Touristism: Omaha

Coffee and a hot plate of ham and eggs.
Leo's Diner accommodated this request.
It was a hot Sunday morning in Omaha.
I grabbed a stool at the counter without having to wait.
They were doing brisk business.
Toastin' up the toast.
Flappin' up the jacks.
My coffee never sank lower than half a cup.
The woman on my right brought her hacking summer cough for everyone to enjoy.
The woman on my left put her breakfast on her tab.
I fondly stored my ham and eggs in my belly.

Leo's is a family affair.
A mother and daughter manned the register.
The line cook was married to a woman with a shift later that day.
"Everyone's related to someone here," the daughter almost said because I'm paraphrasing.
But it was something like that.
The mother told me that Leo's got a favorable mention in The Atlantic.
"Don't come here if you don't want to talk."
Why did she say that to you?
I don't know.
I didn't talk much then, but I am right now.
That's how I roll I guess.


I was determined to see some Omaha that wasn't just drunk college kids, and drunk people in their 20's and 30's clinging to their college daze.

Downtown, a big bronze homage to the Joad lifestyle played out like paralyzed theater.
Stagecoaches packed with strong stares, leashed livestock choking itself to death, wagon wheels stuck in the mud, and one particularly fetching pioneer woman.
I'm glad they made it to the convention center parking lot.
And they probably couldn't have done it without their chef.
Chef Boyardee.

So it's 10 o'clock and you're in Omaha taking pictures of a bronzed Chef Boyardee.  Do you really want to get this van back to Chicago by tonight?
No.

But I will.