Pennsylvania is lovely, all tree-covered hills that seem to go on forever. The last time I drove through Pennsylvania, three years ago, I spotted two deer standing by the side of the highway looking for all the world like they were waiting for a safe moment to cross the road. This time I didn't see any deer except two fiberglass ones on someone's front yard. What I saw was trucks. See, on the East Coast, where produce and other consumer goods move around by train, it's easy to forget that the rest of the country relies on trucks to get everything from canned peas to Beanie Babies. But once I leave New England, I remember in a hurry, usually as an 18-wheeler from Wisconsin changes lanes right in front of me. Big trucks give me The Fear; I worry that they can't see me. Even though I can usually outrun a big rig, even in my little 4-cylinder hatchback that doesn't accelerate well with the a/c on, they still make me nervous.
For some reason, Melanie and I are fascinated by roadside restaurants. We particularly liked the big sign for the truck stop that boasted it had America's WORST apple pie. Another favorite: the Jib-Jab Hot Dog Shoppe. Our final memory of Pennsylvania, just before crossing the Ohio border, will be the sign for the unfortunately named "Quaker Steak & Lube." We also reluctantly passed on the Tally-Ho Tel, which isn't an eatery but definitely had a fine name.
When you cross the border into Ohio, it looks pretty much like Pennsylvania, but it starts looking more like the Midwest with every mile. Before you know it, the scenery is a repeating mantra: Corn. Barn. Corn. Barn. Corn. Barn. An occasional cow or horse breaks the monotony. We decided that since we were going to be driving through the Midwest, we should probably wear lipstick. Otherwise, some apple-cheeked frat boy from I Felta Thigh might decide that two women and a cat in a small car were ripe for harassment. We also realized that in America's Heartland, Christianity runs rampant. Now if you, dear reader, are one of my Christian friends, please don't start with the rant about how I'm bashing your chosen faith. I am fairly certain that if you're my friend, you don't own a bright purple t-shirt with an iron-on applique of a dove and the Lord's Prayer. Neither, I imagine, do you have a Promise Keepers bumper sticker on your car, or ride in a rock star-style tour bus with an Oregon tag reading "XALT-HM," or attend a gigantic church resembling a cross between a movie theater and Jordan's Furniture -- all of which we saw today. We also saw a billboard that said, "What part of 'Thou shalt not...' didn't you understand? -God." We're currently in yet another Super 8 motel; it has both a Bible and several copies of a tract magazine called Awake! on the counter in the lobby, and a card on one of the beds bore a prayer. This aggressive religion-peddling seems to be everywhere, and speaking as someone who is not, nor has ever been, of the Christian persuasion, it's alternately cloying and disconcerting.
At any rate, Ohio quickly changed from hilly to flat. We could see for miles, but there wasn't much to see. Woozy with boredom, we began singing a song to the tune of "We're In The Money" -- "We're in Ohio! We have to get out of here, before we get old and die-o."
We stopped for lunch at a rest stop; while Melanie went inside to fetch Popeye's fried chicken with red beans and rice, I took Surely out of her carrier and let her walk under the trees on a lead. She hopped up on our picnic table and quivered every time a truck went by, but otherwise she seemed to enjoy being outside.
About an hour after lunch, just as I was muttering about really wanting a cup of coffee, we passed the sign for another rest stop. Miracle of miracles, there was a Starbucks! Civilization! What could we do but stop for frappucinos?
A little while after that, my cel phone started doing the samba. It was Jon, advising me to push on through Indiana to Illinois. We were a little dubious, but the roads were good and the weather was clear, so we decided to head for Joliet, Illinois, just past Chicago. Then we decided to go a few miles farther than that to the little burg of Morris, mostly because we found more listings there for pet-friendly hotels. We pulled off the highway and checked into the aforementioned Super 8,which happens to have 4 "whirlpool suites," Jacuzzi-enhanced rooms with themes like "jungle room" and "Egyptian room." We chose "cheap room." The girl at the counter confided in me that she couldn't wait to leave Illinois. Then she recommended we have dinner at Maria's, the best restaurant in town.
Maria's was a red-sauce Italian joint circa 1985, the kind of place that serves lots of pink zinfandel. It had an ersatz "Italian" mural with scenes of an Edwardian-clad couple touring Venice by gondola. It also had no non-smoking section. (Everyone smokes in the Midwest. The motel apologized for only having non-smoking rooms available.) The menu sounded promising. Alas, my ravioli tasted freshly thawed, and the sauce had clearly been recently acquainted with a jar; the white clam sauce on Melanie's fettucine was congealed and vaguely waxy. The fresh bread was quite nice, though.
My car's right headlight is out. A nice mechanic at the Morris Shell station took a look at it and replaced the bulb, but that did no good. I think it must be an electrical problem, and I'm worried I'll get pulled over by some overenthusiastic state trooper. Since my beloved mechanic is more than 1,000 miles behind me, I'm not sure how I'm going to get it fixed. I suppose this means I won't be doing any night driving until I get to San Francisco and find a new mechanic.
I also realized this evening that the digital camera was set to take black and white pictures. I've fixed this; future illustrations of the travelogue will be in color.