Yep, that's Nebraska. It is a wide, flat, monotonous stretch of scenery and we crossed the whole corn-stuffed enchilada in one go, stopping maybe twice to pee and gas up the car. The landscape was very green and floods were lapping at the edge of Omaha and over the edge of many other towns.

It was a bit of a blur, really. One long, soporific, ass-sore-from-sitting-in-the-car-all-day blur.

Then we hit Wyoming. Wyoming has always felt a little dangerous to me. Like anything can happen, which is both a blessing and - particularly when you are driving through its remoteness not more than a week after being in New York City - a curse. Anything means anything from discovering oil to being abducted by aliens - from seeing a beautiful herd of deer on the hillside to being hunted down and killed by a pack of highly armed 12 year-olds. As the sun drew low in the sky we pulled into Cheyenne...

 It was like we had pulled into the 1940s, or an even earlier time. And I don't mean a movie set of an earlier time, I mean an earlier time. Old buildings, still in use but very well preserved, sit on wide, clean streets. The air is fresh and clean and the trains run along the extensive set of tracks into downtown like I am sure they did a hundred years ago.

It was a Sunday evening and everything was shut down. Everything, that is, that wasn't serving alcohol and red meat. There were plenty of those open.

I liked Cheyenne.  It probably helped that the pub where we ate served fantastic burgers and had good, good beer for only $2 a pint, but that is OK. That is what real western pubs in real western places should do. "Cheyenne knows what it is and it isn't pretending to be anything else - and I respect that", I thought to myself, as I swallowed the juicy, medium-rare burger and washed it down with a crisp, cold beer.

Don't get me wrong, though, I still felt like I could become prey at any moment.