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Minnesota State Fair - The Miracle of Birth

Fiera, far away from home: After two months I realized that the local passion are fair. A Taste of Minnesota was the taste, the Minnesota State Fair full version: a culinary and agricultural fair, a cocktail of mass plots, the true happenings of the summer. Let's all go for junk food and to see the farm animals, fascinated as children raised in the city. The stands are huge stables for cows, horses, sheep and goats, a pig on record, a poultry house as big as a hangar, but with no chance of flying. Around, lit stalls, entertainment and exhibitions of boats and equipment for the land. I sling the meat of alligator (gator ) and I serve it on a stick, fried in butter with mustard sauce and a pseudo Cajun : sa chicken and I do not know if the cause is the proximity of the kiosk with the chicken or the true flavor of the meat. The dish I am disappointed, I thought an animal had a dangerous taste with more dignity. I refer to a sausage on the skewer with mozzarella in a carriage on a skewer stick and fried strawberries. There are two rules for cooking minnesotese: all food is fried after soaking in butter and served on a skewer. At the booth of the Italian spaghetti ask out of curiosity and show me a lollipop arrotolotali fried noodles with a fork, skewer, covered with a layer of butter breaded. A true delicacy, the modest price of $ 5, which I no just because I want to report money. I avoid desserts, choice of fried oreo snickers or fried: fried hurts too. To the basic elements of the local cuisine are two dedicated stands: that of Deep Friers and that of butter. For twenty dollars you can leave your photos at the famous craftsman (part-time funeral also an artist and garden furniture) and get a real bust sculpted in butter with which to participate in the beauty contest and take home. As for narcissism and self-hatred that will contain a copy of itself to have carved a stick of butter I can not judge, I know I never would keep my torso in the refrigerator, do not want to watch it rot and not mutilate me for the carbonara and certainly not I would never make a bust. But here is a real passion and women pose for the portrait and serve meals with one ear, a piece of mind, an eye. The stand of the Deep Friers no different from that of weapons, so much so that they are in this together and we read the intentions and the amount motivating Frier daddy average. The real entertainment is the Miracle of Birth. The farmers of the area have organized themselves to bring an animal that each bear during the days of the fair, so that every day you can watch the birth of the kid, of the lamb, piglets, sitting in the stands on stage with lights and eye ox on the unborn child and shooting with television projection big screens. Routine birth of chicks and ducklings: tech with rows of eggs are kept at a controlled temperature so that the chick to break the shell under the noses of those who expect to sit. Needless to say, I sit in the stalls and saw the birth of the last pig, happy to see daddy to little children that indicate the preferred pig eating hot dogs and holding the ham sandwich that the healthy mother brought from home. Great: I do not know really who is the prey and predator, if the children put their hands between the bars to stroke the pet or dad, engulfed by some mega industry, dressed in the corporate center and with his wife beside ossigentissima . The output of the stand matches with the entrance to the pig's Largest Minnesota and I'm lucky to see The King, His Majesty Pretty Ricky, the boar more statewide Goss, 1200 pounds of pure pork. Around the king are a rabble of boys and an orderly queue of women aged 40 and over who in turn, secretly (some much less) to touch the bales Pretty Ricky causing small grunts of satisfaction. Good leads, good leads. I try to restart them, but the farmer is forcing me to close the camera (further organized a resale of salami and does not want to ruin the business). To describe the breadth of the strength of Pretty Ricky is not enough to imagine a soccer ball, add the feeling you get after noisissima a lesson (I vote M *** s), or after someone who wanted to avoid just stuck button. To describe the attitude of Pretty Riky must have seen the half-closed eyes and the grin that sleepy pig satisfied, pleased and a little sordid, exposes the bales to the amusement. But even so it makes the idea that populate the mind of the man who, after the Toccata, leaving the pigsty assusandosi without washing your hands and fingertips. Pretty Riky un'emblema and remember it is (unintentionally) is the stand of the Minnesota Independence Party, which wants to separate and preserve their own, original culture. The two revolutionary representation boomers are obese, hidden by the symbol party, a bison plastic about 1 meter, model of the trophy that stands above their heads. On the flyer, claiming to have a strong desire to challenge their rifles and take to the streets against the government's taxation, as well as to claim that the roots of the central government is leading the way in a real cultural genocide. Go Laura, terùn! Washington thieving, Little Tatanka does not forgive. The whole world is a place and I wonder what kind of culture we want to preserve these overseas while leaguers chew the flesh of former Pretty Riky, forgetting that many years ago in those same prairies grazed the relatives of their Little Tatanka, the largest store of genres food, utensils and clothing Indians never existed. At the exit, while a friend whose name I will not confess with great seriousness that his life's dream is to buy a plow (indicates by a $ 40,000) within me the winner is not Pretty Riky, but the bad taste, 'orignal one product showcased at the fair.

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Effetti collaterali

Minneapolis, somewhere that I can not say: ten horrible days, without the strength to eat or sleep. In particular the last six days, where I really lost something. Too much anxiety and thoughts to his head, not enough to say it was worth it but it is not. Call on Sunday there is one nightmare, something very important is gone, a full refrigerator thrown in the trash because of black out half the city for a whole day (and I wonder bridge between power lines and who is responsible to set the city, some drunk Norman at work), a glass shattered with shards still hidden in the carpet, a funeral (actually two, one real and one metaphorical), several dollars evaporated in minutes. I did not want to buy a racket just to play: my return to tennis after 7 years of complete ignorance (sometimes even two entities that have been deliberately ignored for a long time back together) I ripartisse from where it ended. Looking for a Wilson who is not an immigrant nor from early childhood, I make a $ 200 investment in a titanium frame that does not weigh anything and promises blows. The concept of socialization U.S. passes not only through sport but also in the competition, so do not just play and can handle it, you have to win occasionally. With BM, Jarod and Anders go into a zone of free hard courts is infrequent. You can tell by two things: the nest covering the fracture of concrete in the side, the surrounding soil on a slope that makes any ball leaves the rectangle ends inexorably three or four bus stops in the valley. All around, an eerie silence and two huge water tanks with the shape of a mushroom cloud of suspicion. I start to play with anxiety and anger that I never put anything in of what I did in my life. The reason I keep it for myself, but will remain with me for very long. Game believing to be able to vent anxiety hitting the ball. After seven years of absence, the law has not arrived, whips the air as the ball goes somewhere without me noticing. The service I never had and I understand that when I send the ball over the net of protection and I roll with joy to the city center, free and no longer a prisoner of the tennis court. The reverse side is a surprise, it must be like the wine that improves aging, because I end up playing only in reverse, with many many problems to overcome on the right to hit the ball from my left side. But the dribble does not take a long time is short once, right once, the other out, we can not put together three to four exchanges. The fury is the only thing that keeps us in the field. I do not think the game completely, I do not know the score, I think of something else, something very painful and beautiful, but in doing so I find myself involved in a tie break which Gale could easily ignored, but are betting on which all my hopes of socialization . Needless to say, the scene is to Palombella Rossa, except that the ball comes to me slow and high on the back, Anders me screaming kill it! and I was sent into the network. We lose the game. Release the bats and throw away $ 200 because titanium implants, titanium spectacle frames for ultralight, ultra-durable titanium, breaks like glass when the frame meets the pole of the network. And there's no relief, no release of tension, only further accumulation because the best things pass and beyond, especially to me. While we look for the car because Jarod does not remember where he parked, I understand the reason for the silence and abandonment. Walk pass a funeral with five relatives, the priest, the coffin and four men of honor: the path to follow through all the ordinariness of the neighborhood, in the midst of all the distance that exists on each side, so depressing that no I think it can die in a more anonymous. We find the car, realizing that the other side of the wall is the cemetery. When we leave, two sixteen year olds making out not far from the entrance.

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Il crollo del ponte sulla I-35W

Minneaapolis, I-35W bridge: Nick were deciding where to dine when everyone shuts up and turn up the volume on your TV. We recognize the four smokestacks of the production of steam, the new theater, the dome stadium, the complex of mills and curve of the Mississippi. It is one aerial helicopter flying over a cloud of dust, lapped at the right margin by black flames. On-screen slide titles that identify the crash site in I-35W bridge over the highway, the backbone of the city which connects downtown Minneapolis with that of Saint Paul. The bridge runs over the Mississippi in the fall and has pulled into the water traffic of the five: the summer has only limited the number of machines involved. About half an hour later, when we hear the news, there is already a victim. Outside the window the sirens go more often. The bridge is about 800 meters from the right and the bike should be a moment, but the mass of people and cars blocking every move. You can approach the scene with different points of view: the bridge has collapsed in the historic part of town and is built close to a second highest bridge (Cedar Avenue Bridge), which relieves congestion. A third smaller bridge and the pedestrian is at a hundred yards from the two. The area is easily accessible in a green area, the park of gold medals, and on both sides of the Mississippi river where there is a lot of jogging or cycling. We approach from below and then decide to get on Cedar to see the collapse. On the side, what is striking are the emergency vehicles of all kinds, from air boats with long square van that can accommodate small operating rooms. At the edge of the area, gather suffered the bulk of the crowd, mostly university students who seek in every way to help by providing blankets, food, drinks. In the confusion I find myself holding a lemonade. There are groups of bikers in Harley Davidson, priests who organize prayer circles in the grass and among the plants, usually solitary preacher who incited the sacred hymn, many amateurs with telescopic targets that jostle for the best location, crew Journalists in search of the witness. Up close, I impressed the coaches, trucks and cars still in the balance with the nose pointed already sunk in the mud or muddy. The flames come from a truck and while we are looking at a corpse is recovered, the speed of the operation and confusion of the rubble, emergency vehicles and hide the details, but there is clearly a stretcher with a waterproof sheet that disappears in an ambulance. When we reach the Cedar, the scene is more appropriate: what impresses is that the bridge has not collapsed one section, but all three sections defined by the piers, from shore to shore, in a general collapse. The two pillars still supporting abutments of the road, is now pointing dramatically to the bottom. In between, the mud is actually a palta water and soil cement in which carcasses popping away. Among the victims there may be children because at the time of the collapse was passing a school bus. From the elevated position, you notice the traffic lights of the cars and the highway that continues uninterrupted until the two edges of the bridge, forming an impressive tail. We stay until nine to wander in the area. Someone suffers, participates in drama and despair, and know (as I have noted many times) that in general to do so are mainly immigrants, perhaps with greater empathy because they are more accustomed to the difficulty and therefore able to share the concern of others. Some wonder why the news does not make assumptions or do not investigate the reasons for the collapse: from what we hear live, reporters are limited to describe the dynamic and questioning witnesses in different ways that say they experienced the feeling of an earthquake (the land near the bridge vibrated and you could hear noises deep). My lab mates are overwhelmed by calls from family members and find no better example to describe the psychosis September 11: Even if the television all the time repeated that this is not a terrorist attack, each of them must ensure that there were no outbreaks or bombs, and that is not near the critical zone (although on balance we spend about 3 hours). When we decide to go, it's already dark, the section of the bridge was not lit and the street lamps along the river are very far apart. They say that recovery operations will be massively reduced and continued until tomorrow morning. The victims were up to seven: let someone lights candles and bouquets of flowers. What I know is that last week for the party in the building we have come to the park to see the fireworks: it was the day that celebrates the city of Minneapolis water as a source of life and takes up an ancient Indian ritual. From the pedestrian bridge I watched the lights rise from the same tract that is now rubble. Now it seems to me that the Father of Waters has taken a bit 'of that life which they believe is capable of giving.