Geography & Rib Eye

An Old Market Arcade view.

As desperately as Omaha clung to each and every passenger at the airport, I have managed to escape to Atlanta. The trip home was a bit of a mess as my 6:30 p.m. flight was delayed an hour... you know, just because. Add to that a classic Midwest storm system and it seemed I would never leave Nebraska. Luckily, we taxied and took off around 8:30 p.m. as lightning struck.

It's a building. It's kind of interesting.

Interestingly, the TSA's decision on allowing flights to leave OMA was the result of sending a "test flight" up. On that test flight was my poor, unfortunate colleague (his flight was 3 hours late, forcing him to miss his connecting flight, and then to also miss the last connecting flight of the day in Utah to California.) They took off and were not struck down by lightning, so the rest of the flights were cleared for takeoff. Sheesh. The folks on my flight all agreed we were glad not to have been the first off the ground.


Omaha is a small city; about 400,000 people live there. It has the persnickety landscaping and evenly-spaced, evenly-aged trees I associate with Midwestern cities and sensibilities. It is exceptionally clean and exceptionally desolate, even at 5 p.m on a Monday. I tried to imagine it a 150 years ago as a bustling center of old-timey trade, but the surroundings of concrete and semi-modern (but never daring) architecture made it hard to conjure up thoughts of anything other than "Everybody must be at the mall."


The "smoking section" of my hotel.

My hotel was located near the "famous" Old Market and I did some solo window shopping down there, enjoying the arcades (an arched or covered passageway, usually with shops on each side, not a video den.) The area is very nice... but... perhaps there is some strange deformity in my nature. It was simply too clean and seemed somehow lacking for it. No crazy folks wandering around, just middleaged businessmen in polo shirts and khakis, soccer moms and a smattering of children. No litter, no posters, no street performers or hucksters. No flaws and therefor no personality. But perhaps I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.


In desperation, I found a cozy pub at the bottom of the street called Mr. Toad's. The door was hard to open and I gave up on the entrance and was about to walk around the corner when a kind woman explained, "You have to push hard." I did and was rewarded with a dark and wooded bar filled with old-timey schwag and smoke; bliss. I downed a fair number of Kansas City wheat beers with lemon. I'm generally not a fan of beer that needs the support of fruit, but I figured, "What the hell. I'm in fucking Omaha."


Mr. Toad... not pictured. But there's my friendly waitress (from my beloved Minnesota, of course.)

I made friends with the waitress (a recent grad who majored in marketing and who loves to travel) and pretended to watch the Yankees get trampled by Detroit. I proceeded to get just enough drunk to decide I shouldn't drink anymore (this is the new me, kids, the one who has a serious responsibility not to show up hungover to work).


Because it was time for drunken shopping! When all else fails, I have learned to bust out the credit card. Luckily, I stumbled onto a very sweet, indie record store with a staggering collection of music. I scored David Bowie's early record "Hunky Dory," perhaps my favorite album of his. It is the soundtrack of my freshman year and it was stolen in New Orleans. I'm listening to it even as I write. I also got the Dropkick Murphy's "Live on St. Patrick's Day" and Cat Stevens' "Tea for the Tillerman." Why yes, I do have eclectic tastes.

The name of the shop? Homer's. I think.

Then I stumbled on a great shop - one of those stationary/funky/fun places that carries Hello Kitty and Anne Taintor and Archie McPhee delights and Devil Duckies and the Jesus Christ action figure. I picked up a fantastic ashtray:



On the advice of a sweet old couple (who used to live in Norwalk, Conn.), I dragged my colleague to dinner at the Flat Iron. It was swanky and delicious. We were both drawn to the rib eye with gnocci. The medium steak was velvety and juicy (would you expect any less in Omaha?) but the gnocci had been assaulted with a garlic press and I was forced to give them a proper burial under the remnants of my steak.

That is about the extent of what I got to see of Omaha. And the whole time I was there I had no idea where I actually was -- my understanding of the middle section of U.S. geography is paltry and embarrassing. Somehow, I thought we were just a bit to the west of Georgia. I was very wrong.

It's actually right under South Dakota! Who knew? (Probably the folks in Nebraska.)



Storm Clouds gathering at the airport... look at the villainous bastards!


Flights
Going: Delayed 90 minutes with notice before I'd even left for the airport.
Coming: Delayed 2 hours with a few Hail Marys uttered at takeoff.


Bags
Heavy gear case (becoming a thorn in my side due to it's one-track roll), laptop backpack, purse and new overnight rolling bag. Great improvement from the shoulder bag, but hauling two rolling bags is not so easy either. I'll have to continue to think about this one.