minneapolis my hometown, though I’ve spent more of my life gazing at it from a distance than within its city limits. Growing up in Rosemount (a blemish on my biographical geography, although I love the home where I grew up), I looked longingly to New York but also, more realistically, toward Minneapolis. (Both focal points were correct–if there’s one thing I have a knack for, it’s for knowing where I should be.) Now, blissfully ensconced in New York, I gaze back with fondness at my urban midwife.
It’s funny how moving away has elevated Minneapolis’ status as a travel destination–my city now shares with Paris a rosy aura of nostalgia. I’m not kidding. I have lyrical yearnings for a city that so many East Coasteners assume is a Midwestern backwater. Idiots…
My feeling for Minneapolis is similar to my feeling for Colombia: I love these places all the more because people don’t know that they’re supposed to love them.
I feel like I am quite conceivably the world’s biggest Minneapolis-fan. If not, then surely its most vocal chauvinist. Who could possibly love its lakes, river, coffeeshops, theatres and public radio as much as I do? Can anyone share my profound understanding of the sublimity of Solera’s little goat cheese balls? (I doubt it. I mean, we all know that goat cheese is good, but this stuff is my manna.) The BBQ chicken pizza and tiki drinks at Psycho Suzi’s, the Venezuelan corn pancakes at Maria’s, the spectacle of the Loring Pasta Bar…
I love that my city has the Walker Art Center, the Guthrie and the Open Book Building. Minneapolis loves the arts; I marvel at the accessibility of its scene. I used to think that Minneapolis was like any other mid-size city in the country. It’s not–it is exceptional.
The recent tear in the city’s fabric is disturbing–I’m awed by the collapse of the I-35W bridge, which I’ve driven over countless times on my way to the University of Minnesota. The river was always a favorite wandering spot of mine during my college years: Like a Dostoevky character, I have spent many a metaphysical moment on Minneapolis’ bridges (most typically the Stone Arch Bridge). I cannot begin to fathom how traffic will flow once the school year starts up again…
I digress. This past year has already distilled my Minnesota iterinery considerably. I am becoming less ambitious during my visits home, less concerned with seeing everyone I know with a 651 or 612 area code. I’m now more interested in relaxing, visiting some old haunts, spending time with my family and seeing what friends I can.
It’s odd to reduce my relationship with my parents to a few core activities: walks around the neighborhood and crossword collaborations over coffee with my mom; tennis, grilled salmon (regardless of the season, Mike Doll will brave the bitter cold for the perfect piece of grilled flesh), and pitchers of champagne sangria with my dad. These, of course, are some of the things that I miss the most but I’m saddened by the sudden significance that these rituals assume. It all becomes mimetic of our previous lives together: remember when we did this all the time? The pathos is at times too much for me to take.
2 Comments
September 3, 2007 at 9:35 am
Wow Megan. This post first blew me away with your lyrical writing (Fitzgerald couldn’t have done any better) and your dramatic photo of the Stone Arch bridge and Minneapolis skyline at twilight. Then it reduced me to tears reading of your memories of the simple routines and everyday activities which you remember with fondness. Thank you for your rhapsodic homage to our fair city, and for all the rest too…
May 10, 2008 at 11:57 am
[...] As per tradition, my dad cooks for me whenever I am back in Minnesota; he is an artful griller. Last night we decided to have lemon-infused salmon and asparagus with a bottle of Vouvray–every bit as good as it sounds. When my dad walked in on my mom drawing up a grocery list he interjected dramatically: “No!! We have to pull up The List!” [...]