Three Days West: The Champagne of Beers

I sprayed washer fluid at the windshield to defrost it before pulling onto I94 through Central Wisconsin. Belly full of waffle and fruit, I swelled with masculine pride as I glanced over at Molly and Peter, who were cuddling for warmth.

Two hours later, at a gas station outside of Minnesota, we switched drivers, reflecting our new alert-driver system. As we munched on gas station burritos only two hours after our waffles and oranges, we each confessed having the thought that this processed Tex-Mex selection mirrored the nutritional value of the coveted McMuffin Meal. But it's the principle of the thing.

Through a gentle rain storm, the Twin Cities came and went. From my view in the passenger seat, they seemed architecturally dull and suburban. Chicago has jaded me.

After the Twins, we followed Corinne and Emily's route of large highway things to Otto the Otter (in a nondescript park in Fergus Falls) and "Booming" Prairie Chicken (on the side of the I94 in Rothsay). Molly loved the frequent stops and "walks." So did Peter.

I drove a windy stretch of prairie between St. Cloud and Moorhead. Trailers swung and the Panda Express creaked, but Molly snuggled in tight to my leg and Peter's soothing voice read from the New Yorker. When we stopped for gas, a hot wind stuck Peter's shirt to his body as Molly and I watched from inside the truck. We had gone from freezing temperatures to a hot summer's day in a desert. The change in climate makes the country seem big.

Hours later, each of us with driving energy to spare but growling bellies, Peter led us on an unintentional 45 minutes in Fargo looking for a greasy custard and butter burger stop. Peter spotted this entree-dessert pairing phenomenon on shiny signs in Wisconsin, but we couldn't find such an establishment, and moods started to collapse with appetites. Many defunct diners later, we settled on Subway for our cultural experience. As we toured most of the town, I wondered about Fargo's industry and its low unemployment rate. The town's highways seemed to boast a plethora of roadside farming gear and metal yards. Later, a talk-radio station mentioned Fargo's agricultural equipment-based relationship to Kurdistan. Aha! I felt secure in my powers of observation.

Country music stations rule the waves out here, and I am overjoyed to indulge. Peter's getting into it too, though I must remind him that this is only a snapshot of new country, and there is older, better stuff. He nods, appreciating, and enjoys the open roads and farm air. To a motel receptionist in Bismarch, he referred to me as 'the missus.' It's all catching on.

The days are longer in this western part of Central Mountain Time, so the sun still burns hot as we stretch out at a Bismarck motel. Peter just returned with Miller High Life, bragging about all of the aesthetic of the bottle, the brew's faultlessly summer flavour, and the fact that here in the Bison State, a six-pack is cheaper than six bottles of water. Time to raise a bottle to the country life.