About a month ago, I went out on a limb with the editorial, Why I'd Never Move To North Dakota.
I argued that no matter how many "Best XYZ" lists the state landed on, it still wouldn't be enough to convince me to ditch New York and move there––dirt cheap rent or not.
Within hours, I had whipped up a firestorm in the state so fierce my eyebrows are still singed.
Then something unexpected happened. Nicole Holden, marketing director for Fargo's Visitors and Convention Bureau, reached out with an offer I couldn't refuse: An all-expense paid trip to see the state for myself.
I was sold.
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It was bizarre from the start.
The local press covered my pending arrival as if I were a diplomat visiting from a far-off land, and radio talk shows invited me on their programs before I'd even set foot in the state. When Nicole picked me up from the airport, she told me the local Fox affiliate had asked to film my arrival.
Then there was the hotel. I was expecting the Fargo equivalent of a Holiday Inn, but Nicole checked me into the plush Hotel Donaldson, a relic of the early 21st century that was renovated in the early 2000s by the town's wealthiest couple.
During the first hour I had to myself, I ventured outside to do the wide-eyed tourist thing and wander around aimelessly. I felt as if I'd landed on a set from the "Walking Dead" ––cars and bikes lining the streets but not a human in sight.
I saw a sign of hope in the group of people I found gathered outside my hotel. Then I realized they were anti-abortion protestors holding watch outside a local women's clinic.
Then it got pretty cool.
Since Nicole was around my age, I couldn't have asked for a better guide of the city's 20-something social scene.
We sipped $9 cocktails (twice as much in Manhattan) at trendy Mezzaluna, tried the local brews at a nearby pub, and enjoyed an ND State football game on the house.
Beyond the planned itinerary, the weird press attention, and getting constantly grilled by locals on whether or not I was hiring movers, I found myself sincerely having a good time.
Fargo is well-known for its great indie rock music scene, but I didn't know what to expect when I was invited to a concert at a local art museum.
Passing by galleries on our way up to the top level of the building, I felt like I'd walked into a scene straight out of hipster central: Williamsburg, Brooklyn. New York artist DJ Spooky was headling a hip hop and graffiti show that featured a two-piece orchestra, beat boxers and local DJs.
There was a makeshift bar set up in the back corner of the room, but most of the crowd was huddled around a small stage at the opposite end of the loft. Acts performed flanked by two DJs and a stack of speakers twice my height.
"Who says Fargo don't have funk?" Spooky asked the crowd, and I felt a few furtive glances turn my way.
After the show, we walked a few blocks to local favorite The Aquarium, where the White Iron Band—specializing in "foot-stompin, forget-what-troubles-ya music"—kept the house on their feet nearly 30 minutes after the bar closed at 2 a.m.
On my way back to my hotel, I peered through the window at the Pita Pit, which was just about the only restaurant still open.
A familiar face greeted me at the door. It was Nate, one of the locals who tagged along with me earlier to the museum.
"Hey," he said. "Have you tried that taco truck?"
It was a couple of blocks down the street and no, I hadn't. Huddled under flourescent lights of the truck, munching on pork tacos as good as any I've ever had in NYC, and listening to Nate trade jokes in broken Spanish with the workers, I could have been in any big city in the world.
Then 3 a.m. rolled around, the streets were quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and I walked the block and a half back to my hotel. The next day I would have to tell radio hosts whether or not I had changed my mind about their beloved state.
Did they change my mind?
The answer, in truth, was yes and no. Yes, Fargo had surprised me in a lot of ways, with its smalltown charm counteracted by a youthful, vibrant nightlife and edgy music scene. Maybe one day I'll crave the kind of place where a familiar face is waiting around every corner and most people know my name.
But, for now, I know I'm right where I belong.
What the trip did accomplish was remind me of one certain fact: That we live in one of the largest, most diverse countries on the planet, and whether we like to admit it or not, most Americans haven't even seen half of it. I count myself among them, but at least I can say Fargo has convinced me this is something I should and will change very soon.
I'm looking at you, South Dakota.
Don't Miss: Photos from my 48-hour trip to Fargo >
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