There's Nothing Sexy About the Midwest

I arrived in Minneapolis on Friday. The Minnesota accent hit me like a frying pan on the flight from Detroit to the Twin Cities. There was a family of Minnesotans sitting next to me, all of them quite rotund, and they kept discussing some acquaintance of theirs called "Marge." There was some confusion, though, and it took some clearing up to make sure that they were all talking about the same person. "No, naht Mahrgaret, Mahrge." The father had a really big belly, and he was wearing a yellow Golden Gophers t-shirt that hugged it in a most snug manner. He also had on sweatpants. And he was reading a book called Marine Sniper.

Ultimately I learned that Minnesotans are a kindly people, often residing in traditional grass huts along the banks of their many beloved rivers and lakes. They subsist on fried cheese curds, indigenous berries, and regionally marketed beer (e.g., Grain Belt Premium). I came to love these people of our country's great Middle, but it would take time.

After landing and finding out that a cab to my hotel would cost around $35, I stopped at an airport information desk to ask where I could get some form of public transportation into the city. "I'm sahrry," said the older gentleman at the counter, "I can't really direct you there." Okay, no bus. Fine. However, the Information Man told me about a so-called Super Shuttle (SS), a van service that takes you into the city. I like things that are super as much as the next guy, so you can picture my excitement.

It turns out, though, that there is nothing super about this shuttle. First the driver ran out of gas and had to stop, extending the time that I would be forced to struggle for breath in the back of this airless van, rendition-style. It was still expensive, and instead of just getting a cab and paying an extra ten dollars, I sat in this cursed van for an hour while it dropped off all of the other passengers. Then, once this task was complete, the driver didn't know how to get to my hotel. I've never been to the city, and she was asking me how to get where we were going. Moral: splurge for the cab in lieu of the (not-so-) Super Shuttle.*

Minneapolis was very nice. We went to a place called Nye's Polonaise on Friday night that had live polka. It was a very strange display of hipster girls dancing with elderly Polish-American men to the enchanting airs of Ruth Allen and the World's Most Dangerous Polka Band (apparently featured on Comedy Central's Let's Bowl?). Minneapolis has good beer! Summit Extra Pale comes most highly recommended.

I went to the Metrodome twice to see the Twins play the Yankees. It's a pretty bad stadium, poorly lit and sad. I met a few Yankees fans from South Dakota who kept waiting for the Miller beer guy to come around. It always makes me smile to myself when someone is really adamant about having one shitty beer over another. "No, fuck Bud Light, Miller Light is soooo much better. Gahhhd, I wouldn't be caught dead drinking that piss-water from St. Louis." Well, these South Dakota guys only wanted Miller Light, and were so intent on this desire that they were willing to wait 45 minutes for the Miller Light guy to come around again. They came across as stolid, and I like to think that most older people from the Dakotas are reserved in a similar way. The one closer to me spoke solemnly of their trip the previous year to Yankee stadium. His companion sat beside him in a camouflaged hunter's hat nodding assent.

We went to St. Paul's Grand Old Day street fest on Sunday. It was grand in every sense of the word. We sat on a lawn drinking beer and watching people walk by. Some of Cait's co-workers had devised a game wherein any passersby identified as inappropriately clad were given the honor of a toast and subsequent drink. Cait and I had fried cheese curds from a cart, which are basically the less-sophisticated little brother of the mozzarella stick. Stix may be cooler, might have more street cred, but deep down inside, Curd is the better person. Basically it's unprocessed white cheddar cheese, breaded and deep-fried. I mean, heaven in one's mouth.

The highlight of the day was definitely the (U.N.L Drill & Dance Performing Arts) drumline that stormed down the street to mark the end of the street fair. Minnesota is very white, and it might well be that the 20-or-so drummers and dancers in this corps were actually the only black people in all of the Northstar State. Either way, they were phenomenal. I never understood why they made that Nick Cannon movie Drumline, but now I'm really anxious to see it. Netflix.

In all seriousness, the Twin Cities were great. I would definitely go back. They have great people, beer, and food, as well as a charming aesthetic and an excellent radio station.

Oh, in case anyone was wondering (and, given the deluge of comments that my last post prompted, I'm sure you all are), I did not get the TransPerfect job. The hunt continues.

*I found out upon traveling to the airport for my return flight that the St. Paul/MLPS Public Transport Service offers light rail service to and from the airport for a mere $1.50. Bitter.