A Night In Tunisia (Oh, Sorry, I Meant Minneapolis)

It's amazing how many things I still haven't gotten around to doing, even after a year of living in Madison. This past weekend, for instance, was the first time I boarded a bus and traveled to Minneapolis, Minnesota, where I spent the weekend doing two things: spending time with my family, and attending a tiny-but-awesome sci-fi/fantasy convention called 4th Street Fantasy.

Ah, the magnificent Midwest!

Unlike traveling to Chicago, it was a painless journey, full of rolling clouds and a lot of trees humping up between cheerful green fields. At the end of it—only five hours, with no bus transfers, and no zig-zags—I tumbled out of the bus fumes and travel cramps, ready for the challenge of finding my way around a new city (with some help from my fantastic cousin) and the slightly more nerve-wracking challenge of being among a group of entirely unknown people. Some of whom were incredible authors that I have admired for a very long time; specifically, Pamela Dean, Patricia C. Wrede, and Caroline Stevermer.

Hopefully, I wasn't too much of a fool—except, of course, that these are my rock stars, my favorite actors of Hollywood fame. At best, I managed to have half-way intelligent but still embarrassing conversations with these authors. I've been told that being kind to your audience comes with the job description, and these ladies were nothing short of gracious. I sat and sweated and chatted about going back to fix world-building problems with Pat Wrede, who knitted the entire time. Pamela Dean and I talked about the brilliant books of Diana Wynne Jones, and T.S. Eliot, and her own books. Maybe next time I'll get past the weakness of character that comes with being star-struck—after all, everyone at this con was reassuringly human (whatever non-human characters they might write).

It was a very full weekend. I still feel muddled up and over-expanded with new people—ideas—information—books to add to my Must-Read-Immediately list—new places. It was my first con, and also the first time in awhile I've had a chance to see my cousin Cynthia. The first time, too, that I met her husband. In between me running off to squee over panels on genre-crossover and misdirection in novels and good vs. evil in apocalyptic settings, I spent some quality time with my family. A late-night walk, an evening fire, a glass of wine—we even managed to squeeze in breakfast with my aunt, who lives much closer to Minneapolis than I thought.

I can't formulate the past three days into any kind of narrative, or bring out any connective thread in my mind. A lunchtime tea with a wonderfully knowledgeable hostess—picking black raspberries from Cynthia's small garden—chatting with author Django Wexler, whose works are now at the top of my Must-Read-Immediately list—the inspiration that comes from smart people talking about writing...these things don't hang together and yet crammed themselves into this weekend, almost on top of each other. 

Did I mention the tea tasting? There was a tea tasting. It was delicious.

I'd like some more time to sort through them before going back to normal life. More time to examine the meeting of minds, the inspiration to write, the similarities of life to the fantastical. But time spins on, even as I write this, and the world grows smaller again--no wonder so many people read fantasy.

4th Night

I didn't do much on the Fourth of July. It's one of my favorite holidays, but there were no fireworks, no grilling out, no red-white-n-blue cake for me. Instead, I spent the day marathoning episodes of the TV show New Girl, and the evening at a rock show featuring local talent.

This is not to say that I completely missed out on national fervor. Six days before the Fourth of July, way back in June, I heard the boom and crack of fireworks outside my window. These weren't a pop here and a fiery spray from a Roman Candle there, but rather a serious fireworks display that crackled above Lake Monona.  I live a half-dozen blocks from Lake Monona, but when I stepped outside I could still see the sprays of light from my tiny balcony. Or rather—I could see some of the fireworks through the leaves and branches of the trees outside my house.

Despite the somewhat terrible view, I couldn't leave. The loud, celebratory nature of fireworks around the Fourth of July usually drenches me with a glorious feeling of solidarity and pride. I might even go so far as to call it patriotism, which is a word I associate purely with politics and firemen.

This year, though, I started thinking. Having missed the memo that the celebrations were starting, I spent my time watching the fireworks remembering other July 4ths.

One year, watching the fireworks sparkling over Lake Michigan with family in Petoskey.

Another year, at my neighbor's house, happy after an afternoon of sun and blue pool water.

The times I ran the Fourth of July 5k in my Michigan hometown of Whitmore Lake. The reading of the Declaration of Independence at the library. The Kiwanis club frying up chicken dinners until the scent of fried chicken wafted across the town. The small-town parade that I marched in as a high schooler. Watching the fireworks exploding over the lake from a friend's deck. After dark, taking a pontoon boat out for a cruise and watching the occasional firework blooming around the lake.

These memories sifted through my mind as I watched Madison's fireworks through my tree branches. I wasn't homesick, exactly, but certainly nostalgic. It's difficult leaving home for a city of 300,000. For me, this is especially true because am acquainted with very few of that number. It made celebrating Independence Day in the traditional fashion almost impossible.

I ended my day with a rock show, however, and that was great. Very American.