Paul, it’s called “Minnesota Nice.”

A long time ago — when Donald Trump was still on his first wife and had only three bankruptcies under his belt — my best friend moved to Wayzata, Minnesota. At the time, he was on the fast track at one of the largest insurance brokers in the world, and with my New Yorker’s view of life, I couldn’t fathom why they’d send him somewhere that regularly posted the coldest temperatures in the nation.

In other words, I was an ignorant bastard.

And he set me straight.

He told me the Twin Cities was one of the biggest corporate hubs in America — a startling number of Fortune 500 companies and dozens more on the rise. This wasn’t exile. It was a promotion. He was excited.

I, being a smart-ass New Yorker, just smiled and nodded.

“Good for you. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

And off he went.

I figured I’d visit eventually. No rush.

Then he called and invited me for Thanksgiving. My own family had scattered that year, so I said yes.

When I landed, it was 20 degrees and snowing — basically confirming every dumb prejudice I had. But four years in Syracuse trains you for this kind of cold, so I wasn’t rattled.

On the way to his place, Rich said we needed groceries. His wife was on bed rest with complications from her second pregnancy. We stopped at Lunds in Wayzata. The size of the store — enormous compared to the shoebox markets back home — barely registers now.

What I remember is this:

Rich split the list in half and sent me off on my own.

I was completely out of my depth.

So I did what city people rarely do — I asked strangers for help.

And they didn’t just point. They walked me there. Smiled. Chatted. Helped like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The next day the high was 17. (November, folks.) We took his three-year-old to the Minnesota Zoo. Five hundred acres — nearly twice the size of the Bronx Zoo — trails, exhibits, space to breathe. A public park disguised as a zoo.

We started with the monorail.

Which, naturally, is where his kid chose to absolutely melt down.

As a single guy, I had zero tools for this situation. Rich wasn’t much better prepared. In New York, we would’ve gotten eye-rolls and side-eye.

Instead?

A couple of Minnesota moms swooped in like angels, calm and cheerful, helping us settle Patrick down so everyone could enjoy the ride.

No drama. No judgment. Just help.

That night, after dinner, when the house finally went quiet, Rich and I sat by the fire with a couple fingers of Macallan 18 — my single-malt phase. We stared into the flames for a while.

Then he asked, “So… what do you think?”

“Of the Scotch, the fire, or Minnesota?”

He’d known me since we were larva. The look he gave me said: knock it off.

I grinned.

“The Scotch is amazing. The fire is perfect. And the people here are so nice.”

“Yeah,” he said. “They call it Minnesota Nice.”

He lived there almost four years. I visited often. And little by little, I figured out what that phrase really meant.

It’s holding the door.

Helping your neighbor shovel.

Making small talk in long lines just to pass the time.

Sharing what you have.

Choosing kind instead of blunt.

Polite instead of confrontational.

Harmony instead of conflict.

It’s soft strength.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about that a lot.

The deaths of Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti — say their names — cut me to the quick. They reminded me that Minnesota Nice isn’t just manners.

It’s courage.

It’s saying, “Hey, I don’t hate you,” when someone else is spoiling for a fight.

It’s stepping in to help a stranger, even when it puts you at risk.

It’s standing beside your neighbor — documented or not — because they’re part of your community. Because they’re human.

Minnesota Nice means doing the right thing, even when it’s hard.

Even when it costs you.

The next few years, let alone the next couple of months, are going to be tough. We need to stand tall and be Minnesota nice.