Dear readers, best wishes. All the best for whatever everyday life demands of you, or you of it. The chronicler is back in the Greyhound, gently rocking and enjoying the sun, the fresh green early summer landscape, the warmth and the unobstructed view from the window.
Free view in Ohio
His racing bike is in the cellar, nicely anchored with a new rubber tensioner from the Shoulder of Highway No. 119. The old one had been round the world once and had simply worn out. Quincy, the rider, is not interested in a luggage ticket or a box. He is black, endearing and the condition of his front teeth matches that of the company. His greeting and recitation of the rules for passengers is more of a chant. Of course, smoking is not allowed in the vehicle. But he also makes a point of not even rolling joints in here because he doesn't want the smell.
The chronicler has to change trains in Toledo to arrive in South Bend in the evening. His starting point for the next big city conquest: Chicago, for which he has to crank almost 150 kilometres the following day.
He is reporting live again today. Pittsburgh has been very kind to him. He leaves the beautiful room with melancholy. This time he even has real cutlery for breakfast and a lightning survey with Daniel.
Daniel from North Carolina, on his way to a training programme at his company, 5-0-95.
Too bad he's in such a hurry. At this point, the chronicler says goodbye to the pictures and instead tries to portray the other person as well as possible and also tries to find out more than just the three numbers. Otherwise it will be boring for you and him. If you have any other requests, let me know.
Pittsburgh still has a real greyhound station with real gates from which you can get to the respective vehicle. Only Philadelphia was that horrible. All the other stops had earned their names, from small houses in small towns to halls from better days.
Greyhound station Cleveland + Quincy as driver; something has to happen here: the toilets are an imposition, the standard clocks on the walls each show a different time, the paint falls in large flakes from the ceiling of the terminal
Someone in the upper echelons of the company has no desire, no idea and perhaps no money. In any case, the staff on site do their best, are friendly and try to keep things running smoothly.
With the Cleveland stop, the chronicler is almost in Canada. The city is located on Lake Erie, which for the chronicler is forever associated with John Maynard. At least he was somehow still able to follow this poem at school. Which he failed to do to the point of utter despair with "Spring lets its blue ribbon..."(Poem by Eduard Mörike).
Quincy drives on in Toledo without him, but not without his best wishes. Because there is still an hour left until the connecting bus and because he has his racing bike with him, the chronicler uses Google Maps to guide him into the city centre. And is surprised by a clean city, bursting with modernity and respect for tradition.
Once Toledooledo
Toledooledo was probably traditionally a centre of glass production. The chronicler does not know what is happening now, but a lot of money is visibly being earned and invested in good roads, bright, smooth footpaths and cycle paths, parks, museums and a symphony orchestra. What he misses: the city is somehow deserted. Where are all the 300,000 inhabitants?
The bus station is part of the Amtrak railway station, whose ticket office is only open at night and which only has one track still in operation...! Waiting with him are a black couple, a black woman and a white woman who has brought her son here. What they have in common, and this has shocked the chronicler again and again in recent days, is the complete loss of many people's own figure. They are nothing more than containers, held together with great effort by their skin, filled with the remodelling and decomposition products of excess food. He knows why, because he can observe the use of food everywhere. The UN has a world food programme because malnutrition is life-threatening. Perhaps it will one day be necessary to draw up a separate nutrition programme for the USA. The chronicler can imagine that the type of diet commonly used here is no less life-threatening ;-)
The second surprise is the black female driver of the connecting bus, who is also heavily overweight, and who verbally pummels him for not having registered the bike. And they wouldn't transport bikes anyway. The chronicler has to pay twenty dollars extra, actually twenty-two, but he doesn't get a receipt. She takes him listlessly but safely to the next state, Indiana.
Rory sits next to the chronicler. It takes him a while to get going. But then he's glad he did. Rory is on his way to Chicago. There he will be a judge for a high school competition in spontaneous acting, writing and presenting short speeches and similar tasks. He decides in favour of 12.5-12.5-75. Why? Yes, he has no idea about politics, but as an Irish Catholic he is sure of Jesus. Yes, he is going to vote in September.
Rory, twenty-one
Apart from the stopovers by bus, the chronicler skipped Ohio. But that doesn't matter. Now he's in Indiana, at the starting point of South Bend and back in the lap of luxury. A luxury that the receptionist has thoughtfully provided for him with a few words of German and an unbeatable discount. He still can't believe it and almost fears the inevitable crash. Things can't go on like this. Fifth floor, modern, view of the city from the bed, another very clean, modern city and a city without a crowd.
South Bend, also deserted; perhaps everyone is in Indianapolis for the 108th Indy 500 and the flagger is also just setting off
Not only does the receptionist find him a nice room, she also sends him to a bar that he would never have found or visited from the outside. He is well looked after with stew soup, salad and IPA. The latter a strange tasting type of beer. A mixture of fruity and quite bitter.
Nicki, the waitress, gives him 40-40-20 and believes that her heart's desire, respect for all LGBT people, is best left in the hands of Mr Biden.
Nicki from the Oysterbar
Until tomorrow, maybe the day after tomorrow, because tomorrow the chronicler is lucky enough to be back in familiar hands. He is spending the night in Chicago with the sister-in-law of an old friend. And she has announced a programme that may prevent him from reporting afterwards.
PS He writes these last lines in bed. His two-piece travel memo on the duvet. The iPhone is on the Holy Bible. Otherwise it would fall over in the soft fabric. He would also have liked to use "The Book of Mormon" for a change, but it doesn't work with its flexible spine. It probably makes no difference to the content.
