I think all of us, in some way or another, have fallen in love with Lincoln. At least I have. My first day here I called my mother and described the city as a “standard, middle American, nondescript city.” I’ve changed my mind. There’s a wonderful sense of community here, and the charm is palpable.
I spent yesterday in some local shops, being taught by the people who live here and store clerks about the way Lincolnites do things: a salad isn’t a salad without Dorothy Lynch dressing, a true Nebraskan is a true Cornhusker fanatic, and the Haymarket District is the place to be.
I was in a small gift shop yesterday looking for a few trinkets from my trip. I fell in love with the prairie kitsch—small statuettes of windmills, pictures of wolves howling at the moon, and red and blue popcorn (who knew?)—and wanted to scoop up a little bit of everything.
We’ve been lucky with weather. Everyday has been sunny, in the seventies, and the spirits are high. Everyone’s fallen in love with the wide open skies. New Yorkers are apt to do that, I guess. Our sky is always tunnel visioned, “Oh, look! There’s a small sliver of blue right there! See between those buildings?” There are no buildings to “scrape” the sky here, it’s all untouched.
Inside jokes and stories keep us laughing in the van every night after performance, and every time one of us goes into a store, even if it’s just for a quick second, we get a good ten minute friendly conversation from the people working there. Gas station clerks, and college kids serving ice cream at the local parlor end up in our pictures, and everyone’s always smiling and open to talk. During our first performance I met two women who pointed out different locals and told me there stories, “You know, you’re sitting right in front of the best cheese maker in Nebraska!” I’m loving it. Everyone around has made us all feel right at home.
