As any Minnesotan who lives in the southern half of the state and has traveled “up north” along highway 10, Treasure City is a temptress of the greatest sort, especially for any child.

I can’t count how many times I’ve passed TC, a run-down, paint-peeling red building right next to the only stoplight in Royalton, a bump in the road between St. Cloud and Little Falls (the run up to Brainerd and lake country). As a child sitting in the family van, your dad harumphing at the time it would take out of driving to stop and resolutely whizzing past, nothing is as alluring as the giant pirate sign outside and the glimpse of treasures galore in the open windows and large doorway. It always made perfect sense to me to stop: it’s a hot day, we’ve been in the van too long, we could use a break. Treasure City, to me, was an oasis on a hot day at the beginning or end of a vacation.

But we never stopped.

As an adult, I’ve whizzed past TC more times than I can count; many more than I ever had as a child. Royalton is only about 20 minutes from my house, and I’ve been past it on my way to Brainerd, to Walker, and any place in a northerly direction. Every single time I hit the stoplight among the throng of cars heading north, I glance wistfully at the distressed pirate mocking me to stop, see what he had for me. It always seemed like a frivolous thing to do – to take a moment to stop.

Well, today I stopped.

I was on my way back from checking out a cabin in Hackensack, about two hours north of me. On the way back, I thought, why the heck not. Seize the moment. Let’s see what the pirate has to offer after all.

And it’s everything you’d imagine and more.

Of course, it was inordinately un-PC, with Native paraphernalia for sale alongside bumper stickers declaring that the government is to blame for everything and John Deere hat/can coozie sets and glittery unicorns and windchimes that caught in my hair as I whisked past them.

There were knick knacks that hadn’t been moved for 20 years and postcards and dusty shelves of agates and jewelry cases and mild fireworks and tshirts strewn with profanity. Then a shelf of Trump glorification next to hand-harvested Minnesota wild rice and Minnetonka moccasins right by bobble-headed moose and birdhouses hanging from the ceiling above felted horse figurines packed onto a shelf.

It was the worst tourist trap you’ve been to, but on crack. The weather was warm, and the doors to the building were open with the unscreened windows flung open to let in the humid air. Box fans set up in the corners blew noisily over the country music that played over a cheap sound system. It smelled of dust and old stuff, and all I could think of was the smell of minidonuts and grease. It was a feast for the senses.

October is slightly off season for Treasure City. People are still heading north for the fall colors, but that stretch of highway 10 has much more traffic during the summer months when the metro populace drives to their cabins for the weekends, hauling boats and campers and trailers of coolers. So I was happy that the narrow corridors between the shelves of alluring junk for sale were pretty sparsely populated, much like the road itself had been for the rest of my 4-hour drive that day.

I wasn’t at Treasure City for long, but I perused and shook my head at some items and smiled at others, probably both times at remnants of the 80s that resonated in different ways. Thank goodness for phones that double as a camera, as I surreptitiously took a couple pics.

I grabbed a bag of the wild rice while I turned my back on Trump, found a pair of fancy gloves for the fall weather that’s right around the corner, and a snagged a pair of moose socks (#moosewatch2021). On my way to the register, I thought briefly that they may take only cash or check, if their register is stuck as much in the past as their merchandise. But good news as I dropped my treasures on the counter: Visa and Mastercard stickers were displayed prominently, their edges peeling and dirty. I rang the bell for service, paid, stepped back outside into the current day.

I wasn’t expecting to buy anything at Treasure City. As a child, tourist traps were the worst: I never had money and wanted everything. As an adult, I have the money but realize I don’t need the junk. Do I really need a stash of snowglobes and commemorative spoons?

But today, finally stopping, the pirate had offered some treasures in my oasis moment after all, while I left the dreamweavers and Indian ashtrays to their moment in time.