The Last Ditch by Tom Paine

I woke refreshed in my rustic residence in the Itasca State Park and set off in the cold morning sunshine to start the Great River Road (GRR). The first stop was Bemidji, where I had a “Minnesota Nice” lumberjack breakfast. A bit much really, as driving even a Ferrari does not expend as much energy as felling trees.

Bemidji is “the first city on the Mississippi”. It’s a pleasant little town, with a steady stream of visitors to the tourist information center car park where its principal attraction stands – two carnival “statues” made in the 1930s, representing the legendary Paul Bunyan (a sort of lumberjack Desperate Dan) and his “companion” the blue ox “Babe”. I offer a photograph with only the comment that, while it wouldn’t pass for public art in Chicago, it’s surprising what will when you are far enough off the beaten track.

I really can’t get over how polite and civil everyone is in America – or at least in the parts I have visited so far. Only in one bar have I heard the “F” word, and that was spoken softly between friends who were right next to me in a bar. None of the women present heard it. I doubt the men in question – a couple of farm workers talking about the machines they use for their work – would have used it if they could hear. By contrast, I cannot remember one day in England since I returned there two years ago without hearing it. 

The GRR winds its way from Bemidji through the Minnesotan countryside, occasionally offering a view of the river as it broadens. Progress on this scenic route is pleasantly slow and it soon become clear that my plans to rendezvous with “the Quarterback” were over-optimistic. He has been making rapid progress in his Corvette, while I ambled gently along the backroads. That is rather the point of the GRR and I am enjoying it – especially as American speed limits don’t really allow Speranza to have any Ferrari moments anyway. I might was well just have the roof down and enjoy the sunshine. 

I decided to pick up the pace so as at least to get south of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St Paul. I drove through them at rush hour without too much difficulty. Being stopped, even for a moment or two, in traffic seemed quite a novelty after days of relentless progress. 

I picked a point on the road during a navigation break and booked online into one of only two hotels there. It proved to have been my worst choice so far. The wifi worked only intermittently (hence the delay with this post) and the building had seen its better days some considerable time ago. Given its charmless location amongst local light industry, I can’t see anyone investing in refurbishment anytime soon. 

Making the best of it, I dined well – if not glamorously – at a local Mexican joint. It was Mothers’ Day in America. Mother after mother was celebrated by having a sombrero placed on her head for photographs with her burritos and good wishes in Spanish from the enthusiastic staff. Each mum managed to seem surprised and delighted, though as the ritual was repeated several times, most must have expected it. They were just as happy in our jolly, scruffy, surroundings as if they had been lunched at the Savoy. Money is nothing compared to the love of family.

In these surroundings, I happily downed a couple of monster margaritas in the pleasant company of a local man who offered advice on my route.