Minne-SLOWWW-ta

When I saw Minneapolis on my flight itinerary, it was the cold that had intrigued me. Just a week ago, a cold snap hit the Midwest that sent temperatures below Fahrenheit's scale. I'm here now and if I had any guts I would jump out of the airport’s tinted windows, (beyond the Starbucks and back around the corner from the other Starbucks) so I could feel that venerable Minneapolis cold before my flight back to the stagnant Los Angeles warmth that is the atmospheric definition of "slow". Instead I find myself in the confines of the Northwest terminal looking for a place where I can snag a beer. Unlike leaping out of a window, I am quite certain my pre-8'o'clock consumption is not the biggest surprise Minneapolis will receive today.

But isn’t the airport quite "slow" itself? Here, I'd be more inclined to enjoy the visual cacophony of a scrambled Rubik's cube than to offer any attempt at a solution. I feel more comfortable spilling nonsense onto paper than to make any sense of it all. The best of it: the slowness is not interrupted, even by the impending departure of my connecting flight. There is nothing to pull me out of this comfort, just more comfort ahead beyond a third Starbucks at the departing gate. And additional comfort doesn't yank you in... you just slide into it and hope you don’t crash.

At the airport's Chili's, even the $7.10 beer feels comfortable. It has no need for justification. Neither does the strange-looking Minnesotan who is now the proud owner of my $1 tip.

Half-way in to my beer I am feeling even more comfortable. This is my bar at a Chili’s in the Minneapolis Airport. Why? Because everyone else has somewhere to be—and when they approach my bar its their duty to provide my new friend with identification. If you’re fast—if you’re one of the quirky loud-talkers who briskly passed me on the left side of the treadmill-thingy running my ankles over with your trendy luggage—get lost. This is my "Home of Slow" and I pay rent, one over-priced domestic at a time.

I feel so "slow" that even if you are slow like me, you still have to pass a few tests to kick it. Did you stumble upon exiting the treadmill-thingy, looking up to find a cigarette sign without a circular red border and slash? Did you wonder if they had any designated smoking areas at all? Did you wonder if there was a map or something that may get you in the direction of one of those areas? Did you give up on a smoke and wonder if you would ever find out how well the singers disguised their accents upon passing the uber-colorful Minneapolis Opera sign?

If not, don’t worry. You aren’t bad, or necessarily even fast—in my pejorative sense of the word, of course. You’re just not part of my slow, my January 21^st slow… in between Work-fast and Family-fast. You just don’t fit in. 

You aren’t the heavily accented (think: "min-a-SOE-ta) Chili’s bartender or even the quick-witted, tequila shooting bar conversationalist who played Joe Buck to the near-spill of my seven-dollar Bud Light. You aren’t an omnipresent Starbuck’s experience and a garbled Minnesota accent has yet to announce my flight's boarding time. 

So let’s take a rain check on that handshake until I meet you in Columbus or Los Angeles—I’m afraid you may yank me back into the real world.