I’ve been wanting to write an essay about Minneapolis for a while now, but much similar to the year I lived in this city, I have been hitting road blocks. I think it is hard to write about something that took place over an entire year, but more than that, one of the most chaotic and confusing years of my life so far. Writing about it feels like unfolding an old crinkled map. I can barely make sense of it but I know that it holds potential to show or teach me something. 

Within my first three weeks of living in Minneapolis post-grad, I discovered how loneliness and boredom can seep into one regretfully unassuming lifestyle. After a long strain of terrible service jobs and parking tickets and my grandmother’s death, I grew tired of pretending that I was doing well and started to approach conversations with more honesty. I began to forget why I came to Minneapolis in the first place. All my previous reasonings didn’t feel right anymore. During the day, I took coffee orders and washed lipstick off of ceramic mugs and ate day-old pastries. At night, I binged Fleabag and rewatched Little Women monthly to remind myself that I was not alone, that there are people out there who feel as deeply as I do. When customers at the cafe asked what brought me to Minneapolis, I started responding with “Honestly, I have been asking myself the same question.” 

In the summer, I went on dates. When I went to a brewery with the blonde boy who stepped into a salary job straight out of college, I tried to relate to him. I listened to him talk about sports and his emotionally-taxing ex girlfriend and his boring desk job that was paying him more than I will probably ever make. I let him make me laugh, but when I excused myself from the table to find the restroom, I felt my body relax. As we were trying to make our way back to his car in the dark, I told him which way to go. He snapped, “I know you know better than me, but can you give me some time to figure it out on my own?” Months later, when I friend-zoned him for the fifth time, he asked me if I just ‘didn’t like guys’. 

When I asked another boy about the things that he loves, the things that are important to him, he shrugged and mumbled, “You ask hard questions. I don’t know. My friends, I guess?” 

Each terrible date turned into a greater longing for connection. I often thought of my ex-boyfriend, what is he up to, does he have regrets, is he thinking of me too? When he'd reach out, I'd respond. I told everyone that we were just friends now. But deep down, I wanted more than that. I wanted an apology. I wanted for him to stop drinking, go to counseling, and change his mind about our relationship. I wanted him to stop contradicting himself. I wanted confirmation that what we had was real. I kept searching for a closure I’d never get.

After I had fallen back into seeing him regularly, I asked him where he was at with us and he said, “I’m still not ready. So it’s a no… for now.” 

Friends were even harder to come by. Everyone was busy, or uninterested in meeting new people. After all, they already had their circles. They had friends from high school and college and work. They didn’t know what it was like to live anywhere besides Minnesota. They didn’t know what it was like to be me, and they never asked. 

In the fall, I went to bars with the few friends I had made. I wore skirts and tights and rubbed shoulders with strangers. When men a decade older than me gave me unwanted attention, my friends still invited them to the next bar. I’d get home at two in the morning only to wake up four hours later to open the cafe. I ate beef sticks for breakfast and lied about having a good time.

One night, two of my friends and I went out to dinner. We were talking about work and boys, recycling the same thoughts and stories as months before. But when I began to speak about not feeling at home in the city and having a hard time adjusting to life in Minneapolis, they both fell silent.

"Sorry." I muttered, getting the sense that I had crossed some invisible line.

"How's your burger?" The woman sitting beside me asked in response. I shrunk into the booth.

“I think that people choose to be in relationships that allow them to be who they want to be.” My coworker said as he measured out the syrup for a latte.

“Who do you want to be?” I asked. 

“A lot of things.” He sighed.

“I want to be safe.” I said, even though he never asked the question back.

I saw my ex one last time. I drove to his apartment at night, and walked to his door alone in the dark. He told me that he had two gigs coming up, that he stopped seeing his sponsor, that he doesn’t think he has a drinking problem after all, that he’s unloveable. My car got towed in the spot he told me to park in. Cursing and manic, he drove through three stop lights to find an ATM and retrieve hundreds of dollars in cash to pay for it. After the cash was handed over, my ex turned to me, “Godspeed.” 

And before I reached my car, he was gone.

By the new year, I stopped seeing all of my friends but two, and discovered drinking lemon water and playing scrabble and going to bed by 9:30pm. I stopped looking for answers, for reasons to stay in Minneapolis. I looked forward to going into work, knowing that the end was near. I laughed a little more, I lingered longer in the presence of good company. I began to realize I was going to be missed, and that there were things I was going to miss. I will miss the one-shot flat whites and sharing stories with my coworkers. I will miss going to the movies with my dear friend who is a decade older than me, and talking about life and art and writing over burgers. I will miss the way she gasps in response to almost everything, and how she throws her arms up in the air in defeat. I will miss cooking extravagant recipes with my best friend and watching crappy movies in her freezing cold basement. I will miss my shoe-box downtown apartment with its creaky floors and loud radiators. 

A lot of living in Minneapolis felt like sitting in a waiting room, staring at doors and waiting for them to open. But after a while, I looked down at what was right in front of me. 

To create a home in an unfamiliar space is hard work. I’m proud to say I’ve done it a few times now, and I’ll probably do it sometime again. My heart is stretched. I feel more me than I ever have before. I trust her too. 

A week after I moved to Minneapolis, I took my dog for a walk at sunset. I noticed a couple sitting on a bench in the park. There was a bottle of wine and a sandwich between them. 

That’s all I want in this life, I thought. 

And once I have it, I’ll want something else.