Hot Rod Lincoln: My Love Affair with Nebraska

After the tumultuous weather experienced in DC on Friday, I knew I had to get out of here. Nobody had power, residents were driving like lunatics, and the tree people were threatening to take over our major roads. Fortunately, I had an outlet: a planned brief but intense work jaunt to Lincoln, Nebraska.

It wasn’t meant to be glamorous trip, or that’s what I assumed. I had to cancel on a couple of Sunday plans with the excuse “I’m going to Nebraska…no seriously”, but ultimately I was excited. I love everything about travel and visiting new places. I’d get to see my colleague Travis and escape the third world country that the Washington, DC area had become. Little did I know that in under 48 hours, I’d fall in love.

Upon eventually arriving in the Cornhusker State, I didn’t feel any different. The weather was comparable and the airport still smelled like fast food. I met up with my shuttle driver, Dennis, and that’s when I immediately noticed the difference: people in Nebraska are nice. Like really fucking, Mister Rodger’s,  nice. They have manners here. I look fondly back on that quote in Fight Club where Marla says that when you’re dying, people actually listen to what you have to say, instead of waiting for their turn to speak. Or something like that. Except no one is dying in Nebraska (besides normal mortality rates), they just actually give a shit about you.

After I checked into my hotel, I already had my disheveled airline hair complimented, my faith praised as being one of the ‘Chosen Ones’, and was told to just be happy and party hard. As someone who just never shuts the fuck up, I occasionally feel like a diseased stranger in DC. My verbal diarrhea is looked upon like a mental illness, and that outright outspokenness is a detriment, unless you’re a political pundit. In Nebraska, discourse is not only welcome, but it’s the norm.

I went to a bar, and was greeted with just really nice people. It was a local bar (Patty’s Pub, no relation to the one in Philly on FX), and full of locals. I plopped down next to Frank and Connie, two married retirees who hoped they’d hit it big on Keno. Keno’s a big fucking deal in Lincoln, it’s like the national pastime. I thought it was like bingo, but as Frank explained, it’s “Chinese or Japanese or Asian for ‘one more number’”, which makes sense, since everyone just wants one more number to be called for them to get the jackpot. Frank’s biggest payout was $6000, and he’s been playing the same lucky numbers for 25 years: the birthdates of his grandkids. 

Frank took off to take a whiz and to say hi to some of the other bar regulars: (“nice butch Lesbian girls, but aren’t we all here to party hard on Earth, so who cares who they love?”), I got to talking to Connie, who was fretting about smoking a big turkey the next day. This seemed stressful, so I pressed her for more information. She’s already smoked pork butts and ribs before, but this was a whole turkey. I wish I could have given her real advice, but my unfortunate background in the Northeast just told her that I knew how to buy another turkey at the grocery store if she messed up. “Oh no,” she explained, “I killed this one, I don’t have anymore”.

The personal independence of people in Nebraska is huge. I’m so used to be around whiners in the DC area that it was refreshing to be around people who just had their shit together. Instead of worrying about traffic on the Beltway, Lincoln is set up like “a checkerboard, you know, up and down lines. Got all your pieces in a row”, my other new bar friend Leonard exclaimed. He was so proud of his longstanding insurance business and apartment rentals that I was almost ready to ditch Silver Spring to lease a two bedroom apartment with utilities included for $900.

Besides the upstanding caliber of people in Nebraska (unemployment is super low in Lincoln and there’s very little crime), the food is amazing. After a whirlwind work day on Monday with Travis, I told him I wanted distinctly Lincoln, Nebraskan  food. I was already stuffed from a hot turkey sandwich and mashed potatoes the night before at Patty’s.

I knew I couldn’t eat another meal submerged in enough gravy to stop one of Hanibal’s elephants dead in its tracks, so we went out for what’s called a runza. I posted it on Facebook, but it’s too delicious for a picture to do it justice. It’s like an oven baked pierogi meat mouth spectacular. Served with fries or onion rings (a combo of both is called Frings), the pairing is terrific. Served quickly, efficiently and with a smile, I didn’t want to leave the restaurant. Gone was my previous personal shame about admitting I had McDonald’s for lunch—runzas are a confidence booster and a badge of pride of the fast food industry.

I was comfortably satiated until dinner, when I got to experience another Lincoln culinary delight: Valentino’s pizza.  This was the most famous pizza the city had to offer, and I was just ready for something with crust. No—it was SO. MUCH. MORE. We splurged and got garlic bread, which ended up being cheesy hamburger bun tops soaked in delicious garlic and butter. Travis said he could have eaten at least 6 servings, and after I finished my portion, I truly felt I could do the same. The pizza was just as delightful. I sprung for the spinach and artichoke dip pizza, which is even better than the name. Back home in the East, we just use spinach and artichoke dip as an appetizer. In Nebraska, it’s a pizza topping. I’ll never be able to go back to a Chili’s again.

And so, I leave Nebraska with a full stomach and a fuller heart. I’m not looking forward to clambering on the Metro, dealing with rush hour traffic, and rudeness. Time might move a little slower in Nebraska for some, but every minute is enjoyable. I can’t wait for my next visit, and I’ve already gotten down the lingo of corn futures, grain production, and lucky Keno numbers. And who knows, maybe I’ll take up Leonard’s offer. He did give me his business card. I’m sure Connie will have some leftovers waiting for me also.