When Less is More

I was born and raised in a prosperous medium sized city, about a 90 minute drive from the large metro area where I would later attend college. That meant it was just far away enough that driving to "The Cities" was almost never a casual affair, it was an event to be planned for. And meanwhile, that my town was isolated enough it had developed its own distinct culture and characteristics.

In case I haven't waxed prosaic enough about it before, I loved, and still love, my hometown. It was big enough that nearly anything the average high schooler could conceivably want and afford to do was available: movie theaters, fast food galore, etc. Yet small enough that it was easy to get around without feeling overwhelmed. Big enough that you could be anonymous when you wanted, yet small enough that you didn't just feel like a statistic lost in the crowd, and crime was almost a non-issue.

Still, it didn't have most of those cultural amenities unique to big cities, those destinations people travel for from afar. No, those were reserved for trips to the The Cities, with their pro sports teams, their museums, their concerts, their fancy restaurants, their people. (Though my hometown's bigwigs are currently working hard to try and get up to speed).

Because of this, The Cities, both the actual place and the idea of them, held a certain mystique for me during my childhood, and I'd guess for most of my classmates as well. I remember driving up to go visit the State Fair, to Camp Snoopy and MOA, to a Twins game, to the Zoo, and perpetually feeling this sense of wonder, this sense that something special, even amazing, was about to happen. Even into high school this continued; I was in awe at the hordes of fans streaming across the pedestrian plaza to a Timberwolves game I went to for my 16th birthday. That same year my dad drove the family up to see an indie movie at an art-house theater on a day off from school and again, that sensation returned.

(I think the very act of always being chauffeured there by someone else added to this magical quality a little too. Once we crossed into the metro I never paid attention to exactly where we were going; my eyes were usually glued to the windows looking at all the tall buildings. It was like being transported to this world without being entirely sure you got there. Later, when driving myself and figuring out directions, it felt a little more real and tangible, like the hood had been pulled back and I could see the circuitry.)

And while some of this, I'm sure, could be attributed to my age (all kid's likely have a greater propensity for wonder by virtue of their relative lack of experience with the world), I don't think there's any way that feeling would have been as strong if I had actually lived in the metro area.

And though grateful for the substantially improved ease of access to these amenities when I lived there during college, there is no doubt that by the time I graduated they had lost some of their luster.

When I first arrived on campus, it was still with me. I still recall having the coolest and strangest realization during my first month there one Sunday afternoon. The TV lounge on my dorm floor was packed with people watching the Vikings game. During a commercial break I walked back to my room, and as I did I passed by a window on the other side of the floor, out of which I could see the large bubble of the Metrodome only a mile or so away. And all of a sudden it struck me, the game was going inside that dome. The event that I, and hundreds of thousands of others, were watching on TV was happening right outside my window. I couldn't stop smiling, it just seemed so cool.

When you grow up in a city devoid of pro sports teams, and almost never attend any games in person, the only way to watch them is on TV. And in doing so, this detachment from reality grows: the teams, the players, hardly seem any more real than a rerun of Seinfeld. I watch them on the same box after all. The same thing happened to me during that Timberwolves game when I was sixteen. It was only the second or third game I'd ever attended, and the first in seven years, although I watched them play on TV almost every night. When we took our seats up in the nosebleeds, I looked down and saw Kevin Garnett, and for the first time ever became truly starstruck. He was right there! He was a real person! I could have (theoretically) climbed down onto the court and touched him, could have yelled at him, and he would have heard me. I was giddy the whole rest of the night, trying in vain to make my sports-indifferent brother understand. (I also experienced something similar attending my first Oasis concert in The Cities a few years later).

But by the time I'd attended my dozenth Twin game or so during college, it didn't seem quite so special. Going to the Dome wasn't an adventure anymore, it was just... Tuesday. And while, again, some of my lost enthusiasm was likely just the natural product of aging, most of it was the result of geography and repetition; it had been spoiled to a degree. Paradise was lost by finding it too often. Some of this, like coming to understand the humanity of celebrities, was probably a good thing; it's dangerous to put anyone on too much of a pedestal. But, I also think there's something to be said for being able to hold onto that capacity for youthful naivety a bit longer than most - into an age where I could remember and appreciate it more fully.

And that is one of them many reasons I'm glad I grew up exactly where I did. Most of my friends in college grew up in The Cities, one even had season tickets to the Twins when he was in high school. And accordingly, the attractions that made traveling to the big city so special for me, had much quickly become more commonplace for all of them. It is, of course, possible to still value what life in a major metro has to offer even when you live there, but it's still different. It's no longer an involuntary response, but often rather a conscious action that must be conducted, and even then, it's not quite the same. (Though regardless of one's place of residence, learning not to take things for granted is a skill we could all do well to work on).

Also interestingly, despite how much I enjoyed these trips to The Cities as a youngster, I never wanted to live there, (though not because I was worried it would dissipate my appreciation for them). It was partially because I simply feared any change of that magnitude, and partially because, while I recognized the big city offered a multitude of cool things to do, its size also scared me. I was, somewhat irrationally, afraid of "big city problems" like traffic, pan-handlers, gangs, and violence, and this too carried with me into college for a time. (The first few weeks of freshman year I was convinced I was going to be mugged or that a bullet would fly through my 10th floor dorm window).
 
More so though, as touched upon earlier, I preferred the size of my town because I felt like I could stand out there. It was the perfect balance: large enough to have a fully fledged support system, yet small enough not to get lost in the tide. Large enough that not everyone knew your business, but small enough that the attractions of the big city remained an unspoiled treat. (Though to be fair, after living in The Cities for four years they didn't seem quite as large as in my younger days.)

I know this is not a novel revelation; it's a pretty established principle that the more rare something is the more value it holds. In fact from the time I was five, my dad used to justify withholding dessert from me and my brother by telling us the "marginal utility", our quantified enjoyment of the food, would increase if we ate snacks less frequently. (And yes, looking back my bro and I realize how hilarious it was that our dad was teaching Econ 101 to kindergarteners with Tootsie Rolls). And I also understand that growing up with the increased diversity of people and ideas in a big city is an invaluable advantage my hometown could never match. But I suppose my intent in writing this was two-pronged: First, to help ensure I don't forget just how wonderful that feeling of anticipation, that pure childhood excitement, was during those visits to The Cities. And second, to try and explain to some of my more skeptical comrades one small part of why I love my hometown as much as I do (it gets short shrift, but I truly believe there are many ways in which it's almost empirically great). While I could apply this as much to my hometown as to the The Cities nowadays, as the saying goes: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.