Samantha: Driving through Nebraska was just as awful as everyone told
us it would be, despite our most optimistic outlook. WE departed from Chicago
at what we thought was a reasonably early hour, and then, with a full 15 hours
anticipated driving in front of us, we set off for what we thought would be a
straight shot through the cornbelt to Colorado.
Wrong. We drove, stopped for stretching, drove, stopped for lunch,
drove, stopped for directions, drove, played on a playground, drove, drove, and
drove. All the while, I was juggling a melee of phone conversations, attempted day/time
coordination, and a puzzle of routes between myself, my friends Jen and Nate,
Rain’s friend Emily, and the man who had my step sister’s canoe in Colorado (which
I had happily agreed to freight to the west coast). As this persisted, the unsettling
realization that we may not reach Colorado in 15 hours, and therefore were
destined to find a place to bunk down for the night in Nebraska, gripped its boney,
cold, and monotonous Midwestern fingers around our brains. So be it. We leafed
through travelers coupon booklets for places to stay on the cheap, and first
settled on a Country Inn in North Platte, NE. We stopped at a gas station, I
made up a song with the general theme of hoping not to get stabbed while I
pumped gas in Nebraska in the middle of the night. I drove for a few hours
after that while Rain rested, and decided that the drive was more interesting
if the darkness around me was ocean and not corn and soybeans. I succeeded in getting us to another rest
area, and Rain took over for the last 90 miles to N. Platte. We arrived at the
Inn around 2 am, and rang the bell. No answer.
Dismayed and quite tired, I got in the driver’s seat and headed back up
the street we’d come down in hopes of nabbing a room in one of several motels
we’d passed. Then, for the first time on the trip, over a thousand miles in,
those blue lights bubbled eagerly to life behind me, and I pulled over. “Vermont
plates,” we heard the officer radio to the other cruiser parked in front of us.
He then informed me of my glamorous violation: Driving the wrong way on a one
way street. He asked me to pull the car into the parking lot just behind me,
and so I did, and oh, what a nice surprise, it happened to be the police
station. He tried to convince me that my insurance and registration were both
out of date, and of course they’re not – they just look a little different
since they’re from the east coast. Eventually he caught on. He gave us a
warning, was quite understanding of our condition, and gave us directions to
the motel 6 up the street. So we get there and we inquire about a room, to which
the lady at the counter unremarkably replied “Nope, we’re full.” Not a wink of compassion
in that woman. We asked if there was another place around we could go to – “nope,”
shaking her head in what seemed to me, at that point in the early morning in my
travel worn, sleep deprived state, a much too satisfied way. We called around,
and there were no openings in North Platte. Our next option was Ogallala, Ne,
45 miles west, another hour of driving. We arrived at the Super 8 near 3 am, were
greeted by a much cheerier lady, and abruptly fell asleep. The next morning we
packed up quickly and left on the edge of a rainshower for Nevada. That was it
for Nastybraska, and I ain’t never goin’ back.
hours of this
at least the clouds are fun to look at
a collection of munchables Samantha has been conditioned to pick out because of Brian Boynton.
Look, corn
wall-to-wall corn
corn everywhere, gross.
Now the clouds are gone, so dull.
FOR-EV-ER
Suddenly, windfarms!
Rain's Danish Windmill museum
The point where we finally accept that we won't be reaching Colorado that night.
Entering Omaha, still hours of driving left.
the summary of Nebraska
Ogallala: First on the list of places I will never want to be again. Doesn't it just look like the 5th circle of hell for a Vermonter? This picture doesn't even make sense.
What.
Our only keepsake, and that was the nicest part of our time in Nebraska.
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