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WHENEVER I TRAVEL to the East Coast, people treat me fondly, as they would a small, wiggling puppy. "Ooh," they coo, nodding. "Minnesota! Well, that must be nice. It's pretty cold there, isn't it?" And before I can respond, their interest wanes, and they're craning their necks to find someone more sophisticated in the crowd.

Our state is very nice. It's just that "nice" isn't exactly cool. No one sighs enviously when you say you're from Minnesota. No one asks about our nightlife or the latest fashions (unless they're interested in the warmest brand of earmuffs).

So on a recent visit to New York City, I decided to conceal my true identity. My boyfriend, Josh, and I would play the part of suave urbanites, taking in the Big Apple like natives. Josh wasn't as eager as I to shed our Midwestern-ness, but he agreed to go along with it.

At the airport, we coolly hailed a cab. I gave the cabbie the address and reclined against the faded leather seat, shooting Josh a look of confidence as we pulled away from the curb.

"Where are you two from?" the cabbie asked amicably.

I was perplexed. "How did you know we weren't New Yorkers?" I asked.

"His jacket," the driver said, nodding his head in the direction of Josh's bright orange North Face coat. "Most people here wear black."

I mentally cursed. I should have remembered. Black at all times.

Things didn't go any better at the hotel. The bellboy smirked when we earnestly insisted we could carry our own bags. The hotel bartender was snide when we asked if they carried Leinenkugel's.

We decided to venture out to Times Square. "Don't look up," I hissed as we approached the theater district.

"Why?" Josh asked, his eyes obediently glued to the sidewalk.

"Because that's how people here know you're a tourist," I explained patiently. He looked puzzled, no doubt wondering how we were going to see any of the brilliant signs and marquees surrounding us if we never lifted our heads. The district wasn't much fun without the view, so we turned in early.

The next morning, I pulled my wild blond hair into a low ponytail and dressed in black. I looked at Josh's orange jacket scornfully. "Take it off," I ordered.

"But it's cold outside," he protested.

I tossed him a black windbreaker. "This will work." He shot me a pleading look, but I wouldn't budge. We were not going to be tourists.

Dressed like true New Yorkers, we stepped outside and headed toward Central Park. We made it almost two blocks before Josh stopped short, his cheeks red from the whipping wind. "This is ridiculous," he said. "It's like 35 degrees out here."

"C'mon," I wheedled. "You'll get used to it." We forged ahead.

I got Josh into the black windbreaker again before dinner that night by assuring him we'd take a cab to the restaurant, a high-end place serving fashionable fusion cuisine. Although the cab driver dropped us off right in front of the eatery, we almost missed the small, understated sign printed on the warehouse exterior. "Look at that," I whispered excitedly. "It looks so New York!" Josh rolled his eyes.

We entered the restaurant: two floors of pure white trendiness. White tables, white drapes, glass tables, martini glasses everywhere, and lots and lots of beautiful people. Even my cynical partner was silenced. "Wow," he said under his breath.

We made our way to the bar, walking carefully so as not to trip over any of the tables overflowing with real New Yorkers, and ordered martinis, selecting an expensive vodka to make a good impression. I doubt the bartender cared what vodka we ordered, but she did notice when my arm brushed Josh's glass, sending the drink flying across the counter. Vodka dribbled down the side of the bar and onto his pants, while a nearby patron stifled giggles.

We fled to the safety of a dark corner to hide, until we were seated at a table with an elegant white drape hanging near one side and a view of the lower floor, packed with diners, on another. Josh took my hand as I set down my purse. "See," he said, "we belong here, too."

I smiled. We both picked up our menus. As we tried not to gape visibly at the prices, I noticed an unusual burning smell. I turned my head to see if someone had ordered some impossibly exotic dish—what could it be?

My purse was on fire. I had set it near the small votive candle on the table, and the flammable handles had ignited. Small flames were shooting up toward the elegant white drape.

Without thinking, Josh reached out his right hand and put out the fire with his palm. He spent the rest of the meal with his hand wrapped around a water glass, but our waiter never found out we'd almost self-combusted.

We abandoned the whole subterfuge on our last day and became full-fledged tourists. We looked at the city from the top of the Empire State Building, took the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, and gawked at the lights in Times Square. We were nice to the hot dog vendors and asked for directions. We had a great time. And I had to admit, Josh was easy to keep track of in that blazing orange jacket. MM

Nichol Nelson, former associate editor of Minnesota Monthly, is packing her bright yellow parka and moving to New York City.