Moments after I crossed the Mighty Mac on my first-ever visit to the Upper Peninsula this summer, I did the most Yooper thing I could think of: I pulled into a party store and ordered a bunch of pasties.
As my family and I dunked flakes of golden dough into gravy, we took part in another element of U.P. culture. We just didn’t know it yet.
Our dinner was delivered by a short woman in a big, white apron. After she plopped styrofoam plates down on our table, she lingered. A retired teacher, she delighted in our daughters, due to start pre-school and kindergarten in a few weeks. She bustled away for a moment and returned with two pasty-shaped chocolates for the kids. No charge, just a token of kindness.
The woman said goodbye and scooted to the right, where a couple sat behind us. She chatted with them about the merits of pasty condiments (gravy is where it’s at—ketchup just makes pasties taste like meatloaf) before finally making her way back behind the counter.
At first, I thought little of this interaction. Our kids are cute, and when you catch them on a good day, they’re also reasonably well-behaved. This friendly woman probably enjoyed seeing them picking through their pasties for bits of steak.
But I was wrong. This exchange was the first of many strikingly warm conversations my family had as we traveled throughout the U.P. To this troll, people up there seem a bit friendlier.
The next day, we explored the little town of Grand Marais. As we stood outside the local post-office museum, a woman hurried over to us, carrying a set of keys. Her name was Sherry, and she was a member of the town’s historical society. She offered to open the museum early for us.
After a brief and chaotic self-guided tour, we ran into Sherry again at the hardware store where she works. My kids were convinced she looks just like their grandmother and treated her accordingly. My eldest held Sherry’s hands, recounting every detail of her experience raising monarch butterflies earlier that month. Sherry listened attentively as her coworker showed my other daughter, who always needs a bit more coaxing, the gleaming Yooperlite he keeps behind the counter.
I couldn’t help but compare my experience in the U.P. to my travels down state. My family has spent many happy summer vacations visiting places like Traverse City, Charlevoix, and Petoskey. We love these towns. But we, along with hoards of other tourists, tend to drift through them.
We buy our ice cream. We purchase our T-shirts. And then we leave. I can’t recall speaking with a local for more than a couple of minutes. And I don’t think I’ve discussed anything other than where to eat lunch or park the car.
I assumed our trip to the U.P. would feel like that. Fun. Transient. A little impersonal.
I was wrong. Every day of our trip, we seemed to encounter someone who wanted to chat. There was Jen at the Grand Marais Diner, who serves kids a free scoop of ice cream if they tell her about their favorite book. There was Mary, a waitress who gushed about her grandchildren’s recent visit as she spoiled my kids with games and toys as they waited for French toast. Carol lived next to our Airbnb in Copper City and had a dog named Lincoln Abraham. My children wept as we left town without saying goodbye to him.
We weren’t the only visitors to notice the overt friendliness. As we sipped coffee in that Grand Marais diner, three guys sank into the booth behind us. After they ordered, they posed each other the question I’d been asking myself since crossing the bridge: Could you live up here?
One had his answer ready. No, he couldn’t. But not because of the weather. People here are just too friendly, he said.
“It’s the same thing everywhere you go,” he complained. “Everyone wants to talk.” One of his fellow diners agreed, saying he hated that kind of attention. “I just want to fade into the background of society.” He said this with a small chuckle. I don’t think he was joking.
The third friend, though, said he loved the conversation. I agree with him. As we wound our way through the U.P., I came to anticipate kindness.
I don’t think I could live in the U.P. Keweenaw saw 300 inches of snow last year, but I sure could use a dose of Yooper friendliness down state.
Katie Clarey is a contributing writer for Michigan Enjoyer.
