Our First Edition: Wisconsin, Je T'aime (2024)

Part 1: The Fabulous Minocquabats

The sky is big and pink when Luke’s dad greets us at the airport with a fist bump. We hugged once, last year, and the two of us wordlessly agreed that we wouldn’t be trying it again. There’s no doubt in my mind that we will still be fist bumping on my wedding day. After the required gripes about the inhumanity of budget airlines over a tray of Culver’s ButterBurgers served to us by a boy that couldn’t be older than 13, we’re speeding north to Minocqua, Wisconsin for a weekend of lakeside leisure. On the long drive up, it’s explained to me that we’ll be staying in a guest house owned by Luke’s great uncle Bob, the controversial millionaire heir to a local potato farming dynasty.

Luke’s family has stayed firmly planted in Wisconsin from the moment they left Europe in bonnets and waistcoats. His parents grew up attending rival high schools in the town of Wasau, hanging out at rival “Italian fries” restaurants in town. It’s explained to me that Italian fries are a Wasau delicacy: pizza dough cut into strips and cheesed within an inch of their life before being thrown in a deep fryer. “You dip them in sauces. It’s good,” Luke’s dad explains. I google italian fries and there is no evidence of their existence on the internet, as if they’re being kept off the radar for their own safety.

We rent a pontoon to tool around the lake but it ends up raining all weekend. On Friday night, in spite of the weather, we anchor the pontoon in front of a giant ramp shooting out of the lake. We are here to witness the greatest show in town: The Min-Aqua Bats. An all-student, all-volunteer water ski stunt show that has been thrilling the Northwoods since 1950 (the longest-running amateur water ski show in the world, for anyone who’s counting). Bleachers line the shore, scattered with poncho-wearing spectators braving the crummy weather to watch seventeen-year-olds do double decker hydroplane backflips, reverent with the knowledge that the young daredevils are in it purely for the love of the game.

Before the program starts, our position on the water grants us a view of the “backstage” area—really just a dock—where a huddle of Min-Aqua Bats in swimsuits perform an elaborate pre-show ritual. I am instantly overwhelmed with good will towards them, watching them jump and clap and spin in circles to a song they all know every word to. I quickly develop a parasocial bond with them, desperate to sit down the girls of the group in a booth at Denny’s and get the scoop on who’s dating who and who’s crushing on who and who’s not on speaking terms with who because of that rumor that one of them started about the other last season. At the end of the day I am a gossip no matter how you slice it.

It’s a good thing that I’m won over early on, because the fabulous Min-Aqua Bats all go on to fall off their skis, like, a lot. For every death-defying stunt that sticks the landing, there are two failed ones happening simultaneously on either side of it. No matter. The kids are sturdy and the crowd is forgiving, knowing that if any of us were to try our hand at even one of the milder tricks, it could quickly end in decapitation. The performers are often zooming within a few yards of our boat, close enough for us to realize that these kids are all screaming their asses off the whole time they’re getting swung around the lake. They’re terrified out there. Nevertheless, they backflip.

Part 2: Splash-n-Chill

Luke and I drive the five hours north to Danbury through a thunderstorm. On to a different cabin and a different slice of northern Wisconsin. Luke drives the whole way, partially because he likes to drive and partially because he doesn’t like when I drive. I still haven’t learned to put my trust into cruise control. We’re joined the next day by nine of our best friends from college. There are so many of us because everyone keeps finding love. We fill my family’s old A-frame cabin to the brim, spilling out into tents in the yard. Some people sleep in their cars. We drink 300 beers, tallying them up as we go. We haven’t been all together like this in months. It feels like sun on my face.

We lounge atop the lake in a big ten-person floaty, branded on its side as “Splash-n-Chill Island”—very cool. A woman speeds past us on a jet ski with a toddler loose in her lap, a lá Britney Spears that one time that everybody got really mad at her. Watercraft culture plays things pretty fast and loose around these parts.

We participate in the lake association’s annual Fourth of July boat parade. This year the theme is “Olympics!” In an attempt to be cerebral, we wrap ourselves in bedsheet togas and style our pontoon as a representation of “the first Olympics.” We cruise around the perimeter of the lake at the tail end of the procession, drinking mimosas and blasting Abba’s greatest hits. It’s clear at the ice cream social where the winners are announced that our theme has not landed for a majority of the crowd.

“My God,” we remark. “They think we’re just some floating toga party!”

Which, I guess we are.

We are second runner-up, winning us a $30 coupon to the lakeside restaurant hosting the event. First prize goes to a family that relied heavily on putting their adorable 5-year-old son in a wrestling singlet and having him lift a big phony dumbbell at the masthead of their pontoon. We scoff at their cheap win, briefly forgetting that the purpose of this event is to create lasting positive memories for families with small children.

We sit at a picnic table eating melty yellow ice cream out of paper bowls, still wrapped in bedsheets. Molly suddenly starts to cry. “This has been the best day of my entire life,” she says, and we all know she means it. She’s right. Her and I both quit our jobs right before this trip, making every day slide along all the more deliciously. There will be a time in the near future to worry about covering rent, but today we are champions. Well, not champions, but bronze still gets to stand on the podium. I check my watch. “And it’s only 2pm!”

We take our coupon into the restaurant and within a matter of minutes have spent it all on beer and slot machines, doing nothing to repair our fratty reputation among the other parade-goers. Displayed behind the bar is an AK-47 that they’re raffling off at the end of the month to fund the local elementary school’s reading program. I buy a raffle ticket, for the kids.

Part 3: Italian Fries

The last week is spent in Madison, where Luke and I both grew up. We plan to stay at our separate family homes, but after a single day of this arrangement, my dad gets Covid. Suddenly I’m sleeping in Luke’s childhood bedroom, all blue walls and floral carpeting. Luke’s mom and I eat yogurt cups and she explains to me her idea of what the layout of biblical Heaven will be when she arrives there one day.

It rains, hot and booming, from 5pm to 8pm every day. It’s especially treacherous on a night that we’re supposed to be meeting Alec and his new girlfriend at a hip restaurant downtown. Forgetting that rain isn’t an excuse to cancel plans outside of Los Angeles, Luke texts Alec: “Looks like a pretty bad thunderstorm…” hoping he’ll take the bait.

“Hell yeah it does!!! :D” Alec responds. Damn it.

We brave the drive and are rewarded with a double rainbow over the Capitol building once we hit downtown. We eat tofu under red lights and make pleasantries over a crooning Drake song. Everybody at the table but me is some sort of scientist. Whoever first told the world they were “between jobs at the moment” instead of “unemployed” deserves a Nobel Peace Prize—thank you, thank you, thank you! What an elegant spin to put on it! It’s doing me wonders.

“Great news,” Luke’s mom tells me upon returning from a morning spent in Wassau visiting relatives. “We brought back Italian fries!” We go home in two days. That aforementioned time for worrying about paying rent is getting close. I’m getting itchy with inaction.

“Wow,” I say. “This is the best day of my entire life.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Luke whispers, brushing past me to fire up the oven.

We say grace before we eat them. The distinctly spongey texture and blank flavor profile conjure memories of public school cafeterias past. If I had just watched the Wasau West Warriors demolish the Wasau East Lumberjacks in a thrilling homecoming game, these would taste like victory. Hunched over a suburban kitchen island, the lack of context does them no favors. An Italian fry is whatever you project onto it, a cheesy mirror held up to the self. This particular Italian fry just called me unemployed. I think it’s time to go home.