Two Days in Americana
By Ari Kaufman (05/02/06)
Last week, I took a glorious six day trip through our nation's heartland, from Chicago all the way to Salt Lake City, passing through the South Dakota Badlands, Big Sky Country and the National Parks of the Rocky Mountain Region just to name a few sites. While I truly enjoyed spending time with my girlfriend in these mountainous, unique tourist destinations, my first two days before she arrived presented this coastal big city kid another opportunity to view the heartland of America; the place where I freely admit "real" Americans, in touch with our country's past and present, have always resided.
On Tuesday, April 18, I awoke after just an hour or two of somnolence on a small couch in an acquaintance's apartment in downtown Chicago. A quick shower and cup of coffee later, I enjoyed a half-hour ride around the great city of Chicago on a sunny and mild day until I decided to eschew my original plans to drive toward Madison (WI) and instead head up through the suburbs and along I-43 toward Green Bay, Wisconsin. Chicago, a most wonderful Midwestern marvel, would have to be on hold until my next trip there in June. Americana waited.
As I crossed into Wisconsin at Kenosha - just over 50 miles from Chicago's city center - the local news abruptly switched from coverage of former Chicago mayor, Dan Ryan Jr.'s indictment and the hair length of Chicago White Sox baseball players, to the "crime report" from Wisconsin hamlets like Racine, Sheboygan and Manitowoc. This crime report essentially discussed the "hard issues" like teenagers driving a golf cart on a closed course, and the woman who runs "Crimestoppers Sheboygan" proudly proclaiming that the issue was under control and they were moving on to the other five calls they've had this month. Although I chuckled, I found all of this quite reassuring as I pulled in for gas near the town of Lake Church, a tiny town along Lake Michigan with a majestic state park and not much else but a cemetery and a few houses.
With sunny but windy temps in the mid to upper 50s, I was quite comfortable in my yuppie North Face jacket, eliciting looks from the hard working guys in overalls as I pulled back onto the interstate to chug the last 35 miles into Green Bay.
County Roads in Wisconsin that run perpendicular to each interstate are announced with letters and not numbers, which seemed different to me, as did the massive farms with their cows, sheep, bulls, chickens, buffaloes and moose grazing in them. Also pleasant to find were the pro-life signs along the road and the Conservative Christian radio; more socially conservative than religious, however. Coming from a coastal Jew whose family shudders at the word "Jesus" more often than not, my understanding of the history of Judaism, Zionism and Judeo-Christian values enables me to respect the role of Christianity in people's lives, instead of ignorantly and hypocritically chastising it ala most secular elites along the coasts.
In any event, I arrived in the hinterlands of Green Bay around 1pm and soon realized how amazing it was that this city of barely six figures in people is able to house not only the most historic football stadium in the world, but arguably the most storied franchise in football history.
My one hour tour, led by two Green Bay natives who hated the state of Minnesota (this seems to be a common occurrence in Wisconsin as it borders the state to the east) was thorough and spectacular, and I left satisfied as I began my five hour drive along State Highway 29 to the West, headed, ironically, for my hotel in Minnesota.
As I crossed the northern portion of the glove-shaped state of Wisconsin from east to west, gazing at the blazing sun on a suddenly warm 66 degree late afternoon, pine trees and hills dotting the north side of the road as I hit the city of Wausau, eating a Wendy's hamburger, sipping a soda, listening to classic rock and local talk radio, seeing signs for towns that proclaim "a nice place to belong," and many other signs throughout the counties that read, "Premature Birth Kills" or "Thorpe High: 1992-93 State Football Champs," I rationalized that life couldn't get much simpler nor better. Then it did, as I listened to a stirring and detailed discussion about state laws for divorce in each of Wisconsin's 72 counties with the State District Attorney. Okay, to me, this was exciting. To each his own, no?
Just prior to crossing the Saint Croix River into the state of Minnesota, I stopped outside the Chippewa Falls/Eau Claire area in Western Wisconsin for some crackers and water. I remembered that my balkanizing friend once told me that these towns were 97% white and because of this, that I'd "like it there." His racist, specious comments aside, I walked in and immediately observed a black man working behind the counter. Of course, I would never have noticed the color of his skin if my leftist friend has not brought those numbers to my attention years prior. Now, who is the race-baiter? I got back into the car then and headed into Minnesota.
As soon as I hit the city limits of Saint Paul and Minneapolis, the vehicles changed from pick up trucks and American sedans to Volvos, Volkswagens and BMWs donning John Kerry stickers. (Didn't he lose that election 18 months ago?)
Gone were the "We support President Bush" signs in the rural Wisconsin counties that had made it past the ACLU's Conservative free speech curtailing censors and billboards advertising local zero Al Franken's documentary at the weekend's Twin Cities film festival were proudly in place. Both Wisconsin and Minnesota regularly vote Democratic, but Minnesota had the additionally dubious distinction of being the only state to vote for another local hero, Walter Mondale, in the 1984 presidential election versus Ronald Reagan. I had crossed into another dimension of liberalism: the upper Midwest radical region. Thankfully, I had eschewed Madison, and I would spend much of Wednesday in rural Minnesota and North Dakota.
The following morning, I escaped some light rain and light traffic of the Twin Cities' rush hour and quickly found myself rolling along I-94 through the tundra and trees of west-central Minnesota. Many towns in this region as well as in North Dakota contain names of a German or Eastern European origin such as New Munich, New Prague, and of course, North Dakota's capital of Bismarck, named for the erstwhile German chancellor. Seems that due to the land's geography and the climate, Minnesota and North Dakota were hoping to attract these particular immigrants. In Minnesota at least though, it is common knowledge that the Swedish and other Scandinavian countries serve as the background of many residents. Considering my background and the aforementioned names, I was hesitant to see what was next. In upstate New York for example, you'll quickly find New Lebanon and Austerlitz, while in Southern Illinois, you'll find the town of "Palestine." Who said Americans weren't multi-cultural? It's just that our multi-culturalism will eventually lead to our demise. Just ask Europe.
As I entered pleasant-sounding "Otter Tail County," the radio station began realizing they were far enough away from the atheists and religion-haters of the big city, and I began to hear prayers to Christ and see signs that were daring enough to include "G-d" and "Jesus" in them. Again, most of my Jewish family would be more petrified by this than if Al Qaeda had a recruiting board in the middle of their suburban community. Don't ask me why.
After lunch at "Burger Time" in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, where I felt a tad out of place in my v-neck sweater and corduroy pants amongst the overall-wearing, beard-donning blue collar males that surrounded me, I decided to eschew the final 55 miles to Fargo (ND) and instead head west for 22 miles in order to reach the North Dakota state line at Wahpeton. During this drive, I passed Foxhome (pop. 143), the BNSL Railroad and other industrial plants where men were hard at work. Although these guys likely never went to college, I am not arrogant enough to deny that they are smarter than I am in many ways. That's what separates me from the intellectual elitists: humility.
Ten or so minutes later, as I found myself halfway between Fergus Falls and Breckenridge (last Minnesota town before crossing state lines), I thought to myself, "I don't know anyone for hundreds (maybe thousands) of miles." I know the guy in Chicago (over 600 miles away) from Monday night, but he is moving to San Diego (2223 miles) tomorrow, I have a friend's little brother who goes to school in Saint Louis (865 miles), and I have family and friends in Seattle (1400 miles) and Cleveland (970 miles). Let's just hope this Chevy Malibu continues to run well. (The "Change Oil Soon" light actually came on later in the day and I exchanged it for a Ford when the next morning in Minneapolis.)
I stopped for a soda and a camera at the lone gas station in Breckenridge, Minnesota, and was pleased to see the local policeman chatting away with the heavyset store clerk on a "busy" mid-Wednesday in Breckenridge, pop 3,500, median home value $67,000. Here's more.
Within moments I went over the Red River (a bit different and smaller than the Texas version) and was in North Dakota, marking my 46th state in the past two years. (I would add Montana and Idaho later in the week to finally conquer all of the lower 48.) Stepping out to look around the town of Wahpeton and surrounding areas, I saw more of the usual from small town, real America. While there was no Whole Foods, Yoga centers nor huge shopping plazas with vegan fare, I did see a regional company's headquarters ("Imation") with many cars in the lot, "support our troops" signs, advertisements on billboards selling wheat, soybeans and other items that I was unfamiliar with, but wanted to learn more about.
However, with my car "in need of oil" and storms brewing on all sides of me (I could see the patterns clearly over the flat prairie from the highway overpass), I headed further west, then south on I-29 to North Dakota Highway 11, stopped at the state sign in the middle of the highway to take a shot, and then, because no one was exactly around, I proceeded to walk back and forth across the "Welcome to North Dakota" sign a few times just for the heck of it. Eventually, a truck passed and looked menacingly at me, so I decided it was time to head back into Minnesota. But before I did, I enjoyed the sign in the Southeastern corner of North Dakota at the town of Fairmount which said, "Where the sun shines first in North Dakota." How clever. But being southeast, while this may be true in the winter, the northeastern corner could likely lay that claim in the summer. Oh well. The next sign, "Class B State High School Basketball Champions 1933" was far better. I'm sure many remember that one well, seriously.
As I drove back into now Northwestern Minnesota, passing through towns that resembled one another, it was like time had stood still here. It was pleasant, but I couldn't see myself living here. While I again enjoyed the "Support our Troops" signs that glistened alongside the highway as well as the "need Gravel?" advertisements, I realized that it would potentially prove difficult to find common ground with these folks, other than our patriotic political views and abhorrence of the flawed values of coastal elites. As I hit my first stop sign in three towns (Tenney (pop. 6) and Nashua (pop. 65)did not seem to have any people, much less traffic signals), I pondered if anyone from this region had ever even visited Minneapolis, a mere 197 miles away.
As I crossed over the proverbial train tracks and into the "metropolis" of Wendell with its bank, gas station and 177 residents, I was quickly deposited down a hill and heading toward Elbow Lake, which began an hour of roads through many of Minnesota's 10,000 lakes. Although a cloudy 58 degree day in late April, one must acknowledge the beauty of Minnesota and the entire upper Midwest region. They may lack an ocean, but that's not all life is about, for sure. While I concur with travel writer, Bill Bryson, who once mused upon seeing the beauty and lack of appreciation urban elitists have for their homes in cities like Boston, Rome and London, "why is wealth always wasted on the rich"?, it has to be mentioned how pristine and majestic the "hinterlands" of our nation are as well. Alas, these areas just aren't going to draw John and Jane Leftist of Greenwich away from summers on Nantucket anytime soon. Too bad for them.
As I began heading east toward the town of Little Falls, a voice on the radio (which had had no reception in hours) proclaimed, "Something is happening in the Fargo/Moorhead area that may never happen again." In my big city arrogance I pondered whether it was a Jew sighting, but alas, it was a Suzuki sale. Interesting, I guess, and I motored toward the Northern tips of the Mississippi River in Little Falls, about 100 miles due north of the Twin Cities.
Little Falls is a "nice" little town. It was about 3:20pm, school was getting out and traffic was, I kid you not, heavy. After I parked, it literally took me two minutes to find the holes in traffic in order to meander across Main Street over to the Veterans Memorial Park along the banks of the Mighty Miss.
There are fewer than eight thousand people in Little Falls currently, and back in World War II - when the population was surely much smaller - they lost over 170 men. When you think about losing fewer 2,500 men nationally, in roughly the same amount of time during our current War on Terror, you realize how (G-d rest these heroes souls) successful this vital war truly has been. Also consider that the most vehement (and completely devoid of touch with common America) war critics come from areas where the aggregate casualty rate is probably in single digits, and you realize how fruitless and dishonest the anti-war rhetoric has become.
I left town, passing an "Unborn babies can feel pain" and www.whatsinourwater.info (you're welcome for the plug, fellas) sign and headed south toward the Twin Cities and my 7pm baseball game at the Metrodome via St Cloud.
After getting some cash at Wells Fargo, which seemingly solely exists west of the Mississippi - and I was about 0.1 miles west in Saint Cloud - I hustled back down toward the big cities, trying desperately to beat Rush Hour on this Wednesday.
After passing a "NYC Bagels" store (my friends in NYC would no doubt scoff) as well as a the friendly town of Big Lake, where I got gas, chips and soda from the lumberjack looking clerk, I was within ten miles of downtown Minneapolis before traffic hit a stall. I wouldn't think that traffic INTO the city would be difficult at 5pm, but it was. Thankfully, this gave me time to look around and note some final thoughts upon these two days.
It was amazing, but typical after all of my recent travels, that within 15 minutes, the preponderance of vehicles had gone from 80% pick-up trucks to an 80% hybrid of Volkswagens, PT Cruisers, Lexuses, Volvos, BMWs, Subarus, Mercedes and, of course, SUVs. Many had beard-wearing, professorial-looking men in them with their trophy brides and "No War for Oil" and "Defend America, Defeat Bush" bumper stickers on their rears. Do not ever tell me that the Republicans are still the party of the rich, if they ever were in the first place.
I was thinking about why I despise these people since most of my family and friends are part of their hypocritical, intolerant culture. Did I really have more in common with the so-called "uneducated, redneck, gun-toting, pick-up truck driving, Christians of Middle America"? I have a graduate degree, do not own a gun, drive a Nissan and am a semi-religious Jew, after all. Why do I gravitate toward those who symbolize unfamiliar things?
Then as I came under an overpass and looked up at a hippie with a "Peace" placard waving to the cars that passed, I realized that the Democrats are certainly two parties themselves. The rich liberals I know have ZERO in common with the modern "peace and love" hippies of today, both in values and interests. The hippies despise the yuppies to the utmost degree. So, considering that somehow those two factions vote alongside each other every four years for the candidates with the "D" beside their names, there really is no big deal if I vote alongside people I have little in common with for the candidate with the "R" beside their name. At least I try to explore their ways of life. Do you think Marc and Marcia Liberal in Marin County EVER go to the Oakland ghettos across the bay?
I rest my case.
To read my travel article from this trip as a whole, please click here: http://www.hackwriters.com/Badlandsadventure.htm
To access my other recent articles on regionalism and elitism, click here:
http://www.americanthinker.com/articles.php?article_id=5283
Ari Kaufman
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