With a lot to see on Wednesday, we got an early start. The Illinois statehouse was the first stop. Of all the statehouses we’ve visited, which is well over half of them, we found Illinois’ to be among the most beautiful both inside and out.
Our tour guide was a rotund woman missing two prominent front teeth. The school group she was expecting was late, so Emily and I ended up getting a private tour with her. As we walked from room to room, she was very friendly and curious about the way things worked at the Maryland statehouse. Whenever we got to a point of interest, though, she slipped into tour guide mode and ran through a clearly memorized spiel as though she were talking to a large group. She also talked really quickly, so we didn’t end up spending a ton of time inside.
The place was bustling, though. Among other things, the Chicago Teachers Union had some sort of event that day and has bussed in parents, teachers, and students who were all wearing matching t-shirts. I used to work in the Chicago Public Schools, and I know there have been some controversial school closings there, but it made me feel bad that I hadn’t kept myself better informed about what was happening with them. Then again I’m not really up on what’s been happening with the Boston Public Schools either, and my work with them was much more recent and involved.
With the time we saved on the tour, we visited a preserved/restored block of homes on which Lincoln lived during his time in Springfield. We didn’t actually go into his home, but the neighborhood had a cool feel to it – it really did feel like we were stepping back in time.
We hit the road and soon found ourselves driving into high winds and heavy cloud cover. It never actually rained, but it made what would otherwise have been an utterly flat and effortless drive into a bit of an ordeal because the car was really getting buffeted. Unable to find a rest stop for our picnic lunch, we finally stopped in a park-and-ride adjacent to a grain elevator, which is just about the only scenery there is along the road in central Illinois. It was so windy that we ended up eating in the car, though. Later, at a gas station, we saw a camera crew following around a couple of guys in a Storm Chaser van.
Just over the Mississippi river, which also serves as the boundary between Illinois and Missouri, is Hannibal, hometown of Mark Twain. We stopped for gas – we’d been holding out because Missouri’s prices are lower than Illinois’ – and as I pumped it, a large woman with a large truck welcomed me to Missouri (our car has Massachusetts plates, not that it would be hard to identify us as not-from-around-here). She was very friendly and assured me that Missouri was a beautiful state with a lot to see and do, and also that we’d made a wise decision to hold out for gas. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that we’d be here for only a single night. It did make me wish that chatting at the gas station were more commonplace, because it seems like an obvious time when several people are standing around without very much to occupy themselves.
If you didn’t know that Hannibal were the hometown of Mark Twain, you’d learn quickly. It clings to that fact like stink to a mule, and driving through the dilapidated downtown we passed the Twain Hotel, the Twain Diner, etc. All of it was gaudy and exploitative, and most of it was closed, so we didn’t linger long.
Our next stop was prompted by a well-reviewed coffee shop, but it turns out that Chillicothe, Missouri has an interesting claim to fame:
Podcast listeners may recall that I’m nominally a vegetarian, but I do make a few exceptions. Among them is the “Top 5” rule. Whenever someone is pushing some sort of meat on me, I ask them if it’s one of the top five examples of that sort of meat I’m likely to encounter. If it is, I’ll usually try it. For example, I sampled the jamón in Madrid (not impressed) and the bacon in Canada (I like American better). Where I’m going with this is that we stopped at a barbeque place in Excelsior Springs, Missouri, and I tried a bite of Emily’s pulled pork. Then I got a half-pound of it to go. Sorry, pigs.
Wabash BBQ provided local flavor in more ways than one. We parked next to a bona fide monster truck in the parking lot, and every single party in the restaurant was a candidate for ownership, though a middle-aged couple in sleeveless plaid shirts were the frontrunners. The waitress carded me, and upon seeing my Maryland ID, asked “What brings you all the way out here?”
Rather than bore her with a long and not very interesting story, I just said, “We came for the barbecue!”
She laughed but returned about fifteen minutes later and asked, “But really, what are you doing out here?” We told her that we were on a road trip and destined for Las Vegas. I never know if or how to mention poker – I worry about coming off as braggadocios if I’m too quick to drop that info, so instead I sort of steer the conversation that way and let people ask if they’re really curious. This woman wasn’t, though she seemed a little put-off at what I guess seemed to her like evasive answers.
After dinner, it was a short drive to Watkins Mill State Park, a surprisingly well-maintained and -funded campground on the site of an old mill. The host who checked us in asked where we were from.
After a pause – it’s a surprisingly complicated answer – Emily told him “Originally from Baltimore.”
“Originally?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yep,” I told him. Then I gave him a Massachusetts license plate number and a Pittsburgh address. He, too, seemed a little perturbed that we weren’t answering the question he was really asking, but it’s just such a long and confusing story. But maybe small-town Missourians are a little more willing to listen to someone else’s long-winded story than the people I’m used to interacting with.
Isnt Missouri the “show me” state? Maybe thats why they didnt take your answers so easily.