My winter vacation consists of three activities:


{1} Lying in the tropical shade, on a chaise longue, with a good book propped up on my stomach. (My stomach can accommodate the complete works of William Shakespeare, with room left over for a small volume of poetry by Emily Dickinson, but that’s another story.) It doesn’t really matter what book I prop up because I always fall asleep by the third page anyway.


{2} Eating. (I go with the American plan—all meals included—so that I am compelled to eat or deal with the guilt of skipping a prepaid meal.)


{3} Napping.


As you can see, my needs are simple. But they are also sacrosanct, which is why I was startled and alarmed when, not 30 seconds after I had plopped down on my chaise, a booming voice emanating from the chaise directly to my left asked, “So, where are you from?”

Now, I’m a fairly sociable guy. My high school yearbook named me runner-up for easiest to get along with. I like meeting new people. But there’s a time and place for everything, and everyone knows the number-one rule of beach vacation protocol is: Don’t bother the person on the next chaise. When I replied, “Minneapolis,” sotto voce, hoping to shut him up, he quickly replied, “Never been there. Is it a good place to live?”

Something came over me. At that moment I decided that if he was going to interrupt my read-doze, read-doze routine, then I was going to give him the mother of all answers. I unpropped my book (Point to Point Navigation, by Gore Vidal), turned to him, and said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, it’s an absolutely wonderful place to live. The winters are cold and snowy, but, you know, we can deal with that so easily. We don’t have hurricanes or earthquakes or tsunamis. We have the fun and freshness and anticipation of changing seasons: the beauty of spring and summer, and the fall foliage disappears just long enough so that we miss it, and then, magically, it comes again. You can’t miss something if it never goes away, you know.”

It began to be obvious that my chaise mate was regretting having asked the question, but I continued: “The Twin Cities are bursting with resources—theater, music, dance, sports, medical expertise, shopping, and parks. The last time I checked, we had nonstop flights to 131 cities, headquarters for 18 Fortune 500 companies, clean government, and casinos galore.”

“My, oh my,” he muttered while sloshing sunblock number 30 on his body. “You sound like you’re the chamber of commerce.”

“Well, I’m not, but when you asked me if it’s a good place to live, it suddenly hit me that it’s maybe the best place to live, and the real reason is not all those resources and amenities I just rattled off. The real reason is the people. Compared to most places, the people are more friendly and more trusting and less pretentious. More important, they give back to the community in dollars and in time. In the week before this vacation, I attended meetings of eight nonprofits: the Minnesota Opera; the Minneapolis League of Women Voters; the School of Music at the University of Minnesota; the One Percent Club, which aims to increase charitable giving; the Minnesotans Military Appreciation Fund; the Minneapolis Institute of Arts; Walking Minneapolis, which promotes the city through a 10-mile walking route; and the Minnesota Senior Federation. At every one of those meetings, there were a handful to dozens of volunteers, all willing to give their precious time to make our community a better place to live.”

The guy on the chaise looked at me. “I gotta be honest with you. I was just making conversation,” he said, with a smile on his face. “I never expected an answer like that. I’m really impressed that anyone would feel that way—I mean, feel so passionately about his hometown. It must be quite a place; either that or you’re a nut case!”

“Come to the Twin Cities sometime,” I said. “You can decide for yourself.”