“So you’re from South Dakota?”
“Yep, born and raised.”
“So… what’s there to do there?”
I was asked this often while visiting my sister in Napa Valley last week.
And to be honest, I didn’t know what to say.
How do you answer that question in a part of the world so active, so busy and loud with the sounds of cars and people and pace?
I loved my visit, adored the city.
But that question still lingered.
I live in the country, as you know, and none of the following are available to me, not even close.
The decision to walk down the street and stop for a beer or wine, to shop, to maintain anonymity in this fast-paced populated world I forget we live in until I see it in action.
Nope, not here.
To step into the Pacific Ocean and taste the salt, not by choice but it always happens.
Or to hear the tales of the great whites that inhabit this part of the ocean, the sightings and stories. I didn’t go too far.
We have the salt-free Missouri, though, full of catfish and walleye. And if you’ve seen some of the catfish that grow in there, you’d be a little scared of those, too.
Still, how do I explain what’s in South Dakota, with all it’s inactivity or corner street cultural diversity?
No fresh oysters to seduce my palate,
or Pacific salt water to soften my skin,
and no fancy cocktail hour on the farm.
South Dakota… I think I’ve driven through there. It has the four presidents, right?
As I closed in on the end of my tropical vacation, the evidence of my good time rested in moth pockets, a sunburn and overstuffed suitcase.
My sister sent me off with a hug and a camera full of memories, heading back to reality and my humid home state.
Looking out the plane window, I could see I was getting closer by the sections of farmland growing larger as we descended into the southern Dakota.
So, why South Dakota? some may ask…
Some things just can’t be explained.