Just a couple of weeks ago I pulled onto an empty barstool at the Olympian Bar in Portland, Oregon. I sat down next to the only woman sitting at the bar. Really given the choice I could of sat next to one of the many similar looking dudes who had empty seats next to them, no. Even if I wasn’t going to talk to anyone, I did though; I asked my neighbor if she was from Portland. I was curious about the town and wanted an opinion, I also wanted to see where it might go with my new bar mate. Considering, I was thinking about planting some roots there and still might, undecided you could say. Well, she was not from Portland, Brooklyn, she told me. The conversation carried on smoothly and yes, she was from Brooklyn, but actually grew up in Fargo, North Dakota.

Nikki and I actually shared many coincidences, one being Fargo, the inspiration for writing this. I find towns like Fargo intriguing, desolate out of the way places that meant something to the world at one point and mean less now, this and the fact I’ve been abandoned there three times. Honestly, my experience with Fargo doesn’t extend far beyond the Greyhound station. Bus terminals in the Midwest can reflect a lot about a town; I spend a lot of time reflecting upon the meaning of architecture and design. Interestingly enough when I Google images of Fargo’s station the only pics are of the station built in 1942, which was replaced in 1972 with the station whose images are ingrained in my mind. After more distraction, research, on Google maps it looks like the 1972 station doesn’t exist anymore on the Internet at least. So you are stuck with my memory of the place. As I recall the architecture was almost constructivist, concrete with external ribs like modern buttresses supporting a shed style roof under which a window wall exposed a view of a desolate empty street and a dusty patina covering every surface.

I booked a ticket on a greyhound from Minneapolis, Minnesota to Casper, Wyoming sometime in the eighties. I was eager to take a journey, even one at 38 hours duration, that and the fact I hadn’t been home for 5 years or so. Busses are a medium of transportation available to people on a budget, poor people, not exclusively, it’s a good way to examine a section of American culture and class. Additionally busses don’t travel on the stereotypical routes, partly because of their relationship to the economic strata. Busses tend to stick to the smaller state routes and pass through some towns that barely merit on maps or interstate roadways. This relates to some ideas I have about the creation of paths and routes I’ll get to some other day. Anyway it is the very essence of a journey, you sign on for your destination otherwise you don’t have a choice about how you get there or where you stop along the way. Your path is chosen.

The first leg of my trip, a nine hour journey through the hinterlands of Minnesota; Brainerd, Bemidji and Grand Forks ended in Fargo, I presume the bus looped back to St. Paul from there. I arrived sometime in the mid afternoon two hours ahead of the next leg to Billings. Two hours is a bit of time, not enough to wander around some desolate town like Fargo. I did scour a two block radius, didn’t see a soul, I could of lugged my bag around to find a meal or something, though a trek into unknown territory didn’t real seem like a risk worth taking. So I sat. The arrangement of this public space bewildered me, none of the chairs faced the windows, the view outside, tumbleweed as it was, was not nearly as stark as the block concrete and vending machines inside. Eventually, a few other passengers came, the bus pulled in, we loaded up and pulled away.

A few years later my buddy Eric was headed to the Winnipeg Folk Festival and asked if I wanted to go along. Why not, I had a long weekend off and am not one to say no to a road trip. We packed up the 70 Duster in Minneapolis and took off. The radiator sprung a leak around Grand Forks and after about four hours we found a replacement from this guy who lived near a golf course. The corrugated steel covering his shed was textured in dimples caused by multiple impacts of errant golf balls. This became the subject of conversation which led to him revealing a compartment of his shed stacked 3 ft deep with buckets of golf balls. We got to the Canadian border at 11pm or so. I would have never imagined it could be so tough to get into Canada. Granted we looked like a couple of dirty hippies, we were going to a folk fest, I had hair over my shoulders and we both were wearing tattered straw cowboy hats. The Duster had a spray painted blue finish, some flowery weed hanging from the mirror, Eric had a National Steel Guitar in the trunk and we were in remote northern North Dakota. Judging us trouble couldn’t of been that hard. Oh naivety, during questioning I admitted to some legal matters from adolescence, they were no longer on record; honesty is the best policy, right? No. They emptied the car and searched our cavities and told me I would not be welcome in Canada, Eric was allowed. If I didn’t like it, I could contest the decision with the Consul who showed up at 7. We parked in a nearby field and tried to get a nights rest. Stinking of road sweat and covered with mosquito bites I pleaded my case with a uniformed Canadian Mountie and in essence he told me that I could go fuck my self, Canada did not want my type in their righteous land. After some consternated discussion Eric and I decided he would drop me at the truck stop in Pembina and I would buy a bus ticket back to St Paul, Eric had a ticket to the show and was meeting a girl there, I never wanted to be that guy who held someone back. The bus from Pembina led to Fargo then transferred to St Paul, a four-hour wait. Fargo’s greyhound station hadn’t changed, chairs still faced the wall and from all appearances I wouldn’t believe anyone lived in that town. The bus came and it took another nine hours to get back to the Twin Cities. I slept most of the ride and occasionally scratched mosquito bites.

During grad school I was involved with a woman, whom I choose to leave anonymous, I don’t really know how to describe the relationship. It was pretty important to me but there was definitely some distance. I think we both knew it was destined to end; personally, I was in denial of that fact or even delusional because my mind didn’t acknowledge the possibility of it ending, not because of who we were or what we meant to each other, more of where we were and where we had to go. It was her last year in grad school and my first. Summer had come and she had some business to take of for her parents in the Midwest and asked if I would help. Of course, sounded like fun. It took a month and it was time to move on. She was headed to the west coast for a teaching assistantship and was to drop me in St. Paul where I would visit my old roommate, Annie, then take the train back east. When we arrived at the bus station In St Paul, my road mate announced plans to kidnap me and steal me away to places unknown. This made me happy; it’s kind of nice to know someone is willing to misbehave in order to show their affection. Off we drove, after spending the night in some small midwestern hotel reality sank in and we made a plan to part ways, yep Fargo. We said our goodbyes in the street and she drove away. There I was on that dusty street standing with the knowledge that this was all very familiar to me and now to you. My last bus from the Fargo Greyhound station left 19 years ago, I haven’t seen her or that station since.

Nikki and I got along fabulously that night, yet our timing was off and we never finished drinks at the same time so we just kept ordering more. When she mentioned the ring on her finger was there to keep hounds away, really I asked about it, it did cross my mind that our encounter might carry past conversation. Not that it mattered, her conversational skills were excellent and that was fine. Our banter proceeded for hours and we carried over to another bar and maybe a snack. “Steve I think your great but…” I didn’t need this line and I actually felt quite disrespected by it. Why after such fun and conversation did she feel the need to let me down easy? Had there been some unspoken obligation? Just say good night and leave.