by Lil Cromer
Straddling the US-Canada border, Niagara Falls draws its waters from four of the five Great Lakes and flings them down twenty stories at the rate of 42 million gallons a minute. It’s known as the honeymoon capital of the continent. The Canadian side is much more happening both in terms of falls views and general revelry filled with upscale hotels, restaurants, night clubs and a casino, which is why we elected to stay on the Canadian side. Plus the fact that the devalued Canadian dollar gave us more bang for our buck; the exchange rate favored us by 30%.
We were right around the corner and up a steep hill to Clifton Hills, which boasts rides, games, museums and restaurants most geared toward kids. With my arthritic knee climbing the hill was a struggle; it swelled up from all the walking. I used topical creams, Motrin and of course wine. Rachel was so patient.
One day we took a tour of the wineries surrounding a quaint little town ten miles north of Niagara Falls called Niagara-on-the-Lake. This area is famous for Ice Wine, made from frozen grapes and very expensive. An interesting note, Chinese investors are buying up wineries in the area as well as real estate.
Another day we took a six hour tour of both the American and Canadian sides of the falls. The bus driver was a hoot. One of the events was a ride on a boat, Maid of the Mist, which took us up close and personal to the falls. We donned ponchos to keep dry. The driver told stories of those who attempted to go over the falls — several died in the attempt. We also toured the power plant powered by the falls. Pretty impressive! Passing back and forth through customs is a pain, but can’t be avoided. We made a wise choice to stay on the Canadian side, much nicer than the American side.
Lil and Rachel in Niagara Falls
There was a young Vietnamese boy on the city tour; I gave him a toonie ($2.00 coin) for being so well-behaved. When I disembarked the bus he spontaneously gave me a big hug. Can’t buy pleasure like that.
The taxes in Canada are high, but then I tell people there is no free lunch. Somebody’s got to pay for nationalized health care.
We did splurge one night and have dinner in the hotel dining room and ordered a bottle of good red wine. There were a lot of places within walking distance of the hotel. One night we stopped in a local brewery, we used tickets for free samplings. Talked with a lively bartender who is going to school to become a nurse specializing in anesthesia. It was happy hour and pints of their special beer were $6.00. We shared a cheese platter.
Another item off the bucket list!
Chapter 18
Omaha
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By broadening perspectives, travel teaches new ways to measure quality of time.
You may be wondering why there is a rather long chapter on Omaha. It started with my fascination over Warren Buffett back in the 90s when I was forced to take over the finances after Hal’s stroke. At that time I noted that one share of Berkshire Hathaway stock was around a whopping $16,000. After more research, I discovered that Berkshire didn’t pay dividends and Warren Buffett was a unique individual and an astute investor. Hal validated this analysis and told me he played golf with Buffett when he was stationed at Offutt Air Force Base, Strategic Air Command Headquarters early in his career. This is where George Bush was taken after the twin tower bombings. When the B shares were issued, I promptly bought a few shares. A couple years into widowhood, I decided a trip to the annual shareholders’ meeting in Omaha might be interesting and informative. I just completed my 16th year and have made lots of friends over the years. I wrote the following essay after my first trip to Omaha in 2000.
You’re going to Omaha! Who in the world would want to go to Omaha?”
Wish that I had a frequent flyer mile for every person who asked me that very question when I told them of my plans. I anticipated having a good time, but had no idea I’d have such an outstanding time. Being from the Midwest myself, I was aware of its reputation of being most hospitable. But I’m convinced the crème de la crème of the friendly, gracious, and generous reside in Omaha. These sincere honest people have a good work ethic which seems to be lacking in most cities in America today.
From the moment I landed at Eppley Field Thursday and was whisked away in a courtesy van to my Best Western Hotel on the west side of the city I knew I was in for a delightful as well as an exciting four days. The van driver, Ted, who defected from Poland eighteen years ago, was surprised when I asked him “how are you?” in Polish. He regaled me with stories during the thirty minute ride, pointing out sites along the way.
My room assignment was perfect, a ground floor near the action, equipped with a king-size bed and a huge desk (you know how we writers collect paperwork) with a phone hookup for a laptop. Could have left my hair dryer home as one was hanging on the wall, right above the coffee maker. Of course, I never touched the ironing board.
After unpacking and settling in, I elected to take a walk and scope out the neighborhood, even though a brisk north wind was blowing. It was invigorating after Florida’s 85 degrees. Happy hour commenced at 4:00, so I was back promptly at opening and met a delightful bartender named Laura (Lulu). While she set about getting ready for the evening I ordered a Miller High Life at a happy hour bargain price and discovered that Laura was twenty-two going on forty-two. Born and raised in Omaha, she’s been traveling all around the country with friends in an old station wagon, sometimes sleeping under the stars. Laura proved that traveling does indeed make one wise beyond their years. I decided never to miss happy hour for the duration of my visit.
Borsheim’s Jewelry store, one of the nation’s largest and one of Berkshire Hathaway’s holdings, was hosting a cocktail reception at 6:00 p.m. on Friday giving me plenty of time to head downtown and visit the Josyln Museum which was currently running an exhibit called a “Touch of Glass,” by world renowned Dale Chihuly. He is known for his constant experimentation with the glass blowing process. Chihuly creates brilliant colorful forms unlike any other art glass in the world. I stood, mouth agape, under Persian Ceiling, a walkway beneath a glass ceiling of hundreds of colorful forms.
The Happy Cab Company sent Philip to fetch me at the museum and take me to the Old Market Section of Omaha, which is the old warehouse district known for specialty shopping and dining. After a few hours of poking around in the shops, my stomach said it was time for lunch. Couldn’t decide between Italian, Mexican or Steak. Settled on a steak burger and a bottle of cold beer at Austin’s Steak House. Bartender, Jay, cheerfully answered my never-ending questions about his beloved city.
I’ve always wondered why certain places in America seem to have more real people than others. Then I decided it must be because places like Florida, California, and New York have diluted their culture due to the considerable number of transplants. Wondering why Omahans are so congenial and ethical? Most of those I met were born there, lived there and will die there. A good many are church goers. In a big city you can stick your head out of a taxi and scream at someone because they won’t ever see you again. But where you see the same people all the time, you have a tendency to live in a mannerly respectful way.
One day, Cabbie Philip took me to Little Paul’s Tavern where I met an octogenarian drinking a beer in the middle of the day. I struck up a conversation with the gent asking him if he was a native of Omaha. He related a story that explains my comments about born, live, die in Omaha. Seems as he married his childhood sweetheart at age nineteen and promptly accepted a job in Oregon. As the months went on his wife became sicker and sicker. Finally my new friend took her to a doctor and after running several tests declared the woman homesick. They returned to Omaha and have been happily married for nearly sixty years.
Ted, the van driver was occupied on Friday afternoon when I was ready to go to Borsheim’s for the champagne and dessert jazz reception. Colleen, director of sales at the hotel, cheerfully walked me out the back door and into her Toyota and drove me the few miles to the reception. Turns out her father is Warren Buffett’s bridge partner and they are close friends. There is absolutely no preten
tiousness in any of the people I met who know Warren. I didn’t meet one person who didn’t have a good word to say about him, and I asked plenty of people.
The party at Borsheim’s was class personified. The hoard of stockholders were offered deep discounts and were making purchases just like it was Christmas. One lucky woman picked out a ring with a $450,000 price tag which her husband generously bought for her. I circulated the store and mall area drinking a fine California Cabernet while chatting with stockholders, not only from Omaha, but from all over the country as well. A diverse group to say the least.
Around 8:00 p.m., my feet were crying out for a rest, so I found a bar stool at a lively cafe in the mall, ordered a cold beer and continued to people watch. An imposing oriental man walked in and asked who was occupying the stool next to me. Flippantly I said, “You are!” Turns out forty-two year old Mike Lee and his family fled Hong Kong many years ago for New York. His job entails loading and unloading 747s at JFK. He owns “A” shares as well as “B” shares of Berkshire Hathaway and is still looking for Ms. Right. He pointed out Suzie and Peter Buffett, Warren’s son and daughter and their spouses who were waiting in line for a table. See what genuine people live in Omaha! Others of their stature would probably walk to the front of the line and demand a table. They must have waited for at least twenty minutes.
Mike Lee asked if I’d care to join him for dinner as he hates eating alone. His pear-shaped figure told me eating was as important to him as investing was. I followed him out to his rented SUV and we set out for a wild ride downtown to Gorat’s steakhouse, one of Omaha’s oldest family-owned places and Warren’s favorite. The wait was over an hour, so we headed over to Old Market — nary a parking place available. So, we headed east to Council Bluffs, Iowa, across the Missouri river to Harvey’s Casino where we enjoyed a lovely dinner on the 12th floor at Beverlee’s restaurant. At midnight, Mike dropped me off at my hotel, where I had to sleep fast as my wake up call was for 6:00 a.m. Sat. morning.
The big day had arrived! While showering I pondered why Warren Buffett, age 69, was such an idol and why 10,000 fiercely loyal fans, myself included, were in Omaha for the annual Berkshire Hathaway meeting. I decided that Warren is a genuine, conservative, and astute investor whose skill at evaluating companies is recognized by many as nonpareil. He is never swayed by market momentum and his value-based investing approach has been famously successful for decades.
At 7:00 a.m. the courtesy van took ten of us over to the Marriott where we boarded stretch vans to the Civic Auditorium downtown. We were the second batch to be shuttled — the driver said the line was two blocks long waiting for the doors to open at 7:00. When we arrived at the auditorium at 7:30, it was evident why those in the know queue up early. Nearly all the seats on the main floor were occupied. I made my way up to the first mezzanine in section five and was fortunate enough to sit next to a Ph.D. from Omaha who taught English. (Had to watch my grammar) This was her first annual meeting as well — we were amazed at the sheer numbers of people orderly filing into the auditorium. I fetched a complimentary continental breakfast for both of us while she protected our seats. We were seated next to station number four, out of eight, set up for questions to Warren. The SNAGS (sensitive new age guys), while waiting their turn to ask the Oracle of Omaha their prepared questions, sat right next to me in the reserved seats and shared their interesting and diverse backgrounds as well as a variety of issues that concerned them.
At 8:30 a.m., a most entertaining one hour film was presented as late comers continued to file in. The video started with Warren strumming a ukulele singing about investing to the tune of “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.” The spoof was interspersed with commercials for various companies within the Berkshire Hathaway holding company, with appearances by Bill Gates and Regis Philbin. Promptly at 9:30, the meeting was called to order by Warren sharing the stage with his vice chairman and alter ego, Charlie Munger. After a super brief five minute business meeting, the two graying executives played the role of business school professors to we awestruck students as they answered questions for six hours, with a short forty-five minute lunch break. They dispensed their answers and comments with wisdom and humor. What a thrill!
Of course each investor in attendance took away what they wanted from this magnificent seminar; here’s what I learned. Aesop was the very first investment advisor with his, “A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush.” You can mix raisins and turds together but you still have turds. Railroads have lots of capital investment and very little return. The Internet will reduce the profitability but improve the efficiency of businesses. Warren doesn’t own any Internet companies because he’s unable to evaluate them as he has no idea where they’ll be ten years from now. He doesn’t believe you should exchange a producing asset for a non-producing one. The government is quashing the one area that America is finally leading by breaking up Microsoft. Advice from so-called financial investment experts is basically not worth anything. Online day trading is casino-like. And finally, in relation to gold, “Why would anyone want to buy a piece of metal that was dug out of the ground in South Africa and put back into the ground at Fort Knox?”
The meeting was adjourned promptly at 3:30; how well the entire affair was orchestrated. I made my way back to the hotel via the courtesy shuttle and had exactly one hour to change and get ready for the ball game. The Omaha Golden Spikes were playing the Iowa Cubs and Warren “The Whip” Buffett would demonstrate his unique pitching style by throwing the ceremonial first pitch to Ernie Banks. My new friend Jean, the English professor, and her husband picked me up for the thirty minute ride to Rosenblatt Stadium. At the risk of offending any of my friends who are baseball fans, I’ll state that watching a baseball game was about as exciting as watching grass grow, so I wandered around the beautiful stadium talking to whomever, again marveling at how outgoing and friendly Omahans are. I noticed Warren was signing autographs in the upper tier of the bleachers, so I queued up. Since I already have his signature on a personal letter he sent me, I used my time to ask him where he gets his tremendous energy and begged him to continue driving the so-called experts crazy with his investment strategy that many have deemed contrarian. Probably another reason I admire him, as I’m a bit of a contrarian myself. He posed for a photo with me; the 8 x 10 is displayed in a prominent place in my condo and generates lots of questions from guests.
Lil and Warren
After the game, my friends dropped me off back at the hotel. I promptly went into the lounge for a night cap where I ran into the nicest bunch of senior citizens from surrounding communities. These WW2 vets and their wives were in town for an annual convention of the Mosquito Fleet, which I learned was comprised of PT boats. They plied me with homemade brownies and a snack concoction. I responded with funny stories about my experiences thus far in Omaha. After an hour they asked for my address as they wanted to invite me to their 2001 reunion in Columbus, NE. And I just may go!
Sunday’s activities included another shopping day at Borsheims and a $50.00 steak dinner at Gorat’s, both of which I elected to skip. Instead I went to the zoo. Philip, my Happy Cab driver, picked me up circa 11:00 for the twenty minute ride and we continued our discussion from Friday. This congenial fifty-six year old Bohemian, youngest of nine children, was born on a farm one hundred miles north of Omaha. I commented that I hadn’t had an Omaha steak yet and he offered to take me out for one later that evening. The zoo was well laid out and well worth the trip. However, it was hard to believe those annoying cell phones disrupted the serenity of a beautiful Sunday morning.
Back at the hotel with a few hours to kill before my “date,” I was looking forward to happy hour when I discovered, much to my dismay, that Jolly Jack’s Pub was closed. Shari, the manager, came to the rescue, smiling all the way, opened the bar and provided me with a few cold beers. Thank you, Shari!
Now I know what they mean when they boast about Omaha beef. The NY strip melted in my mouth along with a giant portion
of hash browns. Philip and I washed it down with a bottle of Louis Martini Cabernet, definitely one of the highlights of my trip.
Monday morning I drafted a two page complimentary letter to the management at the hotel for providing outstanding service, packed and checked out. Philip picked me up at 2:00 and drove me by the stockyards and the ethnic part of the city as well as the University of Nebraska campus. In appreciation for his kindness I offered to buy lunch. We stopped at the Bohemian Cafe, Omaha’s European connection since 1924, for a late lunch on the way to the airport, where we feasted on boiled beef in dill sauce, polish sausage, cabbage, sauerkraut, dumplings, liver dumpling soup and delicious heavy rye bread. Of course a couple of mugs of Pilsner beer was necessary to wash it all down.
It was with a bit of sadness that I got on that airplane; it would have been nice to stick around for a few more days and see the things I missed. However, I now have a good excuse to make a return visit.
I truly believe the citizens of Omaha don’t realize how special they really are, which is obviously part of their charm. That could be the reason I unequivocally fell in love with them and their city. I highly recommend falling in love with a city. It’s more faithful and stimulating than a man. And, if you pick the right one, you never have to cook again.
Here are some highlights from the years following.
Boy’s Town is a village and a suburb of Omaha. It was established in 1917 and is also known as Father Flanagan’s Boys’ Home. The walk through the museum as well as through the campus was impressive. But the most memorable spot for me was the wall naming donors from the alumni, many of whom made successes out of their lives. I met local author Lawson McDowell and edited a couple of his books — all have an Omaha connection. Before He Became a Monster is the sad tale of Charles Manson, who lived at Boys’ Town for a few days when he was fourteen years old.
