The best little town in America?

We have a family connection to Bozeman, Montana, an uncle who has traveled to just about every place in the world. He's an immensely popular fellow, not merely because he never lets anyone else buy a drink, but because he has done so many things and consequently has so many stories. My favorite is the time he was arrested in Nogales, Mexico without enough money to bribe his way out of trouble. He suggested to the local police that they take him to his bank in San Antonio, Texas, so that he could pay them off. They agreed, and soon they all piled into a cop car, crossed the border, and entered the bank. There, my uncle promptly jumped over the counter and had them arrested for kidnapping. It is illegal, of course, for anyone but an American policeman to hold someone against their will in the US.

Every March, this man, who can afford to go anywhere in the world, makes his way to the Bozeman, Montana, population 30,000, where he spends the spring fishing for trout and raising hell. (He used to tear himself away every summer to catch the queen's birthday in the Netherlands, which is apparently also a great thing to do.)

Naturally, I've always been curious about it. We arrived late, checked into a hotel in the center of town, and headed out. I was somehow expecting it to be the kind of place where the only drink available is beer, and you can only have it one of two ways: with a shot of Jack Daniels and without. Instead, we found a handsome downtown lined with old brick buildings. The MacKenzie River Pizza Company provided a good microbrew and an excellent thin-crust pizza.

Then, in that late-night light you get in places like Montana, we went exploring. I live in a small town about the size of Bozeman and I felt horribly cheated. Not only does Bozeman sit in a pleasant valley with snow-capped peaks, it has a welcoming strip of shops and restaurants. I was a little surprised to see so many wine bars, art stores, and fair-trade coffee houses, but they were evenly balanced by old-fashioned cocktail lounges, fishing supply shops, and places serving sides of barbecued elk. The folk—calling them "residents" is not proper or even entirely safe—were friendly, but not to a fault, and helpful but not to the point of intrusion. We liked it a lot, and but for the winters, I could see living there.

Jackson, Wyoming should come up to Bozeman and take notes. It's the genuine article.