by Ruth Rosengren

Everyone between the ages of 22-44 who has lived in a major city and can sling back a Manhattan, has their favorite Wes Anderson film. Mine is The Darjeeling Limited. I loved the sibling rivalry between Francis, Jack and Peter. And how the brothers relate to their mom. And of course, India. It was a gorgeous, touching movie. Back in the major city I once inhabited, I knew I wanted to take the opportunity to see Wes Anderson’s latest, The Grand Budapest Hotel.

But this time I didn’t want my opinions to be informed any anyone else. Still, I had never gone to a movie by myself. Teetering precariously on the edge of extroversion and introversion, I brooded about inviting a friend along with me tonight. Truth be told, I did call a friend one hour prior to the movie and left a voicemail saying, “Hey, I’m going to this movie tonight. Care to join?” He didn’t respond.

I called my husband to tell him I was about to go to a movie by myself, admitting that I felt half-relieved to have a night alone and half-lonely. After a good thirty minutes of chatting, he said “I wish you solitude tonight, and not loneliness.” He’s a good man.

With more than an hour to kill, I drove down Grand Avenue in St. Paul, MN, looking for a place to eat. The sidewalks were full of students from Macalester College in shorts and tank tops, on roller-blades, and wearing neon pink socks. It’s only April, but after a long winter, we are all eager for these temperatures. A decade ago, you would have still seen Birkenstocks and corduroys instead of roller-blades and neon socks.

To pass the time I sat by myself at the bar of French Meadow Bakery and Cafe, reading. Immersed in the heat and cotton and politicking of Robert Penn Warren’s south, the bartender eventually came to take my order. He asked me if I’d like to hear the specials. “Sure,” I said, out of politeness. But when he said bay scallops, I just said, “Yes. I’ll have the scallops.” When I ordered an IPA, he suggested a Rye Saison, reasoning that “the brightness complements the scallops.” I complied. The beer was bright and delicious. The scallops came and I savored them. The bartender put a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in front of me and said “For your last bite of scallop.”

All this left me deeply nostalgic. I remembered a decade ago, and how similar life seemed in that instant. French Meadow recently opened in St. Paul, but before that, it was a cafe called Coffee News that filled the same exact role. I lived on nearby Milton Street, and used to walk down Summit Avenue with a book in hand, headed straight for Coffee News. At age 22, I hoped Carl would be behind the counter, and would often order the Rooibos tea by his recommendation. I’d sit down and write, and after my butt grew sore of the chair-or my mind out of words-I’d head over to Whole Foods for a pear and cheese and crackers for a cheap meal, despite the glowing recommendation of Coffee News’ mashed potatoes.

Tonight, I didn’t even ask the price of the scallops.

I enjoyed The Grand Budapest Hotel okay. I liked the relationship between the hotel proprietor and the lobby boy. I liked the prison escape scene, and the chase scene in the accidental winter games. After all, even a silly chase scene is still a chase scene. I particularly liked the scene in which the proprietor apologizes after disgracing the lobby boy for not bringing him his cologne, because you believe his regret, his humanity. For much of the movie, I thought: okay, let’s keep it going guys. I’d like to have a point and all. And then it came. Said the Lobby Boy, now an old man, of his former boss: “His world had vanished long before he had entered it. But I must say he certainly sustained the illusion with a marvelous grace.”

The movie was largely told in back story, by the benefactor of the proprietor, aka the lobby boy. In those two lines, the movie revealed its purpose, and perhaps even the purpose of the Wes Anderson himself. After all, this world, this hotel, this movie, none of it is actually real. Anderson traveled all over Eastern Europe looking for the perfect hotel, and couldn’t find it. So he created the hotel he wanted. Talk about maintaining illusion.

I don’t know what Wes Anderson expects or desires when he makes a movie, but I don’t think he expects audiences to sit down and hope for a realistic movie. And while I don’t think this movie is anything to write home about, it transported me to a time long gone in my own life. Perhaps because of the locale: the old Grandview Theatre, in St. Paul, where a decade ago I passed my days. Having dinner where I’d had so many coffees and teas. Walking familiar streets ripe with memory. Sometimes it’s just nice to remember what once was.

Perhaps the world Wes Anderson belongs to is long gone, One can’t occupy the past, but to be invited to tea, to play pretend for a couple hours, is a marvelous grace.

Ruth Rosengren is a novice gardener, a pretty good project manager, a decent pianist, and always a writer. Follow her @ruthstp for a bit of everything.

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