Last weekend, I returned to Minneapolis: the location of the optimistic start to my college career, the height of my days of independent living, and the cold, miserable drudgery that forced me home to greener pastures.
I’ve gotta tell you: I was stoked for the car ride. I used to make that 5.5 hour bitch at least once a month for two years and I had my playlist all picked out, my coffee mug at the ready, and visions of gas station doughnuts in my mind. Of course when I took off at 7:30 in the morning, my car encapsulated in a block of ice, I realized a few miles out of the city that my cruise control had broken, and my windshield wiper blades were too frozen to even bother sweeping away the slush, salt, and melted snow leftover from the previous night’s storm. Fan-tastic.
However, I did not let that deter me. I got my black-booted right foot situated in the most comfortable pedal-to-floor position, gave myself a great impromptu concert featuring all of my current favorite songs, and did not mind pulling over to wipe the crust of salt off my windshield every half hour or so. Unfortunately, when I reached the longest stretch of the trip, between Eau Claire and St. Paul, I was forced into bored, random thoughts of which celebrities I would want to adopt me if I was a wayward orphan. Immediately Samuel L. Jackson popped into my head for a dad, but I couldn’t pick a mom that I wouldn’t either A.) Want to be best friends with or B.) Have wayward lesbionic thoughts about. Instead, I decided on Honor Blackman circa. 1965 in Goldfinger. Afro Samurai and Pussy Galore? Quite the pair.
Not much had changed along the highway in a year. There was considerably less construction and a huge new hotel outside of Eau Claire, but otherwise pretty static. Of course, the Twin City skylines were familiar scenes, and boy was it good to be back. I believe my relationship with Minneapolis is like that of a woman with a pair of insanely hot high heels. You put them on at the start of the night: you look great and feel like you can take on the world. But by the end, you have five blisters, your legs hurt, and you never want to wear them again. Yet the next time a special occasion rolls around, you dig them out of the closet with undaunted enthusiasm.
I love and hate that city.
What was different about this trip was the number 21. As in, age 21. What was also different was that one of my best lifelong friends transferred to the U after I left, and thus gave me an intense sense of comfort and familiarity in a place I used to simply not fit into. Together “Xenia” and I visited my old coffee shop where I met up with old friends, was recognized by old regulars (wtf, right?), had a mini-party in the old house where I used to live with one of my bridesmaids who still lives there, and drank up a storm in Dinkytown. As I sat in the Library and downed a Long Island with Xenia, I looked at all the UMN memorobilia on the walls and felt a twinge of regret about leaving. I remember driving up to the city on moving day, 9/4/05 and looking at the skyline with all these romantic freshman thoughts in my head–I specifically said to myself, ” This place knows where you’re going to end up. Who you’re going to be, what you’re going to see, and who you’re going to meet.” Kind of lame I know, but it was a big life day, okay? And as Forth and I drove away from the city on 12/15/07 in our loaded vehicle caravan, I couldn’t even look at the skyline in the rearview mirror. I had conceded defeat and was retreating tail between legs.
However, when Sunday morning rolled around, city seen and fun had, I was eager to toss the empty whiskey bottle into the recycling, pack up, and head home. A ton of fun was had, and what’s the point in sticking around if visiting is so fucking awesome? As far as the Minne-apple goes, I enjoyed the dance, but simply have to give my feet a rest until the next time around.
**Back.
