Altr’East River

I read (or heard) once in college that to speak another language is to have another life. This makes perfect sense to me; every language seems coloured by the world-view of its speakers–there is more beauty in Italian and more pleasure in French. I feel like a similar thing can be said for neighborhoods: you have many lives as you have homes. Each new setting changes one’s haunts and habits. A register shift occurs.

Earlier this month, I moved from the spasmodic East Village to Park Slope, a tweedy pocket of tranquility in Brooklyn. I’m excited to explore the neighborhood–the streets, lined with trees and gorgeous, historic brownstones, promise quality walking. I live within blocks of two beckoning Italian restaurants, one of which advertises a goat cheese, fig and prosciutto pizza, which is really just a love letter to Megan, written in the underemployed medium of pizza. Prospect Park is a mere block and a half from my apartment (reminiscent of my summer on the Upper West Side), and the farmers’ market that I used to frequent in Union Square when I was a resident of the East Village has been seamlessly replaced by the farmers’ market at Grand Army Plaza.

I’m hoping that a calmer, more focused Megan will emerge from this new setting: one who maybe cooks instead of living on soup from a can, one who reads ACTUAL newspapers rather than the online version, one who resumes her much-vaunted epistolary tradition.

Of course, this semester is insane, my disarray all too mobile (I didn’t leave it behind in the E.Vil), and I’ve scarcely settled in. So much for that.

I still don’t feel like I’ve spent much time in Park Slope but I look forward to learning its streets and finding my corners.

On Going Home

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.