Last night my friend and I went to get a drink and ended up on the Minnesota/Wisconsin border in Stillwater. We went to a wine bar and as we shared an expensive bottle of wine, I proceeded to ramble on about my life and get progressively happier and less coherent (my friend comes from hardier stock and seemed completely unaffected by the alcohol). While we were driving there, we drove along some dark little windy roads and it reminded me of this strange experience I had in the boondocks in upstate New York. I went with a group of perfect strangers to this tiny little bar in what seemed to be some lost little nook in the Appalachian Mountains. It was striking how exactly the surroundings matched my image of the story of Rip Van Winkle. I would not have been surprised to wake up the next morning a little old lady. The bar itself was a murkily lit, impossibly old-looking wooden place, and when the fat old men started to play music, I remember feeling distinctly odd-- like I had been magically transported into a painting or a book. Last night wasn't quite as surreal an adventure like the one in New York, but I certainly hadn't expected to find myself in a little town next to the St. Croix River. As I stumbled outside, I grabbed a flier so I would have some proof of my nighttime adventure. The storyteller in me says that I should say that I can't find the flier anywhere, but I can. It's in my purse.