Bastille Day on a Bicycle

It's that time of the year again--Bastille Day--when we celebrate freedom, diversity, cosmopolitanism, spontaneity,  and fellow-feeling, through music, food, wine, and just hanging out together. Entirely without premeditation,  Hilary and I began the weekend on Friday morning with a bike trip downtown along the North Cedar Trail, which is currently closed while they begin work on the SW Corridor light rail—the most expensive public works project in the history of the state. Well, that's what tax money is for! To make it possible for us venture into town, and out of town, without resorting to our cars.

The Walker Sculpture Garden made for a fitting urban pre-Bastille Day stop. The south end (see above) retains the grassy swards, crushed limestone walkways, rectangular layout, and old-fashioned humanist sculptures, that remind me of, yes, Paris.  The north end has been replanted with prairie forbs and grasses, and on a blazing Friday morning ... I didn't much like it.

   

Following this excursion we stopped for lunch at an Ecuadorian café in Bryn Mahr, a mysterious neighborhood  just across the freeway west of downtown that's neither utterly run-down nor entirely chic. The café is equipped with a wood-burning oven, but the sidewalk tables have always been teetery. The quesadilla I ordered—five cheeses, chicken, and carmelized onions—was good. Next time maybe I'll order a pizza.

Arriving home, I found a box waiting for me on the door-step: two new books to review for a local literary magazine. I knew what was inside: The Storm by Columbian novelist Tomás Gozález and Night School by Hungarian author Zsófia Bán.  I've never before received two books written by people both of whom have accents in both their first and last names. It's a mark of the cosmopolitan world we live in.

Saturday morning we took a hike across the open fields at Highland Park Reserve in Bloomington, where prairie plants seem entirely appropriate. They grow there naturally . An osprey couple was occupying the platform erected for that purpose, though I didn't see any chicks. And the lead plants growing among the grasses were heavy with pollen.  But the most extraordinary thing we saw was two bright yellow goldfinches in an extended chase that ended in a confrontational grapple fifty feet in the air. It lasted for five seconds at least, during which time the birds, fluttering their wings to maintain position while they clawed at each other aggressively,  were essentially in free fall. Finally one of the birds flew off.

On Sunday—Bastille Day proper— we found ourselves, appropriately enough, standing at 8 a.m. in front of the one-time home of Pierre Bottineau, one of Minnesota's founding fathers. Sometimes referred to as the last of the mountain men, Bottineau was a Métis—half French, half Ojibwe or Cree. He founded both Maple Grove and Red Lake Falls, once owned a big chunk of property along what is now Robert Street in downtown St. Paul, and developed a reputation during his lifetime as a skilled, sober-minded, fearless, and utterly reliable leader and guide.  We made a mental note to return sometime to learn more about Bottineau when the house was open (Saturdays between noon and 4)  and proceeded along the gorgeous and hilly bike trails of Elm Creek Regional Park.

And Monday morning, feeling the need to extend Le Weekend in the French manner, we drove out to the community beach in Wayzata, on the shores of Lake Minnetonka, to ride the rail trails once again, this time to Mound and back. Afternoon thunderstorms had been forecast, and the west wind, coming in across the enormous lake, was already filling our nostrils with the heady aroma of seaweed and dead fish. The ride itself was much more pleasant that I'd remembered it, perhaps because it was cool at 8 a.m. and the weekend crowds were nowhere to be seen. During some stretches I felt like I was riding through the pages of Better Homes and Gardens, not the least bit envious, mind you, simply appreciative of the architecture and the landscaping.

Only a few thousand affluent people can enjoy living on this wonderful— if over-crowded— lake, but anyone with a bicycle can enjoy riding alongside it for an hour or two, while avoiding the often  noisy and belligerent weekend boaters and the astronomical real-estate taxes. That's the nature of the community-spirited, post-Bastille Day world we live in.

Later, sitting with a latte on a bench downtown alongside stock-brokers and yoga instructors, we enjoyed the breeze and cringed at the deafening whistle of a passing train.

I know, there's trouble in paradise. Most people don't care what I think about Tomás Gozález or Zsófia Bán, and there are thousands fleeing violence in Central America, just looking for refuge, not a bike trail through a park.

But now the thunderheads are arriving. Rumbling from every direction over the purr of the air conditioner.  A glass of cheap white Burgundy in hand—although no genuine  Burgundy, even the most generic, is all that cheap. I'd turn off the computer and unplug it, just in case lightning strikes, but it's getting old, and I'm afraid it might never come on again .... As I step out onto the front stoop to get a dose of the rain first hand, I see my neighbor Carlos and his son arriving home in their pickup truck from a long day at work: maybe tending to one of those lake-front homes that Hilary and I were peddling past a few hours ago.