Socks landed in Minneapolis amidst a postmodern twentieth century funk. (Is there a particular brand of funk for the twenty-first century?) Traveling is all we Traveling Socks do, and who wouldn’t want to see a new place with a familiar face, even if we are travel-weary? For, after all, isn’t life just a series of moments, of one separate moment connected to another by time, wrapped up tightly or loosely (who knows?) like a spool of thread being wound or unwound with each stitch? And in such stitches (and not really in the finished product) is life. So, whether we want to travel or not, there is something (or more importantly, someone) to see, and there is another moment to capture. Well, moments cannot be captured, for as soon as they happen, they become the past. The past is made up of memories – those stitched together moments, one following the next, and as such, in spite of misgivings and funk, we hopped a jet and were deposited in the land of many thousands of lakes (who’s counting?), not sure what we would find in this new town (new to us, at least), and not sure what moments would be stitched together in the patch-work quilt of Stacy Lyn’s life.
It was time to experience all those scenarios that could unfold.
As luck and happenstance would have it, the first surprise offered by the city revealed itself when Stacy Lyn and Norm were leisurely walking their dog. They turned the corner, and there stood a bronze statue of a woman, waving her hat to the world. Who could that be, we wondered? Stacy Lyn took a closer look and discovered that it was a homage to Mary Tyler Moore. Ozymandias came to mind as she sat on the pedestal for a photo-op:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Make of that what you will.
The second stop on Stacy Lyn’s itinerary was the Museum of Russian Art. To be honest, she is not particularly a Russophile, but Jillian is, so she caught an Uber from the hotel to the museum in order to be Jillian’s eyes. Unfortunately, the museum was between Russian exhibits, and the only artwork being shown was traditional handmade Ukrainian garb. We’re just a pair of Socks and don’t opine on politics. However, even with our minimal knowledge of the human ilk, we don’t think Ukrainians would take too kindly to their handwork being considered “Russian” art. Nevertheless, these robes were beautiful depictions of Ukrainian country life. Why create a difference among people when there are so many similarities?
Stacy Lyn asked the Uber driver which quintessential Minneapolis icon she should see before her departure. The only thing that anyone had previously suggested was First Avenue and all of the music venues where budding stars had once performed. She had seen The Record Room and the star-studded walls naming several of her favorite renowned rock bands from the Beatles to Alice in Chains (and of course, Minneapolis native Prince) to the obscure bands (which escape her, and that’s why she calls them obscure). She was unimpressed. Perhaps she should have seen a show at the venue, but she did not, so a painted wall bearing the names of music legends seemed anti-climactic.
The Uber driver suggested two must-see Minneapolis sights: the Stone Arch Bridge and the Statue Garden.
The Stone Arch Bridge is an old bridge, ostensibly an engineering marvel at the time it was built. There is a pretty park on the far side of it. But neither did anything to stave Stacy Lyn’s nemesis. (Any guesses who that is?)
Stacy Lyn then strode to the Statue Garden. She was curious about the “cherry spoon,” a statue with which she should have been familiar, yet she was not. In this garden, she finally felt Minneapolis. This is what set the city apart from others. The solitude which is natural for Stacy Lyn did not feel so lonely in this garden of various media. Here she could follow the statues as they wound their way around her thoughts, or perhaps directed her thoughts, though freely, as the wind directs the wayward tendrils of smoke towards the unfettered atmosphere. There were stone benches etched with witticisms; statues of the urbane and the silly; towers and bells; saints and roosters. Here lay a garden of contrary notions that made sense in a nonsensical world. Each statue contained a silent idea that could be received by the admirer or passed altogether unnoticed. There was no expectation of oneself. One’s privacy of thought and action remained intact.
She finally drank from the silver cup. Welcome to Minneapolis.