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MY FAMILY AND I live in a crusty but comfortable portion of East St. Paul with all the amenities of metropolitan living ­ a paved alley, bus stop, freeway access, and a corner convenience store with Little Debbie snack cakes. Mel, an artiste friend, describes my neighborhood as "quaint."

"What do you mean, 'quaint'?" I ask.

"Quaint, like charming. Provincial, maybe," she says.

"Provincial?"

"Like where your parents would live," she says.

Mel is as sophisticated a person as I will ever know. A freelance graphic designer with a résumé scarred with Minnesota Fortune 500 firms, she eats at restaurants reviewed by newspapers, sees plays where the audience is expected to participate, and is on a first-name basis with members of famous local bands I've never heard of. She's smart, erudite, and has never eaten a Little Debbie Swiss Roll. And she lives in Minneapolis.

"Things happen there," Mel says.

If you're an older St. Paulite like me, you know what Mel is talking about. Minneapolis has always been the younger, more successful sibling mom liked best - it has straighter streets, taller buildings, and a more cosmopolitan air. Minneapolis wears the Tommy Hilfiger logo; St. Paul wears bib overalls. Minneapolis dines on haute cuisine; St. Paul wolfs down a plate of hot beef and mashed potatoes. There has always been a healthy competitive enmity between the two cities.

I like Mel, but I'm intimidated by Minneapolis. And as much as I love to see Mel, I rarely go to Minneapolis unless I'm armed with a Hudson's street atlas. Otherwise, Minneapolis is just a place on the western horizon where the 16A bus ends. Each December, however, I haul the kids downtown for the Holidazzle parade. During my most recent pilgrimage, I was again reminded why Minneapolis causes me anxiety. I had a panic attack hunting for a parking space. And I foolishly endangered my family by taking my eyes off the road to ogle the city's tall, opaque skyscrapers in my rear-view mirror. Walking toward Nicollet Mall near Dayton's, I marveled at the purposeful hustle of pedestrians and was amazed to see so many crowded street-level restaurants where people were having a good time. It was all very sophisticated and urbane. I felt, well, provincial.

I migrated from Wisconsin to St. Paul more than 20 years ago and readily developed a rapport with the natives, eventually marrying one. But I do have some Minnesota roots. In the 1920s, my father left Red Lake Falls to attend the College of St. Thomas, paying his tuition by working as a chauffeur for a needle-and-thread magnate on Summit Avenue. His wife-to-be lived in a second-floor walk-up near Cathedral Hill. It's instructive to note that in all of my dear old dad's recollections of his college days and subsequent employment, he rarely mentioned Minneapolis by name but did refer to a place "across the river."

Over the decades, St. Paul, Minneapolis, and their ever-expanding suburbs have grown to form a largely amorphous metropolitan area. And in many ways, St. Paul has emulated its younger sibling. St. Paul's Grand Avenue, for example, was once a busy but unassuming neighborhood thoroughfare. It is now a maelstrom of foot and car traffic, gift shops, bookish coffee cafes, and upscale eateries. It's enough to make you think you're in Uptown.

It's getting more and more difficult to differentiate St. Paul from Minneapolis. Why, there's even renewed talk about a Minneapolis-like nightlife in downtown St. Paul now that we have a new science museum and a hockey arena. I don't look forward to that day. After 6 p.m., there's no faster shortcut from one end of the St. Paul to the other than right through the middle of downtown. Now it's all going to end.

Despite Minneapolis' perpetual sophistication, my provincial St. Paul continues to be one of the most affordable and prudent communities in the entire metro area. You can buy a very nice house here in a good neighborhood for much less than you would pay elsewhere, and we have more sensible snow emergency parking rules.

Mel, when you come to your senses, I'll leave the light on for you. Just don't tell any of your Minneapolis neighbors about the joys of life in St. Paul. It'll be our little secret, all right? And you'll grow to love Little Debbie Swiss Rolls. Trust me. MM

Doug Champeau is a St. Paul freelance writer.