When I came back to Minneapolis I returned to a city I had never seen before, the West Bank of the Mississippi River. Robin's ramshackle house at the corner of at Cedar and Riverside, sat at the triangle starting-point of the thriving enclave of alternative lifestyle counterculture called by outsiders "the hippie ghetto." The place where its unusual creative people were extraordinarily happy discovering life in unconventional uninhibited ways. It was the love-not-war revolution, and the Midwest was only a half-step behind the growing Flower-child anti-war evolution of the West Coast. The people of the West Bank welcomed everyone into the family of it, including me. In 1970 it was a glorious place to be, and so I willingly fell, innocent and ignorant, right into the pulsing teeming life of it. For me it was like a child's first experience of the ocean. Astonished but fearless, I waded right in, and it felt so good. For the first time in my life I could own myself entirely, never mind that I had gotten here because somebody threw me away. That girl was somebody else, not me. This was Me being Me, this was new, and it was intoxicating.
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