Physical State of Matt #29: NEBRASKA

I set out from Laramie in the late morning, groggy and undercaffeinated, and headed east.

I’d had a wicked case of insomnia my last night in Wyoming. Sleep and I have always had a complicated relationship. I find it impossible to get into any routine or rhythm. If I manage to get a solid eight hours two nights in a row, the third night is inevitably a disaster. Either I can’t get to sleep or my eyes will pop open at 3:00am. 

As a kid I had a perpetual case of FOMO at bedtime and always pushed the limits of the bedtime rules. As an adult I’ve been a night owl with a day job. Working on a restaurant schedule as a teen was the best fit I've ever found for my natural body clock. 

In recent years, when I have been busiest with work, I’ve slipped into a condition for which there has been a name since 2014. The Chinese words  報復性熬夜 (bàofùxìng áoyè) translates to “revenge bedtime procrastination”, which is my new favorite term. This is the phenomenon in which people who have all-consuming jobs or life pressures stay up much later than they should in order to claim some leisure time for themselves. This of course leads to being underslept and starts a vicious cycle. 

Since I wasn’t working any more, I wasn’t suffering from revenge bedtime procrastination, but from a different pattern I’ve noticed. At this point, having stopped and restarted this trip a few times, I have recognized that I get into a mood slump two to three weeks in as I readjust to the nomadic life and try to find my travel rhythm. I’d had trouble sleeping because I wasn’t quite ready to jump back into the car. 

I knew I had a long day of driving to traverse the entire state of Nebraska, so I set my jaw, filled the tank, bought a Celsius, and just got to it. I had intended to visit Chimney Rock and Carhenge in western Nebraska, but in my morning daze I plum forgot.

photo credit: National Park Foundation

Chimney Rock is a unique natural pyramid/spire and national park. Carhenge is an oddball art installation that is exactly what it sounds like. When I remembered them I was already a couple of hours past the highway exit. Oh well, two more things to add to my ever-growing list of things I’d like to go back and do in the future. 

photo credit: Visit Nebraska

OMAHA

The drive was 550 miles, and southern Nebraska doesn’t exactly offer the most visually stimulating scenery. Although the plains were a lush green in late spring, the landscape was flat and stretched to the horizon on all sides.

Halfway across the state, it started to pour, which required me to focus intently on the road. 

It was past 10pm when I finally dropped my bags in my Omaha hotel and took a breath. I realized that I was vibrating - literally. The long hours of driving, many of them white knuckling through downpours, had driven me into an adrenaline and caffeine-fueled road hypnosis. It then occurred to me that I’d forgotten to eat all day. The only restaurant nearby still open was a Hooters. Since the absolute last thing I wanted to do was get back in the car, I walked 30 minutes for some chicken wings and a beer to settle my nerves. 

The next morning I explored Omaha looking for coffee. Much of downtown was ripped up and under construction, but in the center of it all I discovered the Spielbound Board Game Cafe. I’d been to other game cafes before but nothing as well put together as this.

The coffee was great and the food was fine, but their game setup was the major stand out. Each one of their more than 1,000 games had been thoughtfully equipped with card protectors, small plastic bags for components, and score cards had been laminated to extend their life. For a modest $7 I could play any games in the collection for the whole day. 

I love board games - the more complicated and involved the better. Yes, you can get many of them digitally on Steam, but I enjoy the tactile nature of the physical games - the cards, miniatures, cardboard tokens, etc.

Within the last ten years or so (pre-COVID yes, but especially since), I’ve noticed a movement in board games to include special rules to support a solo play-through. One series of horror-survival games I have is called Final Girl and it's designed exclusively for a single player.

photo credit: Geek Ken

Playing a board game by yourself probably sounds funny to most people, but I enjoy it. My former partner did try to humor me occasionally, but they were not really her thing, so I ended up playing solo a lot. 

I was like a kid in a candy store. Top tier games can run as much as $100-$200, so giving them a test drive before buying can save a ton of money. I settled in for a few hours with a latte and pizza and learned how to play Wyrmspan - a dragon themed spin-off of a popular game about birds called Wingspan. The game was a winner, so I purchased it from their small retail section in the front. 

After several enjoyable hours, I changed at the hotel and met Mel in The Old Market. Mel, loyal readers may recall, I met in Okoboji. She works at Boys Town in Omaha and was the person who organized the charity fund raiser event I attended in IOWA. She had offered to show me around her city when I came through Nebraska so I took her up on it. 

The Old Market is a 4x5 block area of downtown packed with dozens of restaurants, bars, shops, and galleries. The buildings are old, only a few stories tall, and the streets are brick and cobblestone. Many buildings, and the neighborhood itself, are in the National Registry of Historic Places. 

The neighborhood was developed in the late 1800’s as a hub for wholesale commerce, but by the middle of the 20th century, wholesale had mostly moved elsewhere and the area had become run down. The Mercer Family bought up the old warehouses in the 1960s, saving them from demolition, and over the course of the next couple decades, developed the neighborhood into the bustling commercial and entertainment center it is today. 

Mel and I met at Bouillon, a casual French bistro with a photocopied handwritten menu and extensive wine list. After dinner, we walked through the Old Market admiring the old buildings and public art. She told me about the Bemis Center, a local artist-founded non-profit in Old Market that created an artist-in-residence program which has helped make Omaha an art and cultural hub for the Midwest.

At the far end of the grassy Gene Leahy Mall, a skyscraper stood out, halfway built. This, Mel told me, was to be the new headquarters of Warren Buffet’s Mutual of Omaha. 

We visited The Dubliner, a rowdy Irish pub in the basement of a historic building, and ended the night at Mister Toad, a corner pub with outdoor seating, live music, and a neighborhood bar vibe. 

I hadn’t expected to like Omaha as much as I did. It didn’t match the pre-conceived notion I had for what a Midwest city would be like. Though, to be fair, the “Midwest” is a vast section of the US spanning 12 states from North Dakota to Missouri. The climates and cultures the area includes are so diverse it really seems silly lumping them all together. Omaha was vibrant and modern, and the cost of living seemed shockingly low for a big city. 

The next day, before driving an hour back west to Lincoln, I followed Mel’s recommendation and got a reuben at Barrett’s Barleycorn Pub & Grill. The reuben is a weakness of mine. If I see it on a menu I have a hard time picking anything else. Corned beef, sauerkraut, melted swiss, and Russian dressing, grilled on marbled rye. I am literally salivating as I write this. Damn it, now I want a reuben. 

The reuben was invented just a few blocks away from Barrett’s, at least that’s the version of the story most people subscribe to. Reuben Kulakofsky, a Lithuanian-born Jewish grocer, asked for a corned beef and sauerkraut sandwich at his weekly poker game at the Blackstone Hotel (now the Kimpton Cottonwood Hotel), which ran from 1920 - 1935.

The hotel owner’s son worked in the kitchen and made it for him. He later put it on the menu, where it became widely popular. It’s now the official sandwich of Omaha, and March 14th is National Reuben Sandwich Day. It should go without saying that lunch was fantastic. 

LINCOLN

My Airbnb in Lincoln was a small house in a cute suburban neighborhood. It seemed, and I’m pretty confident about this, as if an elderly person living there passed or moved into assisted living and left the house to their children, who turned it into an Airbnb without any renovations. It smelled musty and felt like visiting grandma’s house. But the price was right. 

I did a quick grocery shop the night I arrived and discovered a giant cow in front of the store advertising dairy products.

Inside I found a festive Independence Day display for Smirnoff Ice with a depiction of the Statue of Liberty that looked disturbingly like it was giving the Nazi salute. Is it just me?

Lincoln’s version of The Old Market neighborhood is the Haymarket District. Originally an open air produce and livestock market, it is now bustling with restaurants and bars, and is home to the CB&Q Locomotive 710 - a 1901 steam engine in Iron Horse Park. 

Haymarket sits in downtown Lincoln in the shadow of Pinnacle Stadium, where the University of Nebraska plays basketball, and Memorial Stadium, where they play football. It’s not fair to call Lincoln a college town because it’s a thriving city of 300,000 and also the state capital.

However, walking around the streets of Lincoln, you can see instantly how important the University, and its football team, are to the people of Nebraska. 

Nebraska football is a kind of religion in the state. Nebraskans live and die by the success of the team. Part of this may have to do with the fact that there are no big league professional sports teams anywhere in the state. Part of it may have to do with the historically limited entertainment options in this largely rural state. Regardless, the program has a long pedigree of success with five national championships, and many iconic players and coaches. 

University of Nebraska athletics are so important to the state that in 1945 the official state nickname was changed from the Tree Planter State to the The Cornhusker State, the name of U of N’s athletics teams. Although I agree that “Cornhusker” has a much better ring to it than “Tree Planter”, I thought it was an odd choice.

It turns out though that it’s actually not that unusual. Five other states are also nicknamed for their college sports teams - Indiana (Hoosier State), Iowa (Hawkeye State), North Carolina (Tar Heel State), Ohio (Buckeye State), and Tennessee (Volunteer State). 

photo credit: On3

I went to the Haymarket a few times during my time in Lincoln. My first afternoon there I was treated to a parade of one. A man drove back and forth through the Haymarket streets, revving the engine of his rusty blue pickup, flying a black & white American flag adorned with the words “Guns, Titties, Beer, and Freedom”. 

Now, I like those four things as much as the next guy, but I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of insecurity would compel a person to drive around advertising his love of them.

I had wonderful meals at LeadBelly and Misty’s Steakhouse and Brewery and I enjoyed drinks and pinball at VS Arcade Bar. But the real standout for me was Barrymore’s a few blocks down from Haymarket in a different part of downtown. 

Barrymore's inhabits what was originally the backstage area of the adjoining Rococo Theater. As I entered the bar, I walked past the original lightboard for the theater, lit up like the bridge of a movie space ship. All the switches and levers still worked, but were no longer connected to anything.

The ceilings stretched three stories up into the gloom of the intimately lit bar, and along one wall were the pulleys, ropes, and cables that once controlled the raising and lowering of curtains, backdrops, and lights. The Old Fashioned I had was chef’s kiss and I felt right at home in the cozy atmosphere.

I had stopped by Barrymore’s on my way to the University of Nebraska campus, where they were hosting a free public performance by Caity György as part of their “Jazz in June” concert series. The grassy expanse of the Sheldon Sculpture Garden was packed with folding chairs and blankets on the bright, warm evening. Food trucks were clustered in a nearby parking lot, and people milled throughout the area. 

I enjoyed the music, though to be honest I wasn’t paying very close attention to it. I was really there to have some dinner (gyro) and dessert (churros) and to soak in the vibe. I had a lovely time, but unfortunately the most memorable part of the day was a fashion war crime.

I realize I’m in the minority here, but I’ve never understood cowboy boots. I get the practicality of wearing them to work on a ranch or when riding a horse, so if you do that you get a pass. What I can’t fathom is why people wear them in everyday city life. They look stiff, restricting, and uncomfortable, and they give people a silly swaggering gait. I guess that’s part of their appeal?

I can also proudly say that I have never (nor will I ever) wear a pair of Crocs - they are an absolute abomination. 

True story: In the 2006 comedy cult classic Idiocracy, the main character is an ordinary guy who is accidentally cryogenically frozen until the year 2505. When he’s thawed out he finds a world living under mountains of trash where people have become so dumb that he is the smartest person in the world. 

The costume designer discovered Crocs when the company was a small startup that no one had heard of. She decided to have everyone in the future wearing them because she thought they looked so dumb and ugly that they worked perfectly with the plot of the film. That and there was no chance they would ever get popular…

I am sorry to be the bearer of this news, but Croc cowboy boots exist. Two bad tastes that suck exponentially when put together. They are as hideous and pointless as they sound. Now I am not, nor should I ever be, an arbiter of fashion taste - I live in hoodies and ball caps. But rubber cowboy boots with holes in them and silly little spurs - WHY?!?!

I couldn’t have imagined such a nightmare, but there they were on a young woman. Seeing them made me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon and pour bleach into the bloody sockets to clean the memory from my brain. But alas, I can never unsee them. And now neither can you. You're welcome.

GARLAND

Every time Nebraska came up in conversation with my aunt, she would bring up Ted Kooser and implore me to stop in Garland when I went through the state, so I had to. 

Ted Kooser was poet laureate from 2004 - 2006, and won a Pulitzer Prize in 2005 for his collection of poems Delights & Shadows. He was born in Aimes, Iowa but has lived in Garland, Nebraska since 1978. His book Local Wonders: Seasons in the Bohemian Alps has lived on my aunt’s bedside table for years, where it has been read and reread. 

photo credit: The Last Bookstore

Years ago she wrote a letter to Ted Kooser, telling him how much she enjoys his book. Remarkably, charmed by her letter and grateful she hadn’t asked him for anything, he wrote back on a card that contained an original little sketch of a barn and windmill. She asked me to find the 65 acre plot of land where he lives, though for what purpose I’m not quite sure. I told her I thought that was kind of creepy, but I would be happy to visit Garland for her. 

I listened to the audio book of Local Wonders on my drive through Nebraska, read by the author. It’s a charming, lyrical memoir that includes family recollections, small town anecdotes, and local aphorisms. His voice, with his accent and soft s’s that sound like “sh”, reminded me a bit of George W. Bush. The book listens like A Prairie Home Companion, but with more authenticity and less banjo. 

He opens Local Wonders with this description of the state, which has stuck with me:

“Contrary to what out-of-state tourists might tell you, Nebraska isn’t flat but slightly tilted like a long church basement table with the legs on one end not perfectly snapped in place. Not quite enough of a slant for the tuna and potato chip casseroles to slide off into the Missouri River.”

The part of Southeastern Nebraska where Garland sits is known by locals as The Bohemian Alps. “Bohemian” for the Czech immigrants that populated the area in the late 1800’s, and “Alps” as an ironic descriptor of the region’s low rolling hills. 

Garland has a population somewhere between 210 and 250. Its downtown is a mere .17 square miles. It’s made up of a small cluster of houses with a single commercial street running through the center, the length of which is roughly half a city block. There is a fire house, two bars, and a church. The old Germantown Bank building, which features prominently in “Local Wonders” rests, still abandoned, on one of the corners.

I spent a couple of hours driving around, turning on whims, soaking up the sunny afternoon, and taking pictures. I marveled at how little this land must have changed over the last 50 years. I’d describe it, but since I have no business trying to follow a poet laureate, here is Ted Kooser’s poem "So This is Nebraska" accompanied with photos taken by yours truly. 

The gravel road rides with a slow gallop

over the fields, the telephone lines

streaming behind, its billow of dust

full of the sparks of redwing blackbirds.

On either side, those dear old ladies,

the loosening barns, their little windows

dulled by cataracts of hay and cobwebs

hide broken tractors under their skirts.

So this is Nebraska. A Sunday

afternoon; July. Driving along

with your hand out squeezing the air,

a meadowlark waiting on every post.

Behind a shelterbelt of cedars,

top-deep in hollyhocks, pollen and bees,

a pickup kicks its fenders off

and settles back to read the clouds.

You feel like that; you feel like letting

your tires go flat, like letting the mice

build a nest in your muffler, like being

no more than a truck in the weeds,

clucking with chickens or sticky with honey

or holding a skinny old man in your lap

while he watches the road, waiting

for someone to wave to. You feel like

waving. You feel like stopping the car

and dancing around on the road. You wave

instead and leave your hand out gliding

larklike over the wheat, over the houses.

Ted Kooser (1975)

BASEBALL AND BALLS

I had planned to leave Nebraska on Friday, but decided to stick around for a couple of events. First was the opening day of the College World Series, which has been held in Omaha since 1950, its third year of existence. I played little league and grew up watching the Mets, but as an adult I’ve never been a big fan of the sport. The games are too long and too slow to hold my attention.

I went to a handful of Dodgers games while I was in LA, but it was really just an excuse to day drink with friends. I always left early because traffic in and out of Dodger Stadium is an absolute mess, even by LA standards. 

photo credit: LA Times

The best baseball game I’ve ever been to, and the last one I sat all the way through, was between the Yomiuri Giants and the Tokyo Yakult Swallows. I was in Tokyo at the tail end of a whirlwind four country trip to Asia in September 2019 - just before the world shut down for COVID. I learned firsthand how seriously Japanese fans take their baseball. 

The team chants were thunderous and perfectly synchronized. The Swallows’ side raised green and white umbrellas, while the Giants’ side whipped around orange towels.

I will never forget the conversation I had with another spectator that really exemplified the cultural differences between our countries. He was confused and wanted to know why American audiences leave baseball games before they are over, regardless of the score. I guess in Japan your team is your ride or die. 

Since the opening games of the World Series were during the day on a weekday, the tickets were quite reasonable so I got a seat right behind home plate.

Following a flyover by a stealth fighter from the nearby Offutt Air Force Base, I watched a fine game between Arizona and Coastal Carolina. To be honest, I don’t remember who won, nor does it really matter to me.

photo credit: Julie

I enjoyed a couple of beers in the sun and made some single serving friends, Julie and Ted, who gave me recommendations for my upcoming state, South Dakota. College World Series - another Fucket List item checked off. 

That evening I had a phenomenal dinner at V. Mertz, a grotto-like French/American restaurant in the Old Market Passageway. Walking through the passageway, a lush, glass ceilinged, subterranean alley for shops and restaurants, felt like stepping out of place and time. 

The following day I doubled back to the Round The Bend Steakhouse in Ashland for my second event - the 32nd Annual Testicle Festival. As you might have guessed, this event is where people from the area gather each year to eat rocky mountain oysters, aka fried bull nuts. 

I am a pretty adventurous eater. I will eat just about anything twice - once to see if I like it and if I don’t, a second time to make sure. I’ve eaten sea urchin, chicken hearts, and pig brain, but I’ll be honest - I was really nervous about the balls. 

Beef testicles are the size of a small fist and can weigh a couple of pounds. I was concerned that I would be given a whole one and then be expected to eat it like an apple. I had no idea what to expect in the way of flavor or texture, but I was determined to do it. 

The event started at 11am and went all day. It didn’t strike me as the kind of event that people would show up to first thing, so I arrived around noon. I was stunned to find a line of cars along the road waiting to enter the steakhouse’s driveway. Outside was a vast lawn packed cheek to jowl with cars. Clearly I was mistaken about the draw this event has. 

The barnlike structure was packed. The line for food snaked through rows of stanchions and out the back door. The young man playing his guitar and singing on stage in the corner could barely be heard over the din of conversation. Outside, massive cable spools flipped on their sides served as tables for the hundreds who had gathered. 

I grabbed a can of the official local beverage (Busch Light), then stood in the slowly moving line where I had plenty of time to question my decision making. I ordered my testicles and was handed a handful of nondescript breaded things in a thin cardboard basket. They were bite sized, so I imagine they sliced the nuts before frying them. I browsed the condiment table, selecting pickles and some homemade barbecue sauce. 

I grabbed one of the few seats at the crowded tables and struck up a conversation. I learned that my tablemates had been coming every year for decades. I had a hard time imagining making this an annual tradition, but to each their own. 

Finally, the moment of truth had come - I had to stop procrastinating. I screwed up my courage, popped the first ball into my mouth, chewed and swallowed. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, but they just tasted like fried breading. They had no distinct taste at all. I could have been eating a chicken nugget or fried oyster. I guess the attraction is the novelty of eating testicles, not the food itself. 

I spent that afternoon driving back to Okoboji, IOWA to see Steven and Brayden again. I’d had low expectations going into Nebraska, but I was happily surprised. I found a nice mix of rural charm and urban culture. Omaha turned out to be one of the standout cities so far on this trip, and somewhere to which I will definitely return. 

My expectations for my next two states, South and North Dakota, were even lower. But who knew, maybe they would surprise me too.

Yes, and…

Matt