Day Seven: St Cloud part II
delsThree blocks from MC’s Dugout and we were in the leafy residential grid that lies behind the endless highway strip mall
9th Avenue South seems to have been laid out on a map with a ruler and the prairie on either side sold off in 50ft lots
each lot has a clapboard house
sitting in a parcel of lawn
no fences separating the lots
but nevertheless as clearly delineated as if there was a picket by when and how expertly the grass has been mown
and even though the clapboard has been assembled into residencies of all shapes and sizes
and each has a varied assortment of station wagons, pick-up trucks, boats, trailers, RVs, barbeques, garden furniture, kids toys and topiary strewn around it
they all feel exactly the same
No pedestrians. In fact very few sightings of any homo sapiens at all other than in the occasional passing motor vehicle: no one sat on a patio having a smoke, no kids running around, no one barbequing, no one pruning and training an ornamental hedge.
Unappealing and borderline alienating
but not threatening in spite of that: street crime is not going to pay here—you would be hard pushed to find anyone to pickpocket or mug if that was your business.
All in all surprisingly pleasant and diverting surroundings to chew the fat strolling with a comrade and companion for a couple of hours in the evening sun.
scattered among the residencies of the neighbourhood are a dizzying array of places of worship with increasingly complex notions of ministry;
Lutheran,
Islamic,
Presbyterian, Pentecostal,
Catholic,
Methodist,
Life Assembly of God,
Peace United Church of Christ
Holy Mhyrrbearers Orthodox,
Spirit Filled Non Denominational Love Christian Fellowship,
High Praise Non Denominational Prophetic Healing & Deliverance,
—all within a couple of square miles.
Conspicuous consumption of God seems to go hand in hand with the conspicuous consumption of valuable (or not so valuable) goods as the way to gain reputability in the Midwest.
9th Avenue South swings slightly to the east to stay parallel to the Mississippi
and morphs into Clearwater Drive-
the churches and the houses start to peter out into a strip of small businesses that will fix your plumbing or your car, look after your kids, ageing relatives or animals while you work, tend to your yard and / or sell you a lawn mower, or a flag pole, or beer and liquor. All the essential neighbourhood services I suppose, all other needs and desires—food, clothing, OLED screens, cosmetic surgery, pharmaceuticals etc. easily acquired on the miles of strip mall in your station wagon or your pick-up.
After a few blocks of this Clearwater Drive abandoned its prosaic name and reverted to its utilitarian designation as County Highway 7. The environs started to feel unexpectedly rural.
Aware that we were walking parallel to the Mississippi and at this point we had figured out the we could get on to a trail along a disused railway track that would take us to where the river passed close to the IHG Inn and Suites. Two miles along a perfectly straight tree lined path where we were even passed by cyclists and our destination was in sight. Cutting back up from the trail towards our billet for the night JC was looking for sustenance before retiring. We were re-entering retail purgatory at this point and there right in front of us was a an anonymous one storey box in an empty car park with a sign over the door announcing RJ’s American Grill. A quick bit of research on the web indicated that there might be more to RJ’s that its location and appearance indicated and sure enough behind the door was a classy looking restaurant bar. RJ’s had precisely one customer: it came as no surprise to us, in fact there was a kind of inevitability to it that this customer was a refugee from our bus—you get very used to this kind of synchronicity on tour. We pulled up bar stools alongside Jim, the ever smiling colt of the entourage and asked for the menu only to be told that the kitchen and the bar were closed. It was seven forty five. JC cut his losses and headed across the parking lot towards the lights of a 24 Hour Pilot Travel Centre in search of delicious and nutritious snackage that would get him through the evening. Jim and I made for the Prevost in search of any tolerable red wine that might have been overlooked on the previous night’s journey that we could drink at the hotel picnic tables as a bright orange sun disappeared from the cloudless Minnesota skies behind the parking lots.