This post resumes in LA as I attempt to get to Minnesota.

My journey to Minneapolis was not off to a good start, as my first cab failed to show up and I was now running late trapped in a car with a man who thought the fact my name sounded like ‘lychee’ (it doesn’t) was a side-splitting joke. I was beginning to fear I would miss my flight and to make matters worse we hit dense Los Angeles traffic,  so I’m sure you can imagine my relief when Lychee Man, who had managed to battle his way through the queues with what seemed like some very illegal driving, pulled up at the terminal in time for me to check in. The queues at LAX were lengthy but by no means as unbearable as the ones on my arrival from Auckland and in true LA fashion I ended up in conversation with a boisterous man and his friendly wife who was evidently no stranger to plastic surgery and very keen to drill  her other half on all the hair vitamins they were going to bring back for her friends from their city break in Germany. Yes some stereotypes do indeed ring true.

In case you were unfamiliar with my destination of Minnesota, it’s an upper Mid Western state not far from the Canadian border, affectionately known as the ‘land of 10, 000 lakes’. Like Canada, it has bitterly cold winters, which regularly see up to 5ft of snowfall, and while we Brits decide that we can’t possibly get to work at the sight of 6 inches of snow, Minnesotans are always keen to crack out a snow plough and make the most of their comparatively Arctic climate, with activities such as ice hockey, ice fishing and Nordic skiing being extremely popular; people are even known to run around the shopping malls when it gets too cold to exercise outside. By contrast the summers are hot and very humid on account of its famous fresh water lakes and after such a long winter, the locals embrace summer activities with enthusiasm, leaping into their canoes, signing up to summer camp and taking up their trail bikes with frenetic zest. The state is ruled by the ‘Twin Cities’, with the state capital St Paul and its most populous city Minneapolis in close proximity to each other, and has birthed stars such as Prince, Bob Dylan and author F Scott Fitzgerald. It is also the home of Marshal from ‘How I Met Your Mother’, but most importantly, my uncle ( who is also coincidentally called Marshal) and his family,  hence my reason for flying to such an ‘obscure’ destination.

My three hour flight to the Twin Cities felt like nothing compared to my previous long hauls, and I spent the first part trying to work out why the people in front had brought their bulldog on the plane while attempting to crack the stern looking German woman on my left with small talk and offering her peanut M&Ms. Meanwhile as the plane soared out of LAX, it was much easier to appreciate the full scale of Los Angeles as we took ages to clear its dry suburbs, eventually drifting over Las Vegas, a sprawling mass right in the middle of the desert, and the Rocky Mountains. After three hours and limited conversational success with my German neighbour, it was time to land and as the lush green landscape came in to view, my brain was flooded with memories from when I visited 6 years ago with my Aunt, Uncle and Sister.

Like last time, I would be staying with my uncle’s mom Wanda and her partner Wayne, a tall softly-spoken Californian and an absolute gentleman. With her petite, immaculately dressed frame, Wanda is a formidable force of nature, organising her large family with military precision and with an impressive career managing the national board of school nurses behind her, she is rarely fazed by anything with the exception of the local deer eating her precious juniper bushes in front of her house. For me she has a strong likeness to Jane Fonda, and having watched an episode of Ellen in which tiny Fonda recounts how she scared away a large adult Grizzly that had entered her holiday cabin and was heading for her sleeping grandson, by growling, adopting a ‘bear stance’ and manhandling it out of her patio doors,  I couldn’t help but think of Wanda, the ultimate feminist icon and action woman, doing the same!

It was so lovely to see them as I came down the escalator into the arrivals lounge and having waited nervously for my luggage, which was certainly taking its time to come around the carousel, we headed out the airport and sped down the freeway for a lovely dinner at a nearby restaurant, catching up in the warm evening sun before heading back to Wanda’s place. The contrast between California’s arid hazy climate and the lush green woods and lakes of Minnesota couldn’t be more different and I certainly felt more refreshed and at home surrounded by the abundant trees of the Mid-West than near the dry beach and in the smoggy air of LA.Nestled in a leafy Minneapolis suburb, surrounded by woodland and looking out onto a lake, Wanda’s house was exactly how I remembered it and in the dusky summer light it was almost Disney-worthy in its picturesque setting complete with visiting deer and goslings toddling around in the swampy area outside. Inside the house was just as I remembered, with every shelf exhibiting artifacts from Wanda’s extensive travels as well as the works of celebrated American authors. Perhaps what I remembered most from last time was the smell, a comforting  warm aroma with a hint of Mexican spices that immediately makes one feel at home and as I lay in bed in my wood paneled room listening to the haunting call of a loon on the lake, the hollow toot of a train passing on the railroad and watching the fireflies flickering in the bushes outside, I knew exactly why I had fallen in love with the place when I was younger. Ironically the jetlag seemed far worse coming from LA to Minnesota than following the much longer journey from Auckland to LA and I would wake late in the day to the gentle hum of Wayne, who had made it his mission to rid the garden of invasive garlic mustard plants, brandishing a ‘WeedWhacker’ in the bushes.My first engagement was a family barbecue a few days after my arrival, which saw Wanda’s extended family descend for hotdogs, an impressive array of salads and cold beers. It was great to see so many familiar faces from my last visit, including my uncle’s brothers Rod and Matt and their lovely wives Alison and Sarah, their dad Bob, my uncle’s cousin Mike and his wife Mary, as well as their three kids Luci, Brigid and James, who  my sister and I got on really well with last time. I also got to see some new faces, including Matt’s adorable little daughter.

Spookily, Luci and I ended up wearing the exact same outfit without any prior communication, something we didn’t even realise until her mom Mary pointed it out to us- definitely a case of trans-Atlantic Twinstinct. With the both of us wandering around like Thing 1 and Thing 2, it proved a highly sensible evening as besides our apparent witchcraft, the main topic up for discussion seemed to be how you would survive falling into a swimming pool full of ‘Jello’ and how you would go about testing it/ getting sponsorship/ filming it but most importantly lifeguarding it.

On the back of this, I was invited to join the clan for a trivia night the next evening at a popular local brewery (hipster independent breweries appear to be pretty big in Minnesota) that was just down the road, and so at around 6 o’clock the next day, I wandered around the corner to meet them. Our family team was strong, comprised mainly of teachers and having initially assumed it would be like a pub quiz whose harder questions required you to name all five Spice Girls,  I was shocked to find we had entered an American University Challenge as we struggled to name all the countries that share a land border with India in the knowledge that getting one country wrong would forfeit you all the points for that question. Having proved absolutely useless in questions that included ordering lesser known presidents and naming ice hockey league teams, I finally managed to justify my place on the team by answering the question on the Dreamworks children’s film ‘Trolls’. We fought off stiff competition, reaching third place and winning some sunglasses for our efforts. Having  initially thought this meant a pair for each of us you can imagine our confusion as it turned out to be a singular pair of glasses for us to share between the nine of us, like the Spring Fling Crown at the end of Mean Girls.

The following evening  I was treated to a trip to see the American classic ‘West Side Story’ with Wanda and Wayne at the beautiful Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis, which overlooks the mighty Mississippi River. The Guthrie remains one of my favourite theatres and it was striking how relevant ‘West Side Story’ remains to Trump’s America today, where hostile attitudes to immigration still remain prevalent. It was particularly interesting to see how this musical that focuses on clashes of culture was received in Minnesota, which had originally been home to the Native American Ojibwe and Dakota Sioux, then ended up predominantly colonised by Scandinavians and Germans and in more recent years, has become home to a large Somali immigrant community. The director, Joseph Haj, had made a brave decision to move away from the iconic choreography of Jerome Robbins, enlisting Maija García to create brand new dances, staging it almost in the round with a very minimalist set and discarding iconic pieces like Maria’s red sash and white dress for different but no less spectacular costumes. Perhaps most important was the casting of a far more diverse group of Jets, so that the gang truly reflected their description in the text as “an anthology of what it means to be American.” With these updates, the production had a new potency, with the swirling dance numbers even more intense and dynamic on the thrust stage. Understandably, the diverse audience gave it a loud standing ovation and it was a highly enjoyable watch- if you’re interested I would definitely check out the pictures and videos on the Guthrie’s website!

Image credit: Guthrie Theater

The next evening, Wanda shooed both Wayne and I out of the house for the sacred ritual of Bridge Night on the grounds that it gets ‘quite competitive’ and so Marshal’s cousin Mike kindly offered to take in two refugees from the carnage that is four ladies playing bridge, treating us to a delicious spaghetti dinner round their place, which proved a great opportunity to catch up with Mike’s daughters Luci and Brigid and son James.  We even scored a trip to the nearby Dairy Queen (imagine McDonald’s that exclusively sells Mcflurries) for some dessert and we had a great evening sat in the sun eating our frozen treats, regaling stories from university, travels and ‘Drivers Ed’ (a mandatory class for young drivers in Minnesota led by droning middle aged men whose main hobby is apparently checking their car’s brake fluid levels) and watching people come and go. We headed back when we felt the mosquitoes begin to bite (due to its large number of lakes Minnesota is plagued every year by thousands of them) and expecting to come upon a war zone, Wayne and I returned to the house relieved to see all the furniture still in its right place after the drama of bridge night.

I caught up with Luci the day after, who had some free time while one of the kids she was babysitting over summer was at a class near Wanda’s house and over the next few days I ended up joining her in looking after her charges*. The two girls, who were both under the age of 7, certainly made a lasting impression after trying to poison me by inviting me to try a potion consisting of Borax, flour and grape juice, asking if they ‘spoke English in England’ and moulding the slime Luci had helped them make into alarmingly phallic shapes only to hack them to pieces before we could say anything, in a bizarrely violent and empowered fashion that would have made Germaine Greer proud and given even Freud cause for concern. Having often questioned why anyone would travel with children in tow, I began to see the perks when we accompanied them to the local swimming lake, a summer hangout where in order to leave with your dignity intact you have to be either accompanying a child or be under the age of 15. Luci and I lay on the grass watching the kids topping up our tans, a relaxing way to spend an hour or two if you ignored the droves of cackling children who dripped lake water on you as they sprinted past, eventually jumping in ourselves once Brigid joined us. It was a quality day out and if you thought the fun and frolics were over, you would be much mistaken as it ended with a harrowing glimpse at the world of parenthood as we sat in a driveway having an argument with two children who refused to put their seat belts on and who, once we had finally resolved this issue, moved on to squabbling about who was sitting in which seat.

A particular highlight of my first week included Thursday dinner, a weekly event where Wanda’s family come over for a slap up meal and to share stories from their week, while making plans for the next one- an event that sounds formal but really descended into spilling lasagne over the table and recreating the West Side Story choreography on sheets of bubble wrap (tickets for a live performance at the Guthrie available soon). Equally enjoyable were the evenings spent out on the veranda with my two hosts, relaxing outside in the golden hour before the mosquitoes close in, indulging in their ritual glass of wine, soft cheese and crackers while watching the evening light fade over the lake.

Towards the end of the week Marshal’s dad Bob (who was mayor of the local town and is best described as everyone’s favourite Father Christmas lookalike and the world’s kindest Shakespeare expert) invited me to join him and some of his friends for a gathering they hold every week at a cafe in town. Unsure of what exactly I had signed up to, I walked in to discover several pensioners sat around a table, ready to start what I soon found was another impossibly hard quiz; essentially it involved a picture of an event in the town’s history and guessing when and what it was in the hope of winning the prestigious prize of a sticker. They were a friendly and very lively bunch, keen to hear about my travels but more importantly wanting to know for some reason whether I watched ‘Midsomer Murders”. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that back home it has about the same following as ‘Cash In The Attic’ and ‘Storage Hunters’ so instead replied with another classic nonsensical dad joke of ‘my friends live in the village where it’s filmed and luckily they’re still alive hyuck hyuck’.They handed out this week’s picture, a black and white photo of a group of mustachioed men in hard hats and shirts with large collars who had evidently been involved in something industrial. Given that I was from another country and clearly hadn’t been born at the time this picture had been taken, it will come as no surprise that I failed to correctly identify the installment of cable in Hopkins town in 1976- quite frankly I think i’d have had an easier time understanding the ancient craft that is Brad the Kiwi driver’s bus stacking. Nonetheless, I did manage to bag myself a Minnie Mouse sticker on a copy of the picture dubbed the ‘Historical Society International Award’. I’m still unsure what exactly I won it for other than being foreign, however it is an accolade that is now going on my CV, no one will know what it is and it sounds important, but most importantly it will be used to taunt my sticker-less** uncle***.

Will the Borax assassins make another attempt on my life? Will I be able to make it out of the house having eaten so much cheese? Will I ever answer a quiz question that isn’t designed for children? The story continues in Part 2 UP NOW!

*realistically I think I just became another one of them.

** I’m aware this is a sensitive topic so the word has been censored.

***I have been informed that two weeks after I left he went across the pond to visit his family and has now achieved a sticker.