Before we began our trip, our friend Scott asked which state we were looking least forward to visiting and Oklahoma was my easy pick. I’ve driven through it a twice and both times it struck me as stale. I was way off though, because OK is really pretty cool. The folks here are friendly and the cities are fun. The feeling we came away with was that Oklahoma would fit right in as Midwestern state—I wouldn’t be offended if they wanted to bill themselves as the “Wisconsin of the south.”

Scary times shrouded our first couple of days in the state. We set up camp next to a creek in Red Rock Canyon State Park, a steep drive down from the rest of civilization. Then came the thunderstorms. It was impossible to catch more than a half hour of sleep at a time as one storm moved in after the other. The most troubling part was the amount of water—the 25-foot trip from trailer to truck was the equivalent of standing in a shower for about five minutes. It continued at the same pace well into the next day, flooding over our canyon road exit. When it finally stopped in abrupt fashion, we stood outside sorta dumbfounded and watched logs cruise past in the torrent that had just been a brook.

I’ll admit that Oklahoma City is not a pretty city, but it does have areas of charm. Bricktown fits that category. Scores of old brick buildings, brick street surfaces and brick sidewalks include businesses that range from warehouses to brewpubs. They seem to host a whole lot of hip bands—Reverend Horton Heat, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Crystal Method were all performing around the time of our visit. The city also has arguably the best alternative, non-college radio station: 105.3 The Spy. (I've checked in since. It's now become “La Indomable 105.3”, Regional Mexican music.)

The Oklahoma City National Memorial Museum honors the victims, survivors and all those changed by the April 19th, 1995 bombing of the Murrah Federal Building. Holly was touched more that day than anyone else I know, because her college friend Cindy Brown was killed in the blast. The Museum provides a matter-of-fact and heartbreaking glimpse into the event. And the Field of Empty Chairs where the federal building once stood is enormously stirring. The 168 chairs stand as a reminder of each life lost and are divided into nine rows, each row representing a floor of the building. Each chair is etched with the name of a victim and placed according to the floor they were on. On our visit, a park ranger on duty was gracious enough to allow us onto this restricted field.