A foray into a different land

I went to Kansas City once.

That may have been enough. It’s weird out there! Everyone’s nice. Like really nice. Unnervingly nice. It’s peculiar. I don’t know if I like it.

I was there with two coworkers for a business meeting. One of the coworkers grew up in Missouri so understood the whole strange sweetness in the people. It wasn’t unusual to her, so she didn’t think to warn the rest of us East Coasters. I wish she had. I was unprepared.

When I started telling people I was venturing into the Great Midwest, people told me about the barbecue. Oh, did they tell me about the barbecue. There were apparently two real choices for good barbecue and everyone had an opinion on which was better. Was it the BBQ place inside the gas station or was it the place at which they yelled at you when you walked in?

The Midwesterner coworker was really pulling hard for Gates, the place where they were promised to yell at us. Yell at us? Huh? She conspired with our driver, who agreed. (The driver, by the way, was a woman! I don’t know what’s happening in the Midwest, but girl power is alive and well!! No job is just for men! Get it, Midwestern ladies!) Gates it was! All the way from the meeting to this supposed Mecca of meat, the coworker and our driver made a very special point of preparing us for what we were about to walk into.

Apparently, as soon as we stepped into the line we would be screamed at for our orders. The warning was to be prepared. Look at the menu before you got in line. Be resolute in your order before you made it to the counter. Don’t look back. Don’t look the servers in the eye. Don’t blink! Don’t panic!!

So, of course, when we got to Gates, we made careful business about the menu board before the line, expecting the Soup Nazi of barbecue to own us if we made a mistake or stuttered in the least. It was nerve wracking. I was anxious, but I was ready. Pulled pork. Potato salad. Let’s do it.

Then the yelling started.

“Hey honey!! You ready, sugar?! What can I get you?! What you want today?!”

Wait. That’s the screaming barbecue version of the Soup Nazi? I. Don’t. Understand. They were niiiice. They were loud, but they were very gracious, sweet and patient.

Naturally, we became fast friends as I chatted over what the best sides were and what I should order. Midwesterners are crazy for being intimidated by these glorious women! And boy was the barbecue delicious!! My boss can’t stop talking about how awesome his burnt ends sandwich was. To this day, I still hear about it regularly. He’s right, though. I’d go back there again to visit my meat-slinging friends.

Full and happy, the driver drove us back to airport, and then she did the most bizarre thing. Dropping us off, she hugged us, each of us. HUGGED us. Our driver HUGGED us! Hugs! Hugs all around! Her arms, my body. HUGGING.

I got on that plane back to DC and respectable, polite distance and familiar hostility between people, clicking my heels and saying, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”