You are in the middle of Wisconsin, you think.  The last 10 road signs proclaimed towns with Native American names you assume are small and very far from the highway.  You are thirsty, hungry, and you have to pee.  You exit to the billboard promise of a Pilot station: snacks, clean restrooms, Taco Johns!  You are prepared to hold your breath, squat and later be sick from a day-old, grease-filled, barely-warmed-by-light-bulbs "snack."  So, you are pleasantly surprised to walk into a laminate-floored, softly lit store.  It has a liquor section, pre-packaged salads, chilled cheese curds, smoked sausage, and an additional room - a fish store?  No, the live bait section, with eight tanks of squirming, swimming critters splashing in fresh running water.  

This is Wisconsin.  And the people ordering ahead of you speak in long o's.  And despite your meandering ways, you are just ready to be at the moms' in Minneapolis, a city, with cross streets and sidewalks and posted speeds of anything other than 65.  And finally, you reach your home cooked meal - as only Mom Benardella can make it, mmmm, and look forward to a few days of relaxing, catching up with moms and sis, and balcony sitting in the balmy Minnesota weather.