We only had another day in Minneapolis, and Mike and Peter put their heads together to find another only-in-Minneapolis experience for me. And so they chose Dudley Rigg’s Brave New Workshop, a sketch comedy company.
Now, if you’re been paying attention, comedians are under siege by the over-offended who will present anything out of context to whip up a mob of outrage. So all too often, it decays into “dick” jokes whether at the expense of penises or the lame put-downs of cultural villian du jour. When it doesn’t, the comedians lock down their venue. We saw Carrot Top in Las Vegas last year and he had at least six security guards roaming to make sure no one was taping. He zinged through jokes, some of which could have been taken as offensive: all it would take was one ass to show just that and his career could end.
The Brave New Workshop wasn’t scared. We saw a topical show that skewered everyone. We especially loved “Just Say It” with a Minnesotan who can’t say the exact words of phrases like “I love you,” but rather has an alternate like “Drive home safe now!” It could be done (slightly differently) in Nashville, too. There were jabs at impeachment and the space program, bad wigs, and knowing winks. Like good comedy, even the skits we didn’t like made us think. Comedians aren’t supposed to make us comfortable, but they are supposed to make us laugh.
It was amazing to see comedians being free to fill their role. And if you are offended, take it up with Dudley Riggs.
Peter has a childhood friend whom we always see in (and is a reason for going to) the Minneapolis area. He and his wife are life long locals who moved to Edina, Minnesota right around the time they had children. We saw them at their wedding; during our trip across country; and now, each time about a decade apart. Our children have gone from non-existent to young to now where they can be briefly left on their own. And of course, as soon as we had booked tickets to Minneapolis, we asked them if we could come over and stay.
For those who are not from the Minneapolis area, and who are old enough to remember SAT analogies:
Or more inexactly, it’s a nice place to live with good schools, no crime, nice parks and it has managed to not become douchy, though it is made fun of by the people who wish they could live there.
We caught up on our lives and admired what they and their children have done and accomplished in the, uh, almost 12 years since we saw them last.
I would have complained about the cold, but it was a downright balmy 20 degrees and I’d already survived one night. I told Mike and Kim I wanted to see what Minneapolis has that I won’t see anywhere else.
Minneapolis has a number of great micro-breweries (and at least one major brewery as well.) But after some discussion, Mike decided the one to see was Surly Brewing. This was the same place that created teh First Avenue beer Peter had had at the club the night before.
It is a huge brewing company and it was packed with people even in mid afternoon. Nonetheless, getting a beer to try wasn’t hard. There was a white wine beer which is exactly what it says it is. It is beer, but it tastes like a sparkling white wine. But it’s beer…. Peter and Mike had a dark beer so thick and sweet it tasted like molasses. Kim had a different dark beer which is what they each had later. They also had sour beer, a style that goes in and out of fashion and a range of both standard and exploratory beers.
Though we didn’t plan on dinner until later, appetizers sound like a good idea. But then we couldn’t decide on just one, because they were so interesting and intriguing. We had a charcuterie plate with duck pastrami. We had perfectly grilled brussels sprouts, though Mike said they were even better when bacon wrapped. We had to have pierogi. And when we saw Nashville hot chicken and the server promised us it would be truly Nashville quality hot, we said bring it on.
The chef impressed us on every dish, except for the Nashville hot chicken. But then we have yet to have anything that is really Nashville hot chicken outside of Nashville regional. (Especial stink eye to KFC and TGIF.) I would like to create a public service announcement for all y’all: adding cayenne, or even cayenne, to your spice mix does not mean it is Nashville hot. And that chicken better be a perfect, juicy on the inside and crisp on the outside and no mistakes. Nashville hot chicken is an art form, that requires the artistry of an expert chef and the sadism to be willing to make your diners suffer. Imbibing in hot hot chicken is a masochistic “hurts so good” experience, and honestly, most local Nashvillians order their hot chicken “not hot.” Perhaps I should not order hot chicken from any place that does not make you pay for it in advance. And perhaps Surly could offer an upscale Juicy Lucy instead…..
For those who want more pedestrian food, Surly had a pizza bar upstairs. We had gotten a table and Surly was a hip enough place to have production assistants running around looking for young hot singles willing to audition for CBS’ Love Island. One assistant playfully framed us:
There weren’t plans to cast in Nashville, and we’re not their demographic anyway, but we will watch the show to see the Minneapolitans who do make it to the island.
Our show tickets were for 5 pm, so we had to go. Cleverly our server had a system that allowed us to check out at the table. Next up, we were going to see comedy the way it should be.
We had seen the concert we’d come for, but we had another day to spend in Minneapolis, and I wanted to see and experience what Minneapolis had that I would not find anywhere else. It was already clear that it’s a cultural nexus for the upper Midwest.
So for breakfast, we went out to Caribou Coffee, an near-omnipresent local chain. (There were at least 4 in the Mall of America.) We had some delicious coffee drinks. I told the baristas I only had a day left in Minneapolis, and asked if there is only one place I could eat that would represent Minneapolis, what would it be? Brits Pub, where we’d gone the night before, was one vote, but overwhelmingly the other was Matt’s Bar, followed by if you can’t get in, the name of another number of dive bar named places like Ray Jay’s and Blue Door Pints.
I discovered what they were pointing me to was a local specialty and the kinds of places that serve such food. For Minneapolis is the birthplace and home of an inside-out cheeseburger called a “Juicy Lucy.”
We’d had breakfast, and plans to spend the rest of the day with some local friends who’d be available later, so we headed over to a music store called The Electric Fetus.
While everyplace has a music store, there are few music stores so amazing as to be regional icons, with knowledgeable opinionated staff, both new and used music, a focus on regional bands, and gifts and goodies reflective of and aimed at the local subcultures. These places usually max out our credit cards. Amoeba Music in Berkeley is one; Waterloo Records in Austin is another. And Minneapolis has its own.
From the quirky insouciant window display (go ahead, sit in the window….) and a variety of Prince t-shirts, this place was indelibly Minneapolis.
And as such, I needed some translation, as the genres they had didn’t map to mine. In the Bay Area, there’s a rock section, but subdivided — classic rock, soft rock, hard rock, modern rock, surfer rock, and if you are there, people know of what you speak. In Nashville, there is rock and folk and country but the musicians here are a bunch of music whores so it gets mixed up into what we call Americana, which then itself spits out into new forms of those aforementioned genres. That’s what I hear on my favorite local station and what I hear at our local music festivals and clubs.
So when I went to look for Lukas Nelson & The Promise of the Real, whose latest album got me through the second half of 2019, I didn’t know where to look. They are not rock, not folk, and not on our country radio stations. This band might get booked to the Ryman, but not the Grand Old Opry.
Electric Fetus had his music in stock, but to my surprise (but not too much of one), had him under country. A Minneapolitan may be similarly amused being asked to look for Prince in the R&B section, when depending on the album or even the song, it’s jazz, gospel, rock, soul, funk and a mismash of some or all of the above. Prince has his own section at Electric Fetus, by the way.
A little later, a manager approached me with an album from Lukas Nelson and the Promise of the Real signed by members of the band. Would I like that? Oh, YES. (It is now framed and hanging on my wall.)
In the meantime, Peter found all sorts of albums and releases we didn’t even know existed. Our daughter got a Taco Money purse and our son a solar corgi. I now have socks announcing “I heard you….and I don’t care.” And very Minnesotan band-aids:
At the point that we’d collected enough stuff to fill both the suitcases we had brought, we checked out and fled to Edina before another awesome item called out to be bought.
Nashville audiences have made me soft. No matter the artist, no matter the venue, no matter how many hundreds of thousands of people there are in the audience, they don’t crush or shove one another, except by accident. As the crowd gets bigger and the show more exciting, there is simply a folding forward, and if you don’t like it, you can let it wash past you because the acoustics are probably better where you’re at anyway. You can definitely tell the out of towners at Nashville shows, and everyone knows who they are, bless their hearts.
San Francisco Bay Area shows could get much rougher, and I had perfected pointed elbows and a broad stance to keep a spot because the only row is the front row. And a donkey kick to get the people trying to crawl up my back off it.
I didn’t quite know what to expect in Minneapolis, though I could already tell y’all that their definition of “nice” is not the same as it would be in a Nashville dictionary. After checking out the merch table, we had arrived early enough to get a comfortable spot near the front. How many people were really going to go out in a wintry night in Minneapolis to see an aging band with only a local following? Answer: the club’s full capacity worth, all of whom know they are The Suburbs’ #1 most die-hard fans. And from years of getting on and off busses filled with people wearing parkas that make them 3 times their actual size, they have perfected the art of finding spaces to move in between and to where there is none.
Peter warned me to move closer and we were but inches from the fans directly in front of us, but we could blink and POOF a small army of people would slide in. This happened several times and short of giving frottage to the large scary punk in front of me, this Nashvillian did not know what to do. And I still did have to apologize to him once for an awkward moment of physical intimacy when I got shoved into him. He said it was ok, he was used to that happening at concerts.
On the other hand, First Avenue has several excellent methods of crowd pacification. One was lowering a screen in front of the stage when there was no performance and playing music videos from the 1980s. Another one was bar service on the floor with a bar maid that had also perfected the art of squeezing in. I was pretty much beered up for the day, given that waiting took place in bars, but Peter could not resist having a First Avenue branded beer when he saw that existed:
It turns out this show had an opening band, Miloe, which struck me as a near-suicidal mission for a crowd like this. At least they were local and smart enough to sneak in a group of their own die-hard fans. They put on a good show, and kept it short, and survived. Plus it was their first show at First Avenue, and there was that to cheer for. And that if their show had been bad, that it would have been their last.
By the time they left, the crowd was roiling. They had thawed out, they had come from nearby and from far-off locales like Rochester, Chicago, and Duluth. They spoke of “Beej” and “Chan” as of dear friends, and speculated which songs the band would play. Their logo appeared on the screen atop a music videos and the crowd howled. And the logo stayed and the screen didn’t go up, and the crowd got louder.
And then the show began, with “Love is the Law,” one of their most iconic songs. They rocked they rolled. It was the first time in a very long time I’ve seen members of the band drinking anything except water, which probably added to the appropriate level of chaos. A unexpected stylish dancer came out for “Rattle My Bones” and proceeded to rattle everyone’s bones. The encore (for there must always be an encore) started with a beautiful version of “Life is Like” after which some members of the Suicide Commandoes (another local punk rock band) stepped in for two songs. And it ended with “I Like Cows.”
Then the crowd unfolded into separate packs. Peter went back to the merch table. Given the size of the crowd, it seemed likely that even a one-mile rideshare would be pricey, so we walked back. I noticed that unlike it other towns, there were no announcements of the local temperature. But by this point, as long as we kept moving, I knew we would live. Plus poking a glove into the very fluffy snow is fun — because it’s so fluffy! California Sierra and Nashville snow is sticky.
I tried to get into the Skyway, but it was closed. There was a hot shower in our hotel, and had I been more frozen, there was a sauna.
Peter booked a hotel within walking distance of First Avenue, so we could easily get there by foot, rideshare, or Skyway. We stayed at the Millennium Hotel which had the regular suite of amenities you can expect at a top hotel. As we found out, it also had a sauna.
As we were going to our room, we talked to two other hotel guests and asked where they had come in from and what brought them to Minneapolis on Valentine’s Day. I suspect my look of fear at the prospect of going outside and my odd collection of warming layers made us rather curious, too. They were from another Minnesotan town about 100 miles west and had come for a pheasant and quail hunters’ convention taking place at the convention center across from the hotel.
“You think this is cold?” he laughed with amusement, and proceeded to describe being out on a snowmobile in 50 below windchill.
We relaxed and crashed out for a few hours until we decided to have some dinner. Just a block away was Brits Pub, which looked interesting.
“Ask us about outdoor seating!” a sign in the window announced, and Peter cheekily did, much to the hostess’ horror. She told us we could try out the Clubhouse upstairs, which had a fireplace and a view of Minneapolis, and was reached by stairs hinting a storied past for the building.
Peter and I enjoyed some pints and dinner. I asked our server who now knew that we came from Nashville if we would be able to walk to First Avenue or if we should call a rideshare. I was bundled up, but I didn’t want to die. Peter assured me that the alcohol would have a anti-freeze effect, and the fat in the cheese sandwich I’d just had would provide an extra layer of warmth. And so out in the cold we went.
First Avenue is a legendary site, and most people know it as the place where Prince and The Time played in Purple Rain. Peter saw multiple acts there, and the names of the acts in the stars that covered the outside walls included many of our favorite bands from the 1980s and on.
The club however didn’t open until 8 pm, and we’d gone especially early to pick up our tickets. In Nashville, fans hold up the wall until doors open. That was not a reasonable option, so we went to a nearby pub.
By the time we finished a pint, the doors were open and there was a line of old punks our age filtering in and grumpily showing ID that proved that yes, said 50 year old is over 21. A great number of them were wearing the iconic Suburbs t-shirt like the one Peter has, and it was warm enough to take off the top layer of warmth. We staked ourselves a spot near the front of the stage, a position we’d have to defend.
I was soon to experience my first concert in Minneapolis.
The Mall of America near the Minneapolis airport was big news the first time I visited Minneapolis in 1999, but now everyone is used to the fact that the Biggest Mall in the United States exists.
How big is it? Well, it’s so big it has an amusement park in the middle — as well as several other amusement-type parks like an aquarium, a Crayola park, and a Legoland, and coming in is an M&M Experience just like the one of the Las Vegas Strip. It has 530 stores, although the flagship Sears store is now closed.
I was seriously worried that it had gone downhill in the 20+ years since I’d last seen it. It was amazing then, and dead malls are scary and sad. It didn’t help that on the way in, the lazy buskers turned out to be indoor bums — because outdoor bums are dead.
But then the rest of it came into glorious, gleaming view. Compared its previous incarnation on my first visit, like most things these days, it was more modern, brighter, and better. The amusement park seemed considerably bigger; all I remembered from the past was a ferris wheel. Now it has a flume! And a Flyover America ride. And true beach boardwalk style thrill rides like this: https://youtu.be/IWBsqMTDgOg
We were just there for coffee and brunch, but we ended up marvelling at a store that sells board games….nothing but board games. The top floor, which used to have a discount book store, was now a movie theatre. And the middle was open to the sky, allowing the construction of a 4-story high Lego masterpiece (as well as several others.)
I was sorely tempted to eat at the “Minneawaffolis,” but ended up at Cowboy Jack’s instead. On the way there, we were entranced by a Crayola store so big it has its own “experience” (melt your crayons to make sculptures, take selfies, create a video) and art made of crayons:
Just as it had been, it was a place with so much you could live there and never go out. And indeed, it now has a hotel, so you can do just that until you’re really and truly shopped out.
By the time we had a Valentine’s Day piece of cheesecake, the early morning was catching up to me, and we decided to head to our hotel downtown.
A few weeks ago, Peter checked his email and found out that one of this favorite bands from his misbegotten youth, The Suburbs, was going to be playing in their home town of Minneapolis on Valentine’s Day.
“Wanna go?” he said, and I said, “Sure. ” And since we are in Nashville, Minneapolis is only 2 hours away by plane and tickets are cheap.
I was surprised how many people I knew in Nashville had experienced Minneapolis in the wintertime themselves. And left. And, oh, how they laughed that I was going there. They were generally of the opinion that if I was careful and didn’t go out to much, I might make it back.
But early on Valentine’s Day, I pulled on my one and only pair of snow boots, which I’ve had and rarely used for 30 years. I put on two layers of sweaters, a neck gaiter, and an old woolen cap, and tucked some heavy mittens I still had from my semester in Russia in my backpack.
Peter told me of the Skyway, an above-ground route that allows Minnesotans to travel from building to building without risking frostbite.
But the Skyway was one part of Minneapolis I have yet to experience, even though at this point I seem to make it there about once in a decade or so. We were there in the summer of 1999 for the wedding of some friends we were to see later, in the fall on our road trip through the United States in 2008, and now I was to see it in the winter.
Minneapolis never fails to blow my mind, and it didn’t fail this time. I watched the great white snowdrifts below as we landed. The pilot announced the temperature outside was 2 degrees, with a wind chill factor of negative 11. Minnesotans care very much about what the wind chill factor is.
I had thought a skyway would take us to the rental car center, but we had to step outside. I expressed my fear and another traveller laughed and said, “You think this is cold?”
On the ground as we went to pick up our rental car, a large splash of coffee was frozen solid. I don’t know how long it had been there, but it almost certainly will remain until the Spring thaw, as trying to wash it away will only create more ice..
We pulled out, and right on our route to downtown Minneapolis, the Mall of America beckoned us in.
I’ve been a Southerner now for less than 3 years, short enough to still be considered a West Coast Weirdo to the locals, yet long enough for it to be a complete surprise to me that the Confederate Flag, aka the Stars and Bars, is now the representation of Nazi White Supremacy. I have yet to meet a white supremacist or a Nazi here, and there are far more African-Americans here than there were in San Francisco, including first generations thereof.
I am truly the cranky old lady here when I point out that in my childhood, the flag represented the South and the rebels of society. It was the age of the Dukes of Hazzard, hokey Burt Reynolds movies, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. As far as I remember, it represented rowdy rednecks, the kind which still do exist here, with their bold battle cry of “Hold my beer!” When I was sophisticated and urbane, they annoyed me; now that there is a great urban Selbstweltanshauung, the n’er-do-well insouciance of the Southern boy is rather endearing. The problem with the Southern boy is that he doesn’t care what those who consider themselves his betters think, and that’s a problem for those who want us all to think (and vote) in the same way.
But after being informed several times that the former Confederacy is now a hotbed of hatred and its symbol the signal of that, I found even Wikipedia has an article detailing the symbolism and use of the flag, together with results of polls on how people see it (and have seen it.) I’m just like WTF, the things we are supposed to be offended about are changing so fast, I can’t keep up. And frankly, I am sick and tired of always being expected to be offended.
It can’t have been so long ago that businesses could still post a sign saying “we have the right to refuse service.” Now those that hold to personal principles must be destroyed. In 2016, some anti-Trump activists goaded each other to create pink “pussy hats” to protest the election. One local business refused to sell pink yarn for that purpose. Never mind that if you wanted pink yarn to make a pussy hat in Franklin, Tennessee, you could readily find all the yarn for it at Hobby Lobby, or Wal-Mart, and if they ran out, you could get it online or in a neighboring town. You still had the right to knit your hat and wear it in public. But the social justice warriors of today could not let an independent yarn business owner exist with the incorrect opinion, and pursued her with figurative pitchforks of derision and false Yelp reviews.
Last year, the circus at our county fair was literally run out of town thanks to the power of the offended. I did not see the act, but according to the reports, the circus clown kissed the woman he pulled out of the audience against her will. There’s a script to that (or at least there used to be). Woman then slaps clown. Clown does a prattfall. Audience laughs. Clown bows to woman. The new script is that woman makes a face, someone gets offended on said woman’s behalf, calls it rape in complaining to the fair organizers, the fair organizers are shocked that something offensive occurred at our family-oriented fair, and the circus has to leave town in the middle of the night.
Likewise, the devout Christian baker in your town may not want to craft your triple penis bestiality cake. If you pay enough, someone will (just post your wish on Etsy, Craigslist, or the Airtasker app). But, hey, there’s more power and joy in making someone bend to your will than there is in having to pay for a complex custom-made cake, now isn’t there?
I love having ideas. I love being silly. I love joking around. But I can’t any more because I can’t even tell what innocently-meant symbol, song, or joke will trigger howls of protest. We were at a Paint Night in Nashville and the artist/teacher played “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster the People, until someone pointed out it had something to do with school shootings and the artist was mortified and stopped playing it immediately. We’d seen them perform that song at the Ryman earlier that year; now they don’t play it at all. Recreate the Ministry of Funny Walks skit to someone who doesn’t know Monty Python, and soon enough you’ll have someone shrieking in anger that it’s making fun of their cousin with cerebral palsy.
The problem is that there is great reward in being publicly offended, and all downside for expressing yourself. If you find something to be offended about, others will laud you and shame themselves for not having noticed the offence. It’s bonus points if you get the power of destroying someone or their innocent symbol by libeling it as something evil or mean.
I have become quieter and quieter, and I also have less people I feel comfortable being silly with. I want to be able to play freely, and not always fear the angriest person within the area finding something to make them mad. It’s a shitty world, and I wish someone would hold up free speech for the innocent, and not allow so much power to those who can find offense when there is none.
I left my blogging for several months, and returned to find out I’d given my audience a cliff-hanger. As promised in Part 1 of my East Coast travel journey, I had more to talk about for the rest of the summer.
It’s a spoiler, but the rest of our road trips that summer were visiting Neil in Madison, Wisconsin. Gradually, trip after trip, it evolved from our memories of Peter’s beloved college town (and the site of our marriage) into the modern day place we now think of as Neil’s Madison.
The South comes alive culturally around the Fourth of July, and this year, we were truly part of it. The weekend before, we joined our firehouse captain joining in neighborhood parades with the fire truck and then hosing down the children (and yes, here the children actually want to have the hose turned on them.) One of the neighborhoods also asked us to join their neighborhood party and I judged the best dessert in their competition. I also went to see what an Ice Cream Social is around here, and, well, let me tell you, it is epic. The ice cream was all home made and fresh, and at 50 cents a scoop, I wished I had brought a bucket to buy more and take it home. There was also inexpensive barbecue for sale, followed by an auction with a fast-talking auctioneer who got $700 for a pie before Peter and I decided this auction was not for us. Instead, we went to a meet and greet with a local political candidate who eventually ended up becoming a local state representative.
We also repeated a win from our previous summer, setting the beginning of what might become a personal tradition. We headed to nearby Harlinsdale Farm with our lawn chairs to watch a zany 80s band play before enjoying the fireworks show.
By the end of July, we had a weekend free to go see our son again, and this time I booked an Airbnb apartment within walking distance of his, so I could mom out and make some of our favorite meals, such as steak au poivre and chicken picatta for dinner. The arrangement also made it possible for us to watch the new Captain Underpants TV series together.
This time, we were also Madison tourists, rather than Madison nostalgists. We went to see the Mustard Museum, which was amazing. It was much more than we expected. It had lots of mustard jokes, free mustard tastings, a broad selection of mustards, and it was educational, too. Peter had never been a condiment using person at all, but now that he knows of flavors better than regular yellow mustard, it’s a delight. Personally, I got hooked on Boetje’s Stone Grown Mustard (it is good on everything, including vegetables and sometimes I think I could just eat it plain.) I also bought Lowensenf, a sharp mustard I remember fondly from my childhood (which I used liberally and quickly ran out of) and award winning Dijon mustard, since I do use a lot of Dijon.
Neil and I were keen on seeing the noted tourist attraction (and noted in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods) The House on the Rock. For some reason, Peter had it confused with Taliesin (a house on a rock that had traumatized him with its boringness in his youth.)
We were all glad we did go to The House of the Rock, even though when we arrived at 2 pm, the hosts warned us that we would only have 3 hours to get through every section and each would be intensively intriguing. As mysterious, eerie, and pagan as Neil Gaiman makes it sound in the book, he still couldn’t do justice to it. It is a work of love, an incredible number of collectible treasures arranged in fantastic ways, and architectural details which make Sarah Winchester’s ideas look relatively sedate. And let’s not forget that it is full of music automatons.
When we returned, just before my birthday, we indulged in another repeat: watching fake Journey (aka Resurrection) at the Carnton Plantation. This time we arrived early, and had close seat to the show. I even got fake Steve Perry to sign a Resurrection concert tour tshirt for me.
In August, Peter’s parents were taking their own tour around the US, and came to visit us in Nashville. Knowing that Paul is a train fan and a foodie, I led them to Carter’s, the restaurant in the Union Station Hotel downtown. The history and design of the place was great, as was the food. My mind and taste-buds were blown away by a pimento cheese and bacon jam sandwich with freshly made tater tots on the side.
They had also never heard of the Loveless Cafe, which is an institution and a tourist attraction here. So we made sure to stop in and enjoy their biscuits on a not-too-busy weekday morning. Scout had already started high school the day they arrived.
We took our last trip to Madison on Labor Day Weekend. Neil’s summer intern peers were at schools on a semester system so they had already left, and we crashed with him in his now near-bare apartment.
The Saturday of that weekend, Madison had their food festival on the square where we could taste all sorts of tapas-sized fare (I had an egg on a stick). And, unlike most local festivals, they had beer!
On the way back to the university street, we saw several of the themed Bucky statues that have been around the town. One was German themed, so I had to take a pose with it.
On Sunday, we finally tried out the intriguing golf course we were always driving past between Madison and Middleton. It was where we should have started because it was not just a good mini golf course, but a tour guide to Madison and to Wisconsin, respectively. Initially, we played the outdoor course which showcased Wisconsin attractions, and then went indoor which was all about Madison. The university Peter knew so well was there, but it reminded us Oscar Mayer has its headquarters here too
that the town is exceptionally bicycle friendly, that there is a great basketball stadium, and a planetarium. We could have taken note of the features and gone to explore them ourselves.
However, at the end of his internship, Neil decided he wouldn’t be returning to Madison again. So that was the end of our summer, and our regular trips through Illinois. Our next set of adventures will be elsewhere along the East.