Checking in at the same aging Holiday Inn on I-70 is always my signal that we’re entering the Midwest. Smoking. Beefed up menus. And the nicest possible people. Where else would a waitress at the hotel bar say, “Weren’t you here a few months ago? And didn’t you order quesadillas then too?” And when Jim made a complaint about not having a chair in the room, we got immediately moved down the hall to a room with a couch and a microwave and refrigerator.
We’re at the outset of a 3-week road trip West. I’ll be glad when we leave interstates. Corn fields can’t possibly be as boring as asphalt.