What fucking tracks?

I was treading down university for my third cappuccino. As my cousin, who so dutifully took me in and has allowed me the use of his floor and toilet, does not imbibe or condone the consumption of the black bean I must walk for my fix. So I strap boots to my feet and Bo Diddley to me ears and head out into the cold, making sure to lock the last remaining deadbolt on the rickety front door.

Lift.
Push.
Lock.
Pull.
Leave.

As I slip out the front door and down the steps to the even icier sidewalk below I know why I came to this frigid state. Insanity. And as the wind howls my lips freeze and split like glass. Heading down the roads to my rendezvous.

I've been in St Paul for three days now and it certainly reminds me of home. Of Asbury Park NJ. Only nobody is here to send you greetings from St Paul, because they've all moved to Los Angeles or New York. Even if someone would wish to greet you in St Paul it's too damn cold for them to roll down the window and wish you a "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WALKING FOR?"

But I love this rundown out of towner feel. This bum from the East walking our icy sidewalks stares and the confused looks of the Ecuadorian immigrants at the bus stop. I love my ethiopian cappuccino while the old men argue about cricket and soccer while the youth destroy their watt looking on and listening intently.

I enjoy my rendezvous. My St Paul experience away from The Lexington and the wool caps of Whole Foods. Away from the tattoos and tutus of Grand. Away from the gringos and deep into the other side of the nonexistent tracks.