Sometime in the night our train passes through Fargo, but I'm not awake to witness the event. Dawn breaks and a beautiful day starts. We have made up some time but are still running at least a couple of hours behind schedule. It's 9.30 by the time we amble into St Paul station.
Waiting there to meet me is Rod, wearing his Ranfurly Naseby shirt so I can recognise him. We collect my luggage and head off to his house, which I am glad to see is not too far away (I hate feeling guilty about putting people out). I gratefully take up the offer of a shower to freshen up (two days on a train and I guess I'm a bit on the nose), before settling on the back patio with Rod and his wife Anita for the traditional Saturday morning newspaper session.
The day is glorious. Did I mention that already? A perfect summer day that's not so hot you don't mind sitting in the sun. I witness my first robin hopping about in the back yard. My first piece of culture shock is none of the yards in the neighbourhood are fenced, leaving a big open area to a dozen or so other back patios. Apparently it's impolite to erect a fence here. I reckon having just one Australian move in here would change all of that. If it wasn't the blue heeler digging up the flowerbeds it'd be the back yard cricket matches when a tanked up big hitter started swinging for sixes.
Saturday papers are the same the world over. If anything there is more junk mail here, but I guess that goes with the population. I note with regret that I could have bought a bottle of Jacobs Creek red wine cheaper here in Minneapolis than I paid back home for the one I brought out to Seattle. Minnesota's Governor is back in the news. Anita tells me he is an ex-wrestler, something of an embarrassment at times, but not without some common sense. I guess if I watched the news more I'd have heard of Jesse (The Body) Ventura. It's not every state that can make up bumper stickers saying "Our State Governor can beat up your State Governor!". Or suffer the response, "Our State Governor can count to 21 without unzipping his fly."
I thoroughly enjoy a relaxing morning and early afternoon lazing in the sun. It's a complete change of pace from the past week and a half, and does me the world of good. Later in the afternoon we head off for a tour of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St Paul. I guess the balmy conditions make it difficult to believe that in winter it is so cold that people avoid walking on the streets. Fully enclosed sky walkways link all the downtown shopping areas so that you never need to suffer when the weather turns harsh, which it certainly does up here.
We wander the streets of downtown Minneapolis, where a music festival of sorts is threatening to take place. We hover for a while, but nothing is happening in a hurry. A block away is an English pub complete with a lawn bowls green on the roof. Back at center stage a woman performer seems to be psyching herself up, but we decide to carry on to continue the tour in St Paul.
The tour ends with dinner at a highly rated Mexican restaurant, where I sample my first Margarita. I also discover that a Virgin Margarita is non-alcoholic, and tastes just like lemonade. For regular readers of these travelogues this will take on some relevance in a future episode, so make a mental note. My hosts follow the "early to bed, early to rise" edict, and after a long train journey I have no objections to hitting the hay soon after dark.
If anything today is even better than yesterday. I sample Rod's excellent pancakes for breakfast before heading out to the patio for some more serious lack of exertion. Which may sound boring, but in good company the time flies.
Early afternoon some fellow shooters drop by. Jim and Cathy join our Ranfurly club, and the topic turns to shooting for the next few hours. It's difficult to believe a day could pass so quickly sitting in a back yard. Before turning in we organise to pick up a rental car for the next stage of my trip to Ohio the next morning.
Rod kindly comes back from work at a civilised hour (8am) to ferry me to the airport to pick up my car. I'd be barely coherent at the time he leaves for work. After thanking Rod for his and Anita's hospitality I manage to manhandle my luggage juggernaut to the awaiting steed - a Chev Malibu. It only takes me 45 minutes or so and a slight loss of direction to find my way out of the Twin Cities, to head north before cutting east towards the Great Lakes.
I pass numerous lakes and small towns throughout eastern Minnesota, then Wisconsin. Everything has a Scandinavian flavour; this whole area was settled by mainly Swedes with a sprinkling of Norwegians. I guess in winter the land and the weather are so much like their homeland. Towards the end of the afternoon I stop for fuel. For a total cost of $15 or so I have travelled well over 300 miles. A combination of our poor exchange rate and the low cost of gas in America are the factors that cause this. But I can't get over the disparity of it all; the same distance travelled in Australia would cost me $45 at least. I giggle like a maniac for the next twenty miles.
And the euphoria continues. I have found a radio station to my liking, an old favourite is belting out at too many decibels through the stereo as I catch my first sight of a Great Lake. Simply magic. Lake Michigan just sits there shining back at me, reaching out an improbable distance like the inland sea it really is. There's no hope of seeing the far side from here. Gee, in New Zealand our biggest lake is 22 miles long.
Over the next couple of hours I skirt the west shore of the lake, working my way along the top to the point where Lake Huron starts at the Straits of Mackinac. I cross the mammoth bridge that spans the Straits not long before dusk. It's not long before I decide to abandon the road and find lodging for the night. I leave the highway at Indian River, find a motel and crash for the night.
