"Duluth! The word fell upon my ear with a peculiar and indescribable charm, like the gentle murmur of a low fountain stealing forth in the midst of roses; or the soft, sweet accents of an angel's whisper in the bright, joyous dream of sleeping innocence."
--- James Proctor Knott, in the House of Representatives, 1871
Wednesday, June 2
You might have toured Venice in a gondola, trekked the Himalayas, and
slept in the Louvre, but you haven't lived until you've been on a
cruise around
Duluth's
harbor. Here is the magnificent industrial face of America that is so
often hidden from Easterners. Duluth's industry is storing stuff that
comes in by rail from the Heartland and loading it onto boats for
shipment to the Great Lakes region, the East, and the World. Massive
grain elevators and iron ore docks are numerous, but the city's pride is
a new mountain of coal emptied by a $200 million German-built conveyor
system
that won the Civil Engineering Award, previously given to the Hoover Dam
and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Kirk, a good looking Scandinavian-American college kid, filled me in on life in his hometown.
"Lake Superior is 400 miles long. Even now the water isn't above 37 degrees. When the wind comes off that water, you get a wind-chill of -100 degrees. The economy is dead flat due to the collapse in iron ore mining. Once I finish my manufacturing management degree, I'm moving to Colorado."
Why Colorado?
"I lived there for one year in high school, and it beats Hell out of Duluth."
Town Babbitts are not giving up without a fight. They spent $20 million to build a container handling terminal; it was used once for a demonstration 10 years ago. They spent $15 million for a fine convention center; it is in Duluth. They turned a brewery on the lake into a Ghiradelli Square upscale shopping mall clone; it was empty.
You won't begrudge the Feds those gas tax dollars if you get back on
an Interstate highway after a few days of hard travel on two-lanes.
I-35S to
Minneapolis
makes for lovely driving, if a bit dull due to
the lack of towns, hills, lakes, or color in the trees. The only thing
that breaks up the monotony are the occasional casinos! That's right,
the Indians are sovereign and, with partners from Las Vegas, operate
huge casinos for Minnesotans. The result is Vegas without the
high-rises and Mafia feel.
The Twin Cities rise up like Oz out of the flat landscape,
"divided by the Mississippi River and united by the belief that the
inhabitants of the other side of the river are inferior."
Minneapolis went whole hog for mirrored-glass megaliths, which isn't so bad; Mies van der Rohe looks a lot better after staring at trees for 15 hours. Everything works here to an appalling degree. The bus shelters are beautiful glass gazebos with piped-in classical music (nice Mozart and Chopin; no angst-inducing Mahler here). Buses run on time. People would be shocked to pay a crushing tax burden and receive nothing in return.
This is an UnCity in many ways. A fundamental difference between village life and city life is that primary relationships are replaced with functional relationships. In the village you buy your food from Bob, whom you've known since childhood, who happens to be working in the supermarket. In the city you buy your food from a supermarket clerk whom you could see every day and never learn his name. Minneapolitans haven't understood this. When you walk into a store or a restaurant, people say hello to you, unlike in Boston, where they'd wait for you to approach them and attempt to transact business. Here you relate as people first, as consumer and vendor second.
Moll Flanders would have had a delightful time here: natives are
woefully unprepared for the sort of malevolent self-invention that is
possible in cities. At a touring performance of Aspects of
Love, I sat next to a local family. One of the daughters had lived
her whole life in Minneapolis; she invited me to come visit the next
day and go sailing. Her sister, though so clear of eye and smooth of
skin that it would be difficult to believe that anything bad had ever
happened to her, had been schooled in suspicion and human evil at
Harvard Law School. She remembered an intangible obligation for the
benefit of her naive sister and nixed the invitation.
Oh yes, even if you don't care for Andrew Lloyd-Webber, try to see Aspects of Love. It is more than your average love pentalateral with incest.
To the extent that anonymity and functional relationships are beginning to prevail here, it distresses people as much as it might have an 18th-century Londoner. I walked into a Vietnamese restaurant in artsy Uptown. The only other customers were Eric and Laurel, who looked a bit like movie actors. Eric had short blond hair over a trim but solid Midwestern build. Laurel had leggy delicate features and a sideways baseball cap over long blond hair. They cooked gourmet food for a bed-and-breakfast in a Wisconsin town an hour from Minneapolis. Although they looked quite happy with each others' company, Laurel immediately greeted me with a friendly "hello," and we started to chat about their life in a community of 175 versus their old life in the city.
Didn't they miss the potential for human contact in the city?
"I lived here for three years, and I think it is much harder to meet people in a city," noted Eric. "Everyone knows everyone else in our village, and people park with the keys in the ignition."
"It isn't as backward as you might think. We have intellectuals in our town who live semi-communally and home-school their children," Laurel added.
How was it working out?
"We were skeptical at first, thinking that kids needed to be socialized with each other, but the home-schooled children seem so much happier, better adjusted, and better educated than factory-schooled children."
I parted from Laurel and Eric with an invitation to drop in anytime they
had a spare room.
I thought that the Canadians had us beat in mall culture, but that was
before I drove 20 minutes south to the Mall of America, formerly a baseball stadium,
where over 12,000 people work and 100,000 shoppers can roam in
comfort. The central courtyard comfortably accommodates a Snoopy
theme park with roller coaster, and stores have street addresses. It
was a disappointment, however. Instead of 10 times as much variety,
the mall just has 10 near-clones of each type of store. There are
plenty of things that one can't buy in the mall--even Berlin's KaDeWe
department store has a broader range of goods.
| Minneapolis outhips New York with an updated Duchamp bicycle wheel in the Walker Art Center |
| Continuing my research into Jewish settlement of the Midwest... |
I breakfasted with Al, an attorney originally from Brookline, Massachusetts.
"I came out here to work for the attorney general for a summer and then decided to settle here. What shocked me about Minneapolis was that people had faith in the system. No assumptions were made about the kinds of people who were arrested. It wasn't just the prosecutor's office or the judicial system. People believe in the government school system here.
"Life here is working out for me. My main problem now is that I'm upset with myself. I spent a lot of my life pushing race-based affirmative action, and now I'm beginning to think it is a mistake. I don't think Clinton is making a good choice in nominating a civil rights attorney general."
Al was referring to a vigorous public debate of which I'd been blissfully unaware. My increasing habit of ignoring newspapers was catching up with me. After breakfast, I drove out to St. Paul's Cathedral, a reasonably faithful copy of Rome's St. Peter's. Four mosaics under the dome celebrate cardinal Midwestern virtues: Justice, Fortitude, Temperance, and Prudence. Any Italian will tell you that one of the most important things about St. Peter's is that there are no paintings; it is decorated with more impressive stone carvings, sculptures, and mosaics. Yet somebody incongruously stuck a single oil painting on one of the cathedral walls here.
A quick ride downhill to downtown St. Paul was enough to convince me
that St. Paul is Minneapolis's plain sister. The few nice towers are
separated by horribly ugly 1950s and '60s concrete monsters.
Although St. Paul is the state capital, the taste mavens at the
Federal Reserve Bank chose to locate their magnificent modern palace
in downtown Minneapolis, upstream on the other side of the
Mississippi, 15 minutes away by Interstate. About St. Paul, one might
fairly say that there is no "there" there.
Heading northwest on I-94 listening to Minnesota Public Radio's noontime classical program, the rolling hills unfolded before me under patchy clouds and 65 degrees. I ate lunch in Sauk Centre, population 4000, with Wendy and Angie, two recent high school graduates. Solid German-American girls born and raised in this agricultural village, they hated having all of their secrets known and believed. They were ready to move away to college and cosmetology school, but not ready for anything as big and far away as the Twin Cities.
"Life here is really boring. School is boring and really easy. A lot of people drink and smoke dope."
"What about all those `DARE to keep kids off drugs' T-shirts everyone here seems to wear?" I asked.
"Well, probably more than half of our high school class has tried marijuana."
So they thought Sauk Centre was losing the War on Drugs?"
"I wouldn't say that. I bet we'll be the last generation of dope smokers."
It is usually easy to forget America's Calvinist heritage, but Sauk
Centre will shove it in your face. Calvinists take seriously the
notion that ultimate judgment is reserved for God. We might be
convinced that we are right, but there is always a trace of doubt.
This kept anyone from being beheaded in the American Revolution
(contrast that with the revolution in humanist France). On the other
hand, sometimes showing both sides of the coin leads to bizarre
results. In Germany, I'd sometimes asked why there weren't any Nazi
museums and people said, "Don't be ridiculous; why would we promote
something we should be ashamed of?" Folks in Sauk Centre just
wouldn't understand this.
Any town might be proud of a son who won
the 1930 Nobel Prize for literature, the first American to do so.
But what if he won that prize by writing Main Street, a book
about how venal and narrow-minded the townspeople of "Gopher Prairie" are? Sinclair Lewis
was born here in 1885 and left to go to Yale, travel the world, and
settle in New York. His boyhood home is now on Sinclair Lewis Avenue.
Main Street has been renamed "Original Main Street". There are banners
all up and down this inspiration for Lewis proclaiming its status as
such. Weirdest of the weird was visiting the Chamber of Commerce
Sinclair Lewis Interpretive Center.
"I thought Sinclair Lewis had particular scorn for the kinds of boosters who formed the Chamber of Commerce. How come they built this nice highway rest stop for their most vicious satirist?" I asked the woman running a biographical video.
"I don't know. I haven't read any of his books."
My AAA Triptik lavishly praises most of the country through which I'd
roamed, but about western Minnesota and eastern North Dakota, the only
thing nice they could find to say was that the highway has "good
alignment and grade" (i.e., it is ruler straight and pancake flat).
It is true that eastern North Dakota is flat enough that radio
stations could mount their antennae on the roof of an old Chevy. But
there is real beauty in the open grasslands, numerous grass-filled
ponds, and extensive sky.
Tonight was my first night camping. There is nothing like a full moon overhead, prairie grass underneath, 20 miles of separation from the nearest houses, and ... the sound of 2000 Harley-Davidsons. Yes, I was at a motorcycle rally where the free spirits of North Dakota convene, leather-clad and helmetless.
"You can park your cage over there," waved a young woman.
"What's a `cage'?" I asked.
Everyone broke into uproarious laughter and passed the joke through the local crowd. It turned out that any kind of car is a "cage"--thus did I augment my previous store of biker wisdom and lingo, which had been limited to the aphorism "Better your sister in a whorehouse than your brother on a Honda."
With assistance from the first passerby, I pitched my tent in the Caravan's headlights. It was after 11:00 PM when I strolled around the main portion of the rally, where people were getting tattoos and dancing to a live band. Free beer lubricated social intercourse.
"Are neo-Nazi groups as popular out here as the media would have us believe?" I started a conversation with a young woman.
"I've never seen any except on television," she replied while sipping a Coke. "Our lives are centered around children, church, movies, and riding our Harleys whenever we can. My husband works as a welder, I stay home with the kids, and we live in a community of 100. It's a very quiet existence."
Has she thought about moving?
"I've lived a lot of places, but North Dakota is the best. A few people say they are tired of it here and talk about leaving, but they never do. We don't have the kind of crime and craziness that you see in big cities. People stick together and have a real sense of community."
Determined to stir the pot, I pointed out that Bismarck, the state capital, has only 1/200th the population of Los Angeles or New York and therefore it wasn't surprising that there were fewer and less interesting crimes. My interlocutor wasn't offended, though. Despite their often formidable appearance, North Dakota bikers are a gentle group. Only once was I ever afraid of any of the rally participants.
He was a 6' 3", 240 lb. guy with a black beard and a beer gut poking out from under his black Harley T-shirt. At about 7:30 AM, he roughly shook a nearby camper awake and demanded, "Are you a Jew?" The sleeper said, "No," and the big guy moved to the next tent, asking the same question. By the time he got to me, I was concerned, but I nervously answered, "Yes." He said, "Great! We need a tenth for a minyan."
Chapter IV: Yellowstone
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