Minneapolis, here we come

Tomorrow, Saturday, we hit the road for the very last leg of this journey. Minneapolis, I hope you are warmer than Chicago was today. But I'll take any temperature to be back home. Looking forward to seeing Future. Our dog, Future. And the future that is not a proper noun too. Was fun to step back and see a bigger world; a vague glimpse of the big picture and my little place in it. I feel humble, grateful, happy, hungry. Ready to leap forward with some slightly specific ideas about where to land next.

One of the first revelations of going on an adventure like this was that there's no reason to call this the last leg of the adventure. During this entire trip we clung comfortably to the motto, "We're still lost." As I said, humble. No reason to let go of that motto. And no reason to stop looking for the next detour, unexpected left turn, or enticing dirt road.

So no, it's not really the last leg, just the next one, and the first one pointed towards home in a while. As I said in a past blog, there are many places called home, but currently Minneapolis is a particular kind of home, and I'm clapping my hands and jumping up and down like a small girl at the thought of getting back to it.

Life is what you make of it. Family is the people you keep. Home is where you hang your hat. In this modern world we have the luxury of choosing it all. But once you make some choices - good, bad or otherwise - there you are. As stuck as if you'd been born there that way. The ruts start to stick, the grooves get ground. That can be paralyzing. It can also be tremendously comforting. Which, I suppose, is why you finally pick some eventually.

So Minneapolis, despite your freaking five freaking months of freaking winter and your people who don't really get sarcasm and your tedious inferiority complex and your small-town politics and your passive-aggressive sociopathic pride and all your blondes, I love you. Because you have the Bryant-Lake Bowl; and lots of lakes; and brilliant, talented, successful people who are perfectly comfortable at cocktail parties talking about heirloom tomatoes; and a mayor who has shaken every single resident's hand, twice; and Norwegian/Swedish/German values, whatever that means; and a premier modern arts institution with a gigantic, fantastically silly sculpture of a spoon with a cherry right out in front; and friendly, normal millionaires; and good schools; and mostly clean water; and Nigerians riding the bus with Mexicans riding the bus with African-Americans riding the bus with white suburbanites, and all of them being crabby in a really polite way; and those so-gay and so-beautiful Target lights over downtown; and people who cry every single time you mention Paul Wellstone; and bike trails right down the middle of Hennepin Avenue; and a thousand other things I occasionally roll my eyes over but most just love with all my heart.

Seriously, it's a big wide world with endless possibilities, but there's nothing better than seeing a bit of the big world to remind you that home is home. The other day, as we were driving Alan's niece, The Adorable Aliza, to the aquarium, she was reciting the entire script and score of "A Wizard of Oz" to us. Somewhere around the eighth repetition of "there's no place like home," I started clicking my heels.