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A couple of years ago, I was sent by my company to Bismarck, North Dakota for a one week training course. Were it not for the blazing prairie sun, I would have thought myself exiled to the depths of Siberia, but with HBO.
I arrived in Bismarck on the weekend, on the last flight of the day. Once the other six passengers had taken their bags and departed, I was left alone in the airport.
After waiting at the airport for half an hour for a car from Bismarck’s only taxi company, I asked the driver what sort of nightlife was available. He said he’d recommend the Saturday night lawnmower races, but unfortunately, they were cancelled due to hail (I’m not making this up!).
My hotel, located in the middle of a triangle comprised of Dan’s Supermarket, WalMart, and Captain Jack’s Liquor Land, looked like a multi-floored strip mall segregated into rooms, and the lounge holds about ten people, including the four that can sit at the blackjack table that represents the “casino” advertised in the brochure. It was hailing out, so I just went to bed.
The next morning, Sunday, the temperature was already in the eighties by 9:30, but there were snowplows running up and down the streets clearing away the hail that had piled up overnight, which was a foot deep. The floods that hit the streets during the hailstorm made all the hail float down into the railway underpasses, and the hail was twelve feet deep in those.
Apparently, the presence of sixty-seven churches is not indicative of absolute piety amongst Bismarckians, as there was a long line-up outside of K-Mart waiting for opening time on Sunday morning (barring the possibility that there was a blue light special on hymn books).
I can’t fathom the benefit of clear skies and oppressive heat when 5,000 miles away from the nearest ocean beach. When it gets hot here, the locals head for the mall to become refreshed. I asked at the front desk what there was to do around there, and the clerk sort of hemmed and hawed and suggested I visit the lounge/casino. I tried to kill some time by walking across the city, but spent the other twenty-three and a half hours of the day sleeping and watching A&E. I didn't get quite bored enough to watch the adult movies offered in my room, though: “Sex With the Farmer’s Daughters” and “My Wife’s a Dirty Slut”.
Monday morning. After asking, “I hope y’all like country and western music?” and then cranking the radio up, our shuttle bus driver, Sandy, pointed out every city landmark along the way… “If you’re looking for a nice restaurant, ‘TGI Friday’s’ is a block up, and there’s the sporting goods store in case you need any sports supplies…”.
My course was held in a one story building outside of town in the middle of a field of genetically modified alfalfa. As there were no restaurants for miles around, I went for lunch with the class. I got a ride with Polly, a fifty-something biker chick from Irving, Texas who works for Verizon’s IXC division. Between the school and the restaurant, I heard the story of her lost luggage battle with United, twice. We ate at the "Space Alien’s Grill and Bar". I felt like the alien.
It wasn't all bad, though – the mosquitoes hadn’t hatched yet.
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