The Last Ditch

New friends, new experiences and some scary moments

Logan, from Pensacola FL

We shouted "Go, Cards!" but I doubt they heard

The Big Muddy from the top of the Arch

Logan looks quite at ease in Speranza's driving seat

We are

The Arch, from the park below

safe and well, let me make that clear at the outset. I made an error of judgement or two today, which gave rise to some unease; no worse than that. I know that both my mum and the Q's are reading this blog, so it's only fair to make that clear before continuing!

The day started well in Hannibal, MO. The Q & I were well rested after our boozy night and enjoyed our breakfast. Kudos to the excellent Garth Woodside Mansion B&B and thanks to our hosts, John and Julie, for a splendid time. Also for the parting gift of caramel-flavoured vodka. Apparently, the Q is enjoying some even now in his room and I look forward to trying some more myself when I am in the mood.

We arrived within minutes of each other in St Louis today, where we visited the Gateway Arch. We actually took one elevator (they call it a tram, though it's more like riding in a front loading washing machine) to the top from one side and took the other one down. So we have travelled the full extent of both its "legs". The St Louis Cardinals were playing and we could see the game in progress from far above. They lost, sadly. St Louis is a big baseball town and the atmosphere in the city was noticably dampened.

The lady who rode up the Arch with us was from New York. She was gamely seeking out such experiences in order to overcome her fear of heights. We tried to joke her out of thinking about it as our cramped car ascended, but she was the very embodiment of the concept of a white knuckle ride, so I am not sure we entirely succeeded. We rode down the other side with a lady from Penasacola Florida named Chris and her eight-year old son, Logan. He had seen our cars on the parking lot and wanted to know all about them. So we invited him and his mom to come to the parking lot, sit inside them and be photographed. I think he enjoyed it.

From the little we saw of it and the conversations we had with natives in our bar and our restaurant, St Louis seems like a great town. Certainly, it's a very sporty one. The Q spent quite a lot of time in the bar explaining the rules of baseball to me as the highlights of today's game were analysed to the nth degree. I don't claim to have grasped it all yet, but I am determined. It's clearly central to the American way of life, which - after all - I am here to learn about.

We drove from St Louis to Sikeston, MO where John & Julie had recommended the unique culinary experience that is Lambert's Cafe - "the only home of the throwed roll". It was really quite something. The Q has more experience of Southern food than me, and thought the ribs were not up to standard. I enjoyed the portion of them I was able to eat and look forward to enjoying better ones even more as I tour the Southern States. The Q's sporting dexterity stood him in good stead and he safely received the longest throw of the evening. I didn't drop mine either, but it was from much nearer. It is an odd experience, but fun!

Then things went a bit pear-shaped. The Q is running out of time and keen to make progress. Our leisurely pace so far had surprised him and he asked if we could skip the GRR and dash directly first to St Louis and then Memphis. We didn't book an hotel because we thought - if we didn't make Memphis - we could just find one when we ran out of steam. That happened at Sikeston, but the Holiday Inn there turned out to be fully booked. Tired though we were, we decided to strike out directly for the HIlton Hotel in Memphis.

I was low on gas and reluctant to buy the no-name brands. I have had to feed them to Speranza twice on this tour, for lack of an alternative, but they are not good for her. So I passed three junctions that didn't offer branded fuel and struck out with satnav guidance for a Phillips 66. It turned out to be closed but there was another in the satnav so I aimed for that. That turned out to be the same station from the opposite direction, so I ended up driving the next junction and turning round to head back before I realised what was happening.

Low on fuel now I came off at the next exit and filled up on what the satnav had promised would be branded gas. The station was independent however, and had changed to a no-name fuel. Lacking the wherewithal to proceed otherwise, I reluctantly filled her up. A group of rowdy young men arrived and surrounded the car. For a moment I was concerned, but then Speranza's charm did its job and they ended up posing for photographs with my willing permission.

Memphis was still over 100 miles to go. It was getting on for midnight and all respectable hard-working Americans (apart from the truck drivers) were tucked up and sleeping the sleep of the just. The route took me through Arkansas, which announced on the sign immediately after its welcome to the state, that "Speed limits are strictly enforced. No tolerances." This seemed to be for real as even the truck drivers slowed down, so my bed receded further into the future.

As I got close to the hotel, I positioned Speranza in the wrong lane. I was committed to the turn so then followed a tour through bits of Memphis the tourism officials don't mention. I passed rows of dilapidated caravans/trailers down a service road that the Satnav claimed would lead me back to the highway, but actually terminated in a filthy pool. I turned around and retraced my route, wishing as I passed the trailers and their - presumably - sleeping inhabitants, that an Italian V8 had a mute button.

A combination of fear and tiredness led me into various unprepossessing areas, my mind full of memories of Tom Wolfe's "Bonfire of the Vanities." There is no stealth mode in a Ferrari. She is meant to be noticed and therefore unsuited to social anthropology. Eventually, however, sometime between 1 and 1.30 am, I found my way back to the highway - approached the hotel from the opposite direction and found my way to its door.

I declined Q's kind invitation to a settling vodka, thinking it would only make writing my blog post for the day more difficult - as it certainly did yesterday! It's now well after 2pm and I am off to sleep, before exploring the more glamorous side of Memphis tomorrow.

Down day, but fun

On our way to breakfast

Leaving, only to return later

The Quarterback's softer side

Becky Thatcher

Mr Twain

Local biker

Painting that fence

I could not resist this from the gift shop

Black Beauty had a real puncture. She had picked up an historical nail that was holding the air in her tire while still, but brushing the tarmac and opening a gap to release it while in motion. I cannot believe how cheap it was to fix it. The owner of our B&B called a tire place in Hannibal and got us an appointment this morning. Within a couple of hours, the problem was sorted (nail removed and high-performance tire fixed) for $20! 

 By the time it was sorted (a) we had lost the morning to car maintenance, (b) though we had elaborately said goodbye to it and its owners, we were reluctant to leave our B&B and (c) we had decided that Memphis was too far to go in an afternoon. So, over drinks in Main Street Hannibal and over my very first meal of catfish (delicious, as long as pond-reared) we decided to stay another night and really "do" the city and its Mark Twain museum.

We met Julie, our splendid B&B hostess, in Main Street where she also runs a store, and arranged both that we would stay another night and that she would feed us so we could have a serious drink. She put the Q and I into a comfortable cottage in the grounds of the Inn. She fed us, right royally, and she also arranged the most amazing tasting of flavoured vodkas. The Americans have taken to importing French vodka and flavouring it with the taste of bubble gum, various fruits, caramel or cake. I know it sounds both disgusting and the sort of thing a pedophile might use for grooming victims but - amazingly - it was marvelous. My new favourite drink is cake, caramel and cherry flavoured vodka combined into an alcoholic liquid dessert. It intoxicates more than it fattens and tastes way better than it sounds!

Twain is one of my favourite authors and was the means by which I first found out, through reading Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, that there was such a place as America.There is a very well-organised (and entirely privately-funded) museum dedicated to his life and works in Hannibal. There is also a group of buildings (some in their original location, some moved to be nearby) comprising the great man's childhood home, the home of the man on whom Huck Finn is based, the law office of Twain's judge/lawyer father, and the home of the girl on whom Becky Thatcher is based. The famous fence is there, and the Q and I (both of whom read and loved Sawyer and Finn as boys) posed for a photo with a whitewash brush - as everyone does.

Canadian and Englishman were united in our affection for that great - and wise - American Mark Twain. Just seeing the size of the Mississipi River across the levee from his boyhood home put the stories into a new context. I am sure I mentally pictured it as a far more modest waterway when I was reading the books.

The day was hot. We cooled down with a walk along the banks of the mighty Mississippi and returned to our cars to find some locals inspecting Speranza. I was in fine spirits and opened her up to allow Bubba, the child of the party, to sit in her and rev her magnificent engine. The kid was ecstatic and his family appreciated the attention I gave him. He was shy at first but, flushed with the sound of an Italian V8 shaking muddy foundations for miles around, he said, with enormous passion, "I want want of these". 

Back at the splendid Garth Woodside Mansion (I am not sponsored to say this but give the advice freely in gratitude for John and Julie's excellent hospitality, come to Hannibal if only to stay there) we had an amazing evening. Great food. Great drink. Great company. If I am to adopt a critical stance to America in order to make a photobook about my tour that will be taken seriously by European intellectuals, it won't happen today.

Dubuque to Hannibal, via the Field of Dreams and our first speeding ticket

On the pitcher's mound at the Field of Dreams movie site

The whole team, drivers and driven

Watching the fishermen fish with nets and bows and arrows at Sabula

Resting for tonight in Mark Twain's old room

Well rested and moderately well nourished we set off to drive the next section of the Great River Road, for the first time in convoy. Before leaving the Dubuque area, we flipped over to Dyersville to see the odd tourist attraction that is the movie location for Kevin Costner's baseball classis, "Field of Dreams". The Quarterback is more into ice hockey, but has an appreciation of America's national game - which is also played in Canada. I guess that's what makes it "the World Series", right? Two countries playing. I remember enjoying the movie very much, while not having the foggiest idea of why it was all so mystical.

 

The scouts identified a farm in Iowa and the film company paid to use it. The crew "built" (is that the right verb?) the baseball pitch in the course of four days. The farming family have maintained it ever since and it has become a tourist attraction that pulls in 3,000 people a weekend. Having become too old to manage the business they were thus magically gifted - the film company built it and they DID come - the family has now sold it to a business group that is going to build lots more baseball diamonds to create a sort of baseball mecca. Whether it works for the new owners or not, it has been a great asset to the old ones. They don't even charge admission - they have simply asked for donations to maintain the field and sold souvenirs.

Then we set off in quest of the GRR and found it easily enough for most of the way. We drove through beautiful country, first in Iowa, then Illinois and finally Missouri. My American mobile phone failed again and my English one (the expensive navigation substitute - eating mapping data on expensive roaming fees) locked onto a terrible phone company's signal that offered no data. The Quartermaster's car (now named, unimaginatively, "Black Beauty") has US satnav, of course, but it was utterly fixated on the Interstates and refused to recalculate however long we persisted in following the GRR signs.

When the signs became sparse, we ended up lost and made our separate ways to Hannibal, MO - Mark Twain's home town. I eventually found my way back to the GRR. Q arrived from a different direction, in a grumpy mood, having picked up a speeding fine of $175 en route. It could have been worse. There was talk of cells and bail bonds, but kindness prevailed - to an extent.

Having picked a B&B to stay in while on wifi at our lunch stop we were pleasantly surprised to find it is a magnificent historical mansion - the former country home of the Garth family - 55 year friends of Mr Twain himself. My room is the guest room where he slept when last he stayed with them in 1902.

I bought dinner to compensate the Q for his speeding fine and we agreed that if either of us gets a fine on this run, the other will pay for the food that evening. Hannibal being a sleepy little town of only 17,000 inhabitants (though it sprawls over a wide area as if it were a much bigger city) the restaurant we went to was in the process of closing. The kitchen staff having left, the nice ladies waiting on and tending bar took pity on us. They produced a soup and salad combination that was probably a better choice than we would have made given the run of the menu.

Black Beauty announced on her way home that her right rear tire (tyre) was flat. We pulled in to a garage and - working by the light of an iPhone - re-inflated it. It seemed to hold and she is now complaining that it's over-inflated. The morning will reveal if we have a more serious -trip disrupting - problem.

Onwards to Iowa

So far still to go...

At one of the historical marker sites en route

The place I *didn't* have lunch

Black Hawk down

"Scarlett" in all her glory

The view other cars would get if the speed limits were not so low

There was a lot of Minnesota to drive through before reaching Iowa; my first new state for a couple of days. I have tried to plan the trip to avoid retracing my tyre tracks more than strictly necessary, but going so far up-country to stand at the source of the Mississippi meant travelling, if not on the same roads, through similar country.

 

Not that it was boring. There is so much to notice as I begin to settle into my life on the road. The incredible extent of community involvement in everything in America, for example. For instance, stretches of highway are "adopted" by individuals, families and organisations  - the signs posted at intervals revealed adoptions in loving memory of deceased relatives, or to promote the business of the local gun dealer. Another stretch had a sign thanking the local scout troop for keeping it free of litter.

The same is true of the museums I have visited; not one of which had state funding. All were proudly sponsored by local businesses and families. It has taken a trip like this to bring home just how much the charitable impulse in Europe has been killed by the Welfare State. I was sad to read that one of Margaret Thatcher's disappointments was that philanthropy had not increased in Britain as taxes fell. I think it was surprisingly naieve of her to expect that to be immediate. People need to see a lack before they feel the need to fill it. Those brought up on the myth that government can provide from cradle to grave will not relearn personal kindness quickly.

Apparently this was the best section of the Great River Road in terms of driving in sight of the river. The scenery was beautiful and gradually the temperature rose until it was not absurd to drive with the roof down. Of course, I had been doing it anyway while it was still absurd. With a suitable woolly hat, there's really no reason not to. I encountered rain however on the final section today and had to close the car to avoid damage to the interior.

I was disappointed that my chosen lunch spot, the historical Trempeleau Hotel, Restaurant and Saloon, was not yet open for the season. True to form for this trip, it will open a couple of days after I stopped by. I had a more prosaic lunch break at La Crosse, a pleasant little university town recently voted one of the best places to live in the States. I wasn't able to find the historic centre mentioned in my guide book in the time available and ended up eating chain food on the strip, where the wi-fi (oh the constant quest for wi-fi) is anyway more reliable.

There were historical markers every few miles featuring potted accounts of notable local events. Some of the markers have become historical themselves and feature accounts of events in the Indian Wars that jar on modern sensibilities. These are now accompanied by their own historical markers, explaining the modern view - a little more sympathetic to the Native American cause than the old ones. History is always seen through the lens of modernity. I wonder how future markers will gloss those in their turn?

The Quartermaster and I had agreed on a preliminary rendezvous at Guttenburg in Iowa, but made a last minute change to Dubuque (pronounced der-buke, apparently - rather than do-book - just as Prairie du Chien is pronounced "Prayer der Sheen").

This allowed us to meet in time for dinner (even after I wasted an hour by following a misleading sign to an alternative - and far less attractive - GRR on the wrong side of the river and had to backtrack). He made it safely and in time and our two cars are now together. I have already started thinking of his as "Scarlett", but he feels - reasonably enough - that the friend who owns her should have naming rights. He will be putting in a call to Georgia on that subject. She is, in the amazonian way of the American muscle car, very cool indeed and I suspect quite a handful to drive.

On a recommendation from Dave in reception, a native der-bookian, we had an excellent meal at L May's downtown, washed down by a couple of OK margaritas and an excellent dirty "Mississippi Water" martini. Quick studies that we are, we rapidly concluded that our waitress was "not from around here" when she pronounced the town's name in just the way we had only an hour or so before!

The first section of the Great River Road

Bemidji's tourist attractions

Speranza's new (and as yet un-named) companion, being driven towards us by the Quarterback

Speranza by the river we came to see

Tom and Huck on the Mississippi

Bemidji Visitor Center

I woke refreshed in my rustic residence in the Itasca State Park and set off in the cold morning sunshine to start the Great River Road (GRR). The first stop was Bemidji, where I had a “Minnesota Nice” lumberjack breakfast. A bit much really, as driving even a Ferrari does not expend as much energy as felling trees.

 

Bemidji is “the first city on the Mississippi”. It’s a pleasant little town, with a steady stream of visitors to the tourist information center car park where its principal attraction stands - two carnival “statues” made in the 1930s, representing the legendary Paul Bunyan (a sort of lumberjack Desperate Dan) and his “companion” the blue ox “Babe”. I offer a photograph with only the comment that, while it wouldn’t pass for public art in Chicago, it’s surprising what will when you are far enough off the beaten track.

I really can’t get over how polite and civil everyone is in America - or at least in the parts I have visited so far. Only in one bar have I heard the “F” word, and that was spoken softly between friends who were right next to me in a bar. None of the women present heard it. I doubt the men in question - a couple of farm workers talking about the machines they use for their work - would have used it if they could hear. By contrast, I cannot remember one day in England since I returned there two years ago without hearing it. 

The GRR winds its way from Bemidji through the Minnesotan countryside, occasionally offering a view of the river as it broadens. Progress on this scenic route is pleasantly slow and it soon become clear that my plans to rendezvous with "the Quarterback" were over-optimistic. He has been making rapid progress in his Corvette, while I ambled gently along the backroads. That is rather the point of the GRR and I am enjoying it - especially as American speed limits don't really allow Speranza to have any Ferrari moments anyway. I might was well just have the roof down and enjoy the sunshine. 

I decided to pick up the pace so as at least to get south of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St Paul. I drove through them at rush hour without too much difficulty. Being stopped, even for a moment or two, in traffic seemed quite a novelty after days of relentless progress. 

I picked a point on the road during a navigation break and booked online into one of only two hotels there. It proved to have been my worst choice so far. The wifi worked only intermittently (hence the delay with this post) and the building had seen its better days some considerable time ago. Given its charmless location amongst local light industry, I can’t see anyone investing in refurbishment anytime soon. 

Making the best of it, I dined well - if not glamorously - at a local Mexican joint. It was Mothers’ Day in America. Mother after mother was celebrated by having a sombrero placed on her head for photographs with her burritos and good wishes in Spanish from the enthusiastic staff. Each mum managed to seem surprised and delighted, though as the ritual was repeated several times, most must have expected it. They were just as happy in our jolly, scruffy, surroundings as if they had been lunched at the Savoy. Money is nothing compared to the love of family.

In these surroundings, I happily downed a couple of monster margaritas in the pleasant company of a local man who offered advice on my route.

On the source

My first sight of my big, muddy companion for the next week

I had a pleasant drive through Minnesotan wetlands to Itasca State Park today. There was still snow on the ground and some lakes were part-frozen, but the roads were clear and dry. A day or so of sunshine will clear away the last evidence of Winter soon. 

The appearance of my lunch stop belies the quality of the food and service

"It's hard to beat a woody" - the name of the signature dish of the restaurant

The low-down direct from the source

A fisherman stands on the breakwater to fish the first feet of the river

Your humble blogger, wrapped in many layers against the cold

A lady tourist caught in the cliched act of walking across the river.

The lake that brims over to form the Mississippi

The first few feet of the river, looking back to the source

Source material

There was a perfectly good path from the nearby car park, in true American style, so these really do take up space in my boot/trunk for nothing

Speranza's bed for the night, guarded by bears.

My bed for the night.

I stopped at an interesting little cafe along the way to eat what (bar a memorable occasion in provincial Russia) must have been my cheapest lunch in decades. It was good though. Everyone beyond working age in the small farming village seemed to be eating there. The conversation was cacaphonic, but pleasant. It seemed like a strong little community.

The cafe's slogan was risque for these Lutheran parts, but that's farmers for you; always with the reproductive humour.

My goal for the day was the source of the Mississippi River; a stream flowing out of Lake Itasca (a made up name explained in one of the photos - please click to enlarge so it's readable). My Canadian soon-to-be companion on this tour disputes that. He claims that the river, like all good things, comes from his homeland. As I shall be following the stream I saw today all the way to New Orleans, I guess I have bought the American version of events.

Itasca State Park is beautiful and well-managed. I loved the trust system for buying an entry pass. You left cash, a cheque or your credit card details in an envelope available from a box at the gate - and then wrote out your own ticket and displayed it on your dashboard.

The nice ladies at the Headwaters Visitor Center opened up the shop for me, because I looked sad at not being able to buy a souvenir. Then, when I asked about local accommodation, they referred me to the main visitor centre where I could book a lodge, cabin or suite. I have a comfortable little apartment in a big log building. I must be the first foreigner ever as they couldn't take a credit card without a US zip code! I solved that problem easily enough by paying cash.

Maybe I will see more of this beautiful place tomorrow, before I head south for the first time on this tour. The jolly tips in the information booklet about avoiding a "bad bear day" (ho ho!) do not encourage me to give my hiking boots a second outing however. I am all alone for now, so no-one would be left to blog the amusing epitaph, "exit, pursued by a bear".

I brought the boots specifically for today's visit to the Headwaters and have constantly regretted the space they occupy in my limited baggage space. In true American style, of course, there was an easy path from a nearby car park today, so I could have left them at home. I guess they helped me fit in with the local fishermen and other outdoor types.

There's a jolly-looking bar and grill along the park road, so your humble blogger is now off to look for nourishment. Sadly, it's not in walking distance so I shall be near the source, but - alas - not on the sauce.

The state is your carer?

Only family and real friends (not the kind who spring up to give teary quotes after you have popped your clogs) will take care of you in your old age. If the state lets you die, its agents will investigate each other and - surprise, surprise - find there is "no case to answer".

If a son or daughter had dropped the ball like the council in this case, would there be a case to answer then? If a private hospital had conducted its business as the NHS has, would heads roll? If a paedophile gang outside state employment had in effect organised a brothel staffed by children in their care as happened in North Wales when I was a boy there, would the Crown Prosecution Service have stayed its hand?

We are not dealing with double standards here. The standard is perfectly consistent. It's a standard that Magna Carta once abolished in Britain by elevating the Rule of Law over the Rule of Men. We benefited from it immensely for centuries as people planned and built their lives secure in the knowledge that the law governed the rulers as well as the ruled. But now the men of power - under the pretence of taking care of us "from the cradle to the grave" have subverted it. The law is now what they or their thugs and cronies say it is. And the proof is that they so rarely face the consequences of their wicked actions.

The social-democratic state is a self-legitimised criminal gang, living parasitically upon honest creators of wealth, whether they are business-people or their employees. If anyone tells you to the contrary, be they leader or led, that only tells you they are a member.

I plan a more gentle run today - a mere 160 miles - followed by a walk in Itasca State Park.

Back in the countryside

Baltimore Oriole in my friends' garden in Chicago

On the road in Wisconsin

Sunset near to journey's end

Almost the last set of lights before my bed for the night

An hotel room with a Superior view

I headed off from Chicago full of an excellent breakfast and with my friends' words of encouragement being drowned out by the roar of Speranza's V8. It had been a welcome break from life in one anonymous hotel room after another and, though I am enjoying all the conversations with total strangers on the road, it was good to meet with friends.

The three rendezvous I had in the city were much helped by the coincidence that the people concerned were in Winnetka, Wilmette and Skokie - all on the same side of Chicago and within a few miles of each other. In a big, sprawling American city, it could have been much more complicated. I met two other former partners of my old law firm in the evening and went out to an excellent steak house in Evanston for dinner. 

Having rested from driving (apart from running around downtown a little) I decided to go for it today. I covered 480 miles in 7 hours and 40 minutes of driving, stopping only to refuel Speranza (twice) and myself (once). So far I have driven 2,860 miles (an average of 286 per day and 318 per driving day).

I am observing the speed limits more strictly than the natives now; graciously affording many young Americans in cars with go-fast stripes the chance to boast about having overtaken a supercar. Nonetheless, State Trooper Manke of Wisconsin decided to pull me over. If I was over the limit at all it was by no more than 2 or 3mph. The real reason to stop me, as he frankly said, was to check out my foreign registration.

Apparently, some less-than-honest Americans put fake foreign plates on their cars to circumvent registration requirements. In five years on the job, Trooper Manke had never encountered a genuine European registered car until today. He was polite throughout - a credit to his uniform - and was very pleasant and friendly once I checked out as clean. Having been warned gently about my rate of progress I stuck strictly to the limit (and was the slowest vehicle on the Interstate in consequence) for the rest of my time in Wisconsin.

This evening (Friday, though as the blog keeps British time the post will be date stamped Saturday) I am staying in Duluth, MN on the shores of the world's largest lake. I can see it from my hotel room window, and very impressive it is. Tomorrow, I will go in search of the source of the Mississipi, for no good reason other than that I fancy the idea.

My Canadian trip companion for the next section of the tour has bagged a Corvette on favourable terms, but unfortunately it's in Atlanta, GA. He's flying there tonight to pick it up and will drive it back to rendezvous with me somewhere along Big Muddy on Sunday.

Bad ass wheels, man!

Architecture Foundation tour guide

Cloud Gate (aka "the Bean") by Anish Kapoor

Under the Bean (spot your blogger)

Young Chicagoans have fun with the Cloud Gate #1

Young Chicagoans have fun with the Cloud Gate #2

Young Chicagoans have fun with the Cloud Gate #3

How could I not love Chicago, when the first Chicagoan to speak to me (the guy collecting the Skyway toll) praised Speranza's beauty, asked politely if he could take her photograph and sent me on my way with the compliment above?

I was lucky in my guide to the city. My host, whom I first met when we and our wives lived and worked in Poland, knows the city well having lived there most of his life. I drove around much of downtown Chicago under his guidance; seeing more in a morning than most tourists ever would. He is a proud alumnus of the University of Chicago and we spent some time driving around its various buildings.

We also took the Chicago Architecture Foundation boat tour. My host is a trustee and glossed the official guide’s commentary as I took hundreds of photographs.

It’s a magnificent city. Not only are there impressive buildings in interesting contextual relationships, but the spaces between them are better arranged and managed than in most places. Not only the public parks, the sculptures and monuments, but also the relationship between the city and the enormous lake on whose shore it lives. Chicago embraces Lake Michigan and Lakeshore Drive allows residents and visitors to admire both the lake and its city.

I loved Cloud Gate, the 100 ton sculpture by Anish Kapoor in the Millennium Park. So does everyone else. I have never seen a public sculpture with which people so loved to engage. The whole point of it seems to be that you see in it the city in which it stands and the people relating to it. Once you have taken it in, you stop seeing it and start seeing what it reflects.

In the evening I had coffee with one old friend and dinner with two others, one of whom is here to hire a Corvette and follow me on the Great River Road section of my journey.