The Minneapolis Miracle

Medellín, Colombia

In Medellín I found an Irish pub that had a pretty great setup for watching American football.

During wildcard weekend I ended up hanging out there with a giant of man who was living in Medellín and receiving $1200/mo from the U.S. government for military disability. This is always a dangerous situation for me. Inevitably I talk shit about the military, and drunk war veterans aren't known for their stability and tolerance.

As I get older, the edge seems to be wearing off my most extreme opinions. For example I used to have this idea that military PTSD was primarily a guilt disease. That for people who have murdered innocent Iraqis or fired weapons not knowing who they were killing, sure it's probably pretty hard to live with yourself. But I think the dead Iraqis deserve my sympathy more than the guilt-ridden invaders.

But with giant war vet guy I found myself sympathizing with him and more open to the idea that even people who have done horrible things deserve a chance. I recommended to him Joe Abercrombie's First Law series, which is a fantasy series in which all the main characters are flawed and have to live with the terrible things they've done. But you still sympathize with them. They're only human, after all.

The war vet also told me about being a homeless real estate agent in a wealthy suburb of Miami. He said that for a time before he started receiving disability he sold condos and slept in his car in the condo parking lots. He said that the rich white Jewish people in Florida were happy to let him show them properties but would never trust him with their money. He had brown skin.

It's pretty easy to drink too much when you're drinking with a giant war vet. They can put away beers pretty handily. On this occasion I got absurdly drunk. That night I was quite an asshole in my shared dorm room.

There was an old white guy in the bed beneath me, and his snore was louder than a souped-up Harley. I got it into my head that he was trying to make noise just to spite the rest of us. The most questionable things I did were:

• I whipped the old guy with my towel from the top bunk. I also swung it like a pendulum in front of his face, taunting him. Then he started up again and I smacked him again.

• I jumped off the top bunk in the dark. I landed it but my momentum took me into the other bed and my hand touched the woman sleeping there. Which scared the shit out of her.

Actually I probably scared the shit out of everybody in the room. Which is I guess what I was going for. Really I just had to pee. The old man stopped snoring after that little stunt.

*

The following week I went back to the same bar for the divisional round of the playoffs. This time I drank more responsibly and hung out with football fans with typically proportioned bodies and calmer demeanors.

I met an American couple in their 50s who were from Minnesota and Vikings fans like me. They were inspiring to me.

They had been married for decades but still made a big trip together at least once a year. They seemed to be very much in love and enjoying their lives together. It's always nice to see proof that it's possible.

Together we watched the most insane finish to a game in Vikings history. We freaked out and were jumping around and hugging. This is what we saw: