It’s that time of year again when we pack up a dorm room’s worth of our belongings and head back to our roots. Whether it’s moving home for the entire summer or just a weekend visit, most of us will return to high school friends, GPA-hungry parents and sheets we’ve slept in since early grade school that we pray will never come in contact with a black light.

But for me, things are a bit different. I will not return to Milwaukee, where I grew up. Rather, I’ll be on the next flight down south to Nashville, Tenn., where my family moved almost a year ago.

My brother and I were informed of this plan two summers ago.

“All the girls are ugly,” my brother Bryce said, flipping through the brochure of his to-be prep school. “I’m not moving.”

My parents exchanged discouraged glances. I picked up the brochure.

“You’re ruining my life!” Bryce screamed. “I don’t want to move to Nashville. I’ll have to wear ugly shirts and eat fried alligator and I will become all depressed and wear scary clown makeup to school and then I’ll have no friends and die alone.”

My little sister took it much better.

“We’re moving to Nashville,” my mom told my sister several months later.

“But what about my friends?”

“You can take horseback riding lessons.”

“Awesome. When are we going?”

The answer was about eight months. The time flew by and before I knew it, I was the Midwestern daughter of Southern parents.

The thing about the South, though, is that it really is a different world. First of all, they haven’t quite gotten over the Civil War, or as they call it, “The War Between the States.” Proud confederate flags fly over various buildings on every block.

And then there’s the hospitality thing. People in the South are just so damn nice. It’s weird. Waiters seem to actually care if you’re happy with your food, and strangers that you pass on the street will initiate conversation. And it wasn’t because I’m hot. I learned this pretty quickly after a few failed, but quite original, pick-up lines I concocted.

“You can Nash in my Ville any time you like,” I told a friendly barista during one of my visits.

“What does that even mean?” he asked, looking a little uncomfortable.

“It means you can [EXPLETIVE] me. God, are you people stupid?”

Once I realized my sex appeal was not the reason behind southern kindness, it became a lot less pleasant.

Like the time I went with my parents to pick out paint for the new house.

“I think this shade of purple would look fabulous against the Southern sunset. Or how about a more conservative beige? Have I shown you the blues yet?” a happy employee asked.

My parents looked at him silently, overwhelmed.

“Oh no, I didn’t mean to annoy you. This always happens. I’m just so passionate about paint!” he said. “Can I interest you in some eggs while you’re waiting?” He motioned to the register-turned-griddle where an enthusiastic painter was flipping eggs in a frying pan.

“Larry’s frying the neon eggs. Bobby Joe’s making the pastels in the stock room,” he said. I threw up a little.

That’s when I realized my brother, who professed the niceness thing was kind of creepy, may have had a point. Night after night, I’d see the smiling mailman, the touchy-feely real estate agent and the guffawing traffic lawyer entering my room at night, complimenting me while they suffocated me to death with the confederate flag.

I suppose what’s most important is that my family is happy, which they are. But I think it will still take me awhile to feel I belong in a place where, whenever I visit, my boyfriend is worried I’m going to cheat on him with my brother.

If you’d like to sample some fried alligator garnished with fresh maroon paint, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.