Solo in the North: Finding Connection and Adventure in Grand Forks, ND

Grand Forks exists at a fascinating culinary crossroads—Norwegian and Scandinavian traditions meet Indigenous foodways and modern Midwestern fare. My first evening, I wandered into a local dive called Sickies Garage Burgers & Brews, where the bartender, noticing my curious examination of the menu, insisted I try their bison burger. 'We don't mess with it much,' he explained. 'The meat speaks for itself.' He was right—the rich, slightly sweet flavor needed nothing but the lightest seasoning and a quick sear.

The following morning, I discovered The Northside Café, where generations-old recipes for lefse (potato flatbread) are still prepared by hand. The elderly woman rolling out the dough invited me behind the counter when she caught me analyzing her technique. 'You look like you know your way around a kitchen,' she said, handing me her grandmother's rolling pin. The delicate balance of potato, flour, and butter created a canvas for both sweet and savory applications—a perfect vehicle for the local chokecherry jam I purchased from the farmers market along with a jar of raw honey from nearby apiaries that rivaled any I've tasted across four continents.

There's something meditative about rivers that cut through plains—they move with deliberate purpose, unhurried by the dramatic geography that forces mountain streams to rush and tumble. The Red River of the North embodies this character perfectly, and I spent a full morning exploring the 20-mile Greenway that follows its banks.

I rented a kayak from a local outfitter near Lincoln Park, allowing me to experience the river's perspective. The gentle current carried me north—counterintuitively, as this river flows toward Canada rather than the Gulf. Paddling past the historic downtown, I spotted bald eagles perched in cottonwoods and great blue herons stalking the shallows.

Later, I hiked portions of the trail system, where interpretive signs explained how the devastating flood of 1997 reshaped both the landscape and the community's relationship with the river. The resilience story resonated with me—how often do we see this in food traditions as well? Adaptation in the face of disaster, preservation through change.

The University of North Dakota infuses Grand Forks with a youthful energy that belies its remote location. The North Dakota Museum of Art on campus surprised me with its contemporary collection and thoughtful Indigenous exhibitions. What captivated me most was a temporary installation exploring the intersection of food sovereignty and cultural preservation among the region's Native communities.

The university's influence extends to the town's dining scene as well. At Urban Stampede Coffee House, I sipped an exceptional espresso while eavesdropping on conversations in at least three different languages. The barista explained that the university's aerospace program attracts international students, creating pockets of global influence in this northern outpost.

For dinner, I followed a tip from a geology professor I'd met at the museum and visited Parrot's Cay for surprisingly authentic Caribbean cuisine. The owner, who'd moved from Trinidad decades ago, prepared a fermented cassava dish that immediately sparked my professional curiosity. We spent hours comparing notes on fermentation across cultures—his Caribbean techniques sharing fascinating parallels with methods I'd documented in Mexico and Southeast Asia.

Solo travel in smaller cities requires a different approach than anonymous wandering through metropolises. In Grand Forks, I quickly discovered that openness leads to connection. At Rhombus Guys Pizza, I sat at the bar rather than taking a table, leading to a conversation with the owner about their beer brewing operation. This evolved into an impromptu tour of their microbrewery and an invitation to a local hockey game the following evening.

The game itself—though I understand hockey about as well as I understand quantum physics—became less about sport and more about witnessing community ritual. Families spanning three generations shared stories between periods, maintaining traditions while creating new ones. I was struck by how easily I was included, offered commentary on plays I barely comprehended, and even handed a thermos of homemade hot chocolate spiked with local whiskey.

On my final morning, I joined a group of river enthusiasts for a sunrise paddleboarding session. As we glided across the glass-like surface, a woman in her sixties explained how the river connects everyone in town—through recreation, through history, through shared responsibility. 'We're all upstream and downstream from someone,' she said, a philosophy that resonates deeply with my own approach to food traditions and cultural preservation.