The Outer Limits

I shuffled my way through the crawling security line of good ol' SFO at the buttcrack of dawn, bleary-eyed and still unsure of my destination. I looked down at my boarding pass again. Omaha. Nebraska. Corn, cows, and Christians. Three good things, but really, what else does Omaha have?



Pep talk in the mirror: "Don't worry about it. They say Midwesterners are some of the nicest people on Earth. A couple of your friends RAVED about the school when they interviewed there. It'll be fine. Be excited. They don't want to see that you're not excited to be there. Get it together."

After transferring off a very full flight at Denver International Airport, I hopped on a half-full plane headed to Eppley Airfield in Omaha. Immediately, everything slowed down. Nobody was pissy at each other for taking up the armrest. Strangers were actually making eye contact and chatting with each other. One man had trouble putting on his jacket, and the lady behind him helped him put it on. Voluntarily. The culture shock put a smile on my face. You know you would never see anything like this at LAX or JFK.

I settled down. "If this is what Nebraskans are like, I think I'm going to be just fine."

The first thing I noticed upon entering Eppley Airfield was the pace. Everybody moved a little slower, there was no bustling and hustling, and there just weren't many people, period - again, the complete opposite of what I grew up seeing. Frequently flying out of SFO and LAX had instilled in me a severe aversion to all airports, but Eppley was all right. Pleasant, even.

Nevermind the interview day itself - I had a fantastic time meeting great people and touring a gorgeous school, but you don't want to know those boring details. You want to know about the Omaha nightlife.

After I treated my student host to a steak dinner (and yes, Omaha steaks are as good as advertised), he took me out to show me the Omaha bar scene. Our tiny 1993 Toyota Corolla screeched into a parking lot three-quarters filled with pick-up trucks. "Parliament Pub," the big red sign flashed.

"A lot of the med students usually come here on weekends after exams - it's a pretty great place." And he was right - the décor was slick, the nightclub-like layout was inviting, there was ample space for booths and chairs, and the beats were great. (And the chick spinnin' them beats wasn't too shabby, either.)

Then I took a good look around at the people.

"Hey man, I thought you said that the crowd would be closer to our age."

"They usually are. I don't know what's happening."

"You realize that almost every person in here is old enough to be our parents, right?"

"Let me buy you another drink."

After we stood around for a bit, still perplexed by this unusual crowd on a Saturday night, my host went to talk to the DJ while I stayed and nursed my overpriced Miller Light.

"You don't come around here often, do ya?" asked the six-three guy next to me.

"Oh...nope. This is my first time in Omaha, actually. I'm visiting from California."

"CALIFORNIA?! OhmygoshI'vealwaysdreamedofmovingoutwesttoHollywoodandyadayadayada..."

He relayed his dream of quitting his crappy job at a local lumber company, moving to LA, and opening a dispensary. If I have to specify what kind of dispensary, you're not thinking hard enough.

After the general population of the crowd failed to improve, we left, disappointed and slightly disturbed.

His car's clock read 1:30am. "I guess we're going home now?" I asked.

"Naw man. You saw that dude in the wheelchair in the bar? We're going to the strip club he recommended."

It's not like I had much of a choice. And I had never been to a strip club. This might be an interesting experience. Twenty minutes later, we were in Council Bluffs, Iowa, right across the state border, at a seedy building right off the freeway: the Iowa Playhouse. Strip club, my ass. This was a strip joint. I could've gotten a better show just walking down M Street on a nice day in Georgetown, without wasting a $20 cover. My host and I shot each other disgusted looks that read "I need to wash my eyes out with soap."

We got the hell out of there. The next morning, I was on a plane back to The District. Back to terrible drivers, back to bumper-to-bumper traffic, back to non-stop reading and studying. And just like that, my cultural vacation was over.

I miss the slower pace. I miss the quiet hush. I miss the expansive space of downtown Omaha. This trip convinced me that I would have no problem living and learning there for the next few years.

And the best part? My mom still can't point out Omaha on a map. Good luck visiting me! (Seriously though, everybody else, especially my beloved Californians, please visit me if I end up in Omaha.)