Jerry had been in Minnesota for a while now, trying to settle into his new life. On paper, it was perfect—good job, close to nature, and friendly locals. “Minnesota Nice,” they called it. Except… it wasn’t really nice. Not for him, anyway.
He learned this after inviting his neighbors to a backyard BBQ. The Minnesotans smiled politely, said things like, “That sounds nice!” and “We should do that sometime,” but when the day came, their driveways stayed empty, garages firmly shut.
“Maybe it’s me,” Jerry thought, but he’d grown up in South Dakota, where people actually showed up when invited. This was different.
At first, he figured he just hadn’t cracked the Minnesota code yet. He tried again with co-workers, and though they’d nod in approval of his plans, they always found polite ways to dodge the actual gathering. Eventually, he’d get those vague noncommittal texts: “Sounds great! We’ll see how it goes!” A nice way of saying, “Not a chance.”
The real shock came when he met Todd, a transplant from Iowa, at a car show. They hit it off instantly, talking about engine swaps and the Chicago Bears. “You should come by sometime,” Todd said, without a single vague promise. Two days later, Todd was at Jerry’s door, arms loaded with beer and brats.
Then there was Carrie, a coworker from Wisconsin. She invited Jerry and his wife over for a game night and, to his surprise, she actually followed through. It wasn’t just pleasantries and empty gestures—there was real warmth there. As the night went on, Carrie shared her own frustration with the so-called “Minnesota Nice.”
“They’ll smile and wave,” she said, “but they won’t open their doors.”
Then there was this block party. Jerry had brought a cooler full of craft beers—IPAs, lagers, you name it—ready to be the hero of the neighborhood. After all, what kind of Minnesotan would say no to free beer on a hot summer day?
Jerry approached his neighbor Steve, a guy who had “Minnesota Nice” written all over him. You know the type: khaki shorts, sandals with socks, a smile that looked like it hurt to hold for too long.
“Hey, Steve!” Jerry said, popping open the cooler, “You want a beer? Got a good selection here!”
Steve blinked a little too long, smiled even harder, and replied, “Oh, I’ve already got one inside, thanks.”
Jerry blinked back. Inside? Who the hell leaves a Fourth of July block party to drink alone inside?
“Uh… sure, okay,” Jerry said, feeling the familiar twinge of rejection. Steve gave him a little nod, patted him on the shoulder like “Nice try, outsider,” and drifted back toward his front door.
Five minutes later, Jerry wandered past Steve’s house and glanced inside the window—just in time to see Steve standing in his kitchen. Not with a beer. Not even with a soda.
He was drinking water. From a mug. Like some kind of dehydrated psychopath.
Jerry froze. “No. Way.” He rubbed his eyes, thinking maybe the sun had messed with his vision. Nope. Steve took another dainty sip, holding the mug with both hands like he was auditioning for a role in Downton Abbey.
Jerry turned to Todd, “Dude,” he whispered. “He’s in there drinking water… from a mug.”
Todd glanced over, then back at Jerry. “Classic Minnesota,” he muttered, shaking his head. “They’d rather drink tap water out of a mug than take your perfectly good beer just so they don’t owe you anything.”
“Who even drinks water from a mug? Is that, like, a thing here?”
Todd shrugged. “Probably thinks you’ll keep asking him to, I don’t know, help you build a deck or something.”
“Is he… scared of favors?”
“Oh, for sure,” Todd said. “First they take a beer, next thing you’re asking them to watch your kids for 10 minutes while you run to the store. It’s a slippery slope.”
Carrie from Wisconsin chimed in, overhearing the conversation. “That’s nothing. Last year I offered a neighbor some cheese curds. She acted like I was trying to get her Social Security number.”
“I just… I don’t get it,” Jerry said, still watching Steve’s mug-water madness unfold. “What’s wrong with just saying no to the beer like a normal person?”
“They can’t do that, man,” Todd explained, dead serious. “Minnesotans can’t say no outright. They gotta say ‘maybe later’ or ‘I already have one’ and then sneak away. It’s, like, in their DNA.”
Jerry looked back at Steve, who was now thoughtfully swirling his water like it was fine wine. “This place is weird, man.”
“Yup,” Todd said, cracking open his own beer. “That’s why we stick together. We’ll drink your beer. No weird mug-water involved.”
It clicked for Jerry then: the real friendliness wasn’t coming from the Minnesotans. It was the transplants—people who weren’t so afraid of making connections.
As weeks passed, his circle of friends grew—an Iowa couple, some folks from Wisconsin, even a guy from Michigan who could roast a whole hog like nobody’s business. They didn’t skirt around plans or offer vague niceties. They were genuine, and they showed up.
In the end, Jerry realized that Minnesota Nice wasn’t so much a lie—it just wasn’t all that warm. But the transplants? They were real. And that’s where he found his people. Except for the fucking North Dakotans. They’re even worse than the Minnesotans.
