After a day/night of mixed feelings regarding our time spent at Niagara Falls, I left the destination with a tepid memory of a beautiful site tainted by the pure volume of tourists and the nasty attractions meant to please such a diverse group of, well...thrifty folks. The last time I had left Canada to return to the US after a wild night of partying in Montreal, I was held up by a particular domineering asshole of a border patrol man who tore my car apart and went on a tirade of psychological manipulation, attempting to convince me that I was carrying drugs over the border. "So, your eyes are pretty bloodshot and you seem jittery--you were partying pretty hard last night huh? Are you sure you aren't carrying any cocaine? Because if you are, I will find it." I digested this assumption and retorted in a relaxed, yet firm tone-"Uh yea, I'm positive I don't have any cocaine, nor was I doing any drugs." Although the response was completely truthful and in hindsight should've pleased this officer, my admission of truth pissed him off, adding to the intensity of his prosecution: "So, I also noticed that there's a lighter in your car and there seems to be some conspicuous residue on it. You realize that carrying marijuana across the border is a federal offense-anything to tell me?" Again, in an equally placid response with the addition of feigned sweetness, I answered: "You must be mistaken, I'm not a smoker nor do I use marijuana. My buddy (whom I was traveling with) smokes cigarettes. I'm 100% sure my car is drug free." The conversation ended abruptly, as the officer begrudgingly realized he would not be able to convict me of an offense I was in no way guilty of, despite his sick will to convince me I was a criminal. The experience was time consuming, unnecessary and reminded me why I rarely traveled to Canada via car. This time around, I was spared the cross-examination but had to endure an equally brutal 2 hour wait to simply show my passport for five seconds at the border. The recurring issue made me ponder the confounding process of crossing the border and to this day I cannot answer this simple question (perhaps you can help): why is it that crossing into Canada is such a pleasant, efficient experience marked by smiles and a sincere exclamation by the officer to enjoy your time, whereas crossing back into the US is a perpetual nightmare? Are Canadians cooler people? Do they have more faith in humanity? Are they okay with smuggling drugs, guns and hookers into their territory. I couldn't tell you, but I must say that I'd rather make conversation and share a pitcher of beer with a Canadian border officer over an American any day of the week--if for some bizarre reason that situation ever came to fruition. Anyways, back to the trip (be prepared for similar stream-of-consciousness tangents throughout the blog because I love them and more importantly, I want to be Kerouac.)
After finally getting back into the US of A, we got back on I-90 and headed West. There were a number of things I was looking forward to during our trip to Chicago, ranging from the mundane-my overzealous love of driving- to the extraordinary-my lifelong dream of visiting the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame near the midpoint of the drive in Cleveland. Despite my passion for discovering new places, I had low expectations for opportunities to stimulate my mind in the Midwest. I hate to rip into states as I try to take the egalitarian viewpoint that each state has it's hidden gems in terms of cities/towns, nightlife, outdoor attractions, etc. However, I have nothing good to say about Pennsylvania and its affinity for strip malls, obesity, cigarettes, backwards Quaker laws, Northern Bible-Belt piety and worst of all, 2-lane highways. Maybe all of these characteristics are synonymous with the Midwest? If so, I am deeply sorry for those of you who live there. It goes without saying that the drive through PA was less than enjoyable despite it's short duration on 90-West as there is nothing that pisses me off/engages my potent road rage more than being stuck behind an over-agressive trucker trying to pass in the fast-lane while going up a hill. Sit in the right lane, there's no reason to pass when you have a million miles to go before you reach your destination and then turn around to do it all again.
I had never been to Ohio other than in it's airports, so I had high expectations for great times ahead especially after my "bar" of standards had been lowered to near zero during our time in PA. I had downloaded this sweet app called Best Road Trip Ever! which is a must have for anyone taking a roadtrip and looking to hit up a few off-the-beaten-path attractions. Luckily for Fran and me there were a few local gems right off of 90 before we hit Cleveland. Such life-changing sites in Eastern Ohio included the World's Largest Rocking Chair, the World's Largest Statue of Mary and the "Flintstone House" which I presumed to be an old-bedrock quarry redesigned to resemble the prehistoric set of the legendary TV show by an avid fan. As I said, these were truly some must-see sites....After viewing a few of these historic sites, we made it to Cleveland by about noon. I was interested to find out why the city is commonly referred to as "The mistake on the lake," but feared being verbally abused if I asked a local. After searching online, I found two differing, yet equally valid answers:
1.Used to smell bad because of the steel mills, but that has been gone for 10+ years. It really started after the Cuyahoga River caught on fire, and Lake Erie was almost declared dead.
2.The correct name for the city in Ohio often referred to as "Cleveland." Located by Lake Erie, nothing good has ever come from Cleveland and the city ranks just behind Paris Hilton, Jean Shorts, and trusting Judas as one of God's worst mistakes.
Although only spending a few hours there, I found the small city to be somewhat scenic because, hey, at least it sat on a lake. Here are a few beauties to wet your palette:
  
And yes, the second picture is a poorly aligned shot of the Browns football stadium; in my usual forgetful state, I forgot to bring a short lense for my good camera so the entirety of the pictures taken on the trip captured about half of the desired view unless I was a mile away. Truthfully, the only reason we stopped in Cleveland was to visit the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame, a museum which I had always dreamed of visiting in order to indulge my nerdy obsession for everything Rock.
The Museum was truly epic. While providing a thorough chronological history of Rock from its roots in the early-50s to present, the best part of the museum were the exhibits which covered specific musicians/bands like my hero Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles, the Stones, the Grateful Dead, and many more. The museum was enough to make Cleveland worth visiting, and probably supplied most of its revenue, especially after that flaming douchebag Lebron James left. One of the coolest parts of the place was a viewing room where they played a highlight tape from the annual Hall of Fame induction ceremony which, although somewhat lacking in recent years as all the greats have mostly been inducted already, was a great a great piece of musical history condensed into about an hour. Although you were strictly prohibited from taking pictures, I obviously snapped a few off including Fran and my favorite stoners from the Dead, maybe the best audiophile soundsystem which I will have when I'm a billionaire and the hilarious, metrosexual Beatles performance outfits:
  
Fran had to drag me out of the museum because I would've stayed there forever (I learned to dissect a museum with meticulous precision from ol pops Maynard) and we had a five hour drive yet to get to Chicago. My last wish before we left was to meet the legendary Dusty Street, the DJ for Sirius Channel Classic Vinyl with the voice of a 100-year old congested grandmother. Although I was unable to physically meet her, I stood outside the reinforced cube-shaped DJ box and waved my hands wildly to initiate the cosmic connection I knew we shared. It was magical. Other than a gorgeous sunset:
the trip across the next third of the flat, lifeless midwest was uneventful. Despite wanting to tell people that I'd seen the ruins of Detroit, the crumbling metropolis was completely out of the way. To improvise, we took a detour from 90-West and hopped on I-75 North up through Toledo and, for literally 2 minutes, crossed over into Michigan just long enough to snap these artistic pictures of the Welcome sign and some super-exciting city mile-markers:
 
Within those two minutes we reversed course and promptly headed westward again towards the blinding rays of a puuuurty sunset. Thank god it was dark and we had no time to stop in Indiana, because that state was straight creepy. I imagined that the molesters and various other perverse creatures who were roaming around in the darkness were just waiting for us to get a flat in order to overtake the car and force us into some "Hills Have Eyes" type scenario of torture and sex slavery. Is it true? Tell me I'm making this up because I've yet to hear any objections to this stark reality and the industrial wasteland of the Hoosier state which makes Pennsylvania look like an oasis of tranquility, prosperity and smiling, hopeful faces. Anywhoooo, despite my desire to at least stop for a moment to say that I had some tangible memory of Indiana, my willpower was trumped by fear and an aversion to being abducted. At last, around 10PM we crossed the border from Gary, IN to the impending big city lights of the Windy City, our first major stop on the trip and the shining capital in the state which I considered the gateway to the glorious west. I had heard wonderful things about Chicago, including its sites, music, food and the comforting, down-home attitude of its quasi-midwestern, quasi-metropolitan people. We had planned ahead and were lucky enough to stay with one of Fran's old friends from high school, Kat. As an aside, my advice to anyone looking to do a long-distance roadtrip, obvious as it may be, is to plan ahead of time to stay with friends along the way. Not only do you save dollah bills, but the local experience is enhanced, and best, you get to meet/reconnect with some very cool people. Kat was one of these cool people. A lifelong midwesterner (except for her time at Dana Hall), Kat was happy to take us in and provided the instant comfort that arises from either rekindling old friendships (Fran literally hadn't spoken to her for five years) or simply embracing the opportunity to start new ones--even if they are fleeting. The one issue that arose during that end of the night was completely my own doing; I simply cannot sleep, regardless of fatigue, if the temperature is above 68 degrees. I realize that I'm a huge prince in that respect, but have come to accept it and let it be known to the host in order to alleviate the issue, if possible. On this night, alleviation was not possible, and far from it as a 100 degree Chicago day had transitioned into a 90 degree night. Sleeping, or rather languishing on a cot on the top floor would be my reality that night. After hours of last minute measures, such as putting an industrial fan directly in my face and trying to meditate only left me with burning dry eyes and a lack of faith in the ancient art of sublime relaxation. Needless to say, sleep was out of the question that night and I walked over to Starbucks at 5am to get my coffee buzz on and mentally prepare for a complete day of Chicago tourism. Oh, and here are the other signs that represent the day's
voyage:
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