There’s something strange about the city I love.
It’s not that the town itself is particularly odd, as far as I can tell.
It’s just that, well, I might be imagining the place.
But cities are about their stories.
Must one always lay eyes on something to know its tale?
Sure, some can only judge a burg by its retail and condominium profile.
I feel bad for those people, unless, of course, they’re cashing in on the brand. I suppose the revenue must provide some meaning.
But assuming you’re on the wrong side of the cashflow, there has to be something deeper…
Perhaps a lake.
And some music that the shores of the lake can claim, at least peripherally.
Like this.
Or this.
Along with that, like I said, should come a story.
Native culture.
Perhaps a French name, one that we can butcher.
And a healthy dose of the Nordic world.
We’ll make the people do real work, as in find stuff to help build the country.
But nothing figurative here—literally build.
Via the massive lake, they can send the raw materials…anywhere.
The good times, however, won’t last forever.
There has to be some heartache, some loss of industry. We’ll call it downsizing.
Not too severe though—we don’t need to write The Bell Jar.
And then there will be a renaissance, a new story, if you will.
But we’ll build around the old one.
Keep the huge port.
Plus the mansion.
And the hills—the ones with the views.
In fact, all the natural beauty will stay.
The rivers.
The parks.
The beach.
We’ll throw in a freshwater aquarium, and we’ll ban oppressive heat. That’ll make it an outdoor paradise (except when it’s not).
Of course, there will be universities, restaurants, and plenty of breweries.
And the arts—they’ll thrive.
Why not include the place in The Great Gatsby?
Or a George Clooney movie?
We’ll claim a small stake in that guy who won the Nobel Prize in Literature.
And sprinkle in a couple more tunes.
Maybe this.
And this.
For good measure, we’ll add an Olympic champion.
While tourists will herd elsewhere and spend their savings on the overhyped, this spot will just be there, humble, available to those who open their minds.
They, like me, might think they’ve imagined the place.
But the city I love will be called Duluth, Minnesota.
And it’ll be on the map, awaiting my arrival.
Notes (in chronological order):
Duluth (population 86,000) is on Lake Superior, one of the world’s largest freshwater lakes.
Bob Dylan was born in the city.
“The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” references a Great Lakes freighter that sank in Lake Superior in 1975 after starting its journey from Superior, Wisconsin, which together with Duluth forms a single metropolitan area called the Twin Ports (population 281,000).
Duluth was named after the French explorer Daniel Greysolon, Sieur du Lhut and later became known for its large Finnish population.
Near the city I love is the iron ore that was critical for steel manufacturing.
The Great Gatsby includes scenes from Duluth.
The George Clooney film Leatherheads is set in Duluth.
Sinclair Lewis, the first American author to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, once called the city home.
Dan Murphy, the lead guitarist for Soul Asylum, is a native Duluthian.
The same holds true for Bill Berry, the drummer for R.E.M.
John Shuster, from a nearby town, was instrumental in helping the US win its first ever Olympic gold medal in curling.
The author, by living in, glorifying, and choosing to vacation in dumpy cities, has saved countless dollars.
