The Rusty Taco
If you’ve ever wandered the chaotic Minneapolis food truck scene over lunch, you’re familiar with just how completely overwhelming your options can be. Do I want tacos or a sandwich, american or Korean, organic or whatever the other option is, etc? I face these decisions numerous times a week, as I’m generally opposed to the idea of eating lunch at my desk. Anyway, sometime last week I had exhausted all my options and was making my way to my default lunch options, Jimmy Johns, when I noticed a relatively short line at the Rusty Taco truck. I quickly made the decision to make it my lunch for the day and began inspecting the menu.
I nearly forgot how goddamn wonderful this city can be when the sun hits it right and the weather creeps above freezing.
It’s a cold, frigid morning in Minnesota. The bitter air lacks any sense of warmth and attacks your skin with its icy, piercing claws. The moment you step outside, the hairs in your nose cling to each other for warmth, while your eyes water in pain. The miserable walk to your destination seems just a bit longer, as your frozen clothing rubs you in unfamiliar and unwelcome ways. Its mornings like this that remind us that we have the freedom to get up and move about this country if we so desire. The only constraints on our location are our own attachments, physical or emotional, justified or otherwise. We can go if we really want to; we can pack up and move somewhere that has never experienced similar conditions. But we don’t. We often stay right where we are, left to suffer and freeze, with the only comfort coming from the knowing looks we give one another, reminding us that we are all in this together.