Probert's journey: From Ohio to Illinois

So where was I?

Oh yes, motels.

So there I was on Interstate 90, somewhere in the middle of Ohio. It was late. I was tired and as if by magic there appeared a sign saying there was lodging at the next exit. (I wish this column came with dramatic sound effects, because those sentences really need sound effects. Something with violins or cellos. Cellos are a very under appreciated instrument.)

This trip proved something I've long suspected about motels.

They're all the same.

Sure, there are some newer motels where the modern furniture is shiny and you can almost trick yourself into thinking that it's not a motel.

But really it's the same motel. It has the same four towels, three washcloths, three pre-packaged slivers of soap as any other motel. The television plays HBO slightly out of focus and the bed is stuffed with an unidentified rock.

What I wasn't expecting was the price. Now, I could have haggled. I could have hunted around for a better price. But the last thing I want to do when I'm tired is hunt for a bargain.

But, I gave them their pound of flesh and I got my bed, four towels, three washcloths, three pre-packaged slivers of soap and watched a blurry HBO until I fell asleep.

(I think I need bassoons here. Bassoons are cool.)

Anyway, so I started the next day somewhere near Sandusky, Ohio. This time I had hot coffee, a fresh pack of cigarettes and started driving again.

The funny thing about Ohio is it was longer than I expected. In fact, just when I thought Ohio was done with, I'd see another road sign telling me I was still in Ohio. (Cue trilling flutes.)

I passed Toledo. And I thought I was out.

But I wasn't.

I kept driving.

I was still in Ohio.

I even passed the last tollbooth in Ohio and I thought I was out. But I was still there.

I started wondering if I had somehow left the road and took a right-hand turn into … The Twilight Zone.

Yeah. There was a lot of setup for a really bad joke.

I did eventually exit the state. Now, I promise I won't spend a lot of time on Indiana because the state is boring to drive through. Unless you like corn, or stop at the RV Hall of Fame.

Yes, there is an RV Hall of Fame. I don't even have anything to say about it. Other than … wow.

Then I got to Chicago. (Trumpets here or even better, French horns. It would be much better with a soundtrack.)

Now there were two places I feared on this trip. The first was Montana. Montana took on a mythical aspect. It was the "your car will never make it through this" state. Some kind of mystical hinterland which was bound and determined to kill my car.

Chicago was the other one. It was a blight on the center of my trip. A dark hole threatening to pull me in, leaving me standing on the side of the road with my hood up, staring at the shuddering insides of my car.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of hyperbole.

Things were looking good when I crossed the bridge into the city. The traffic was good. I didn't manage to exit into the heart of darkness. I didn't hit any trucks, and there weren't any pedestrians.

Life was good. I was going to escape Chicago without incident.

Big money, no whammies. Big money, no whammies.

Wah-wah-waaaaah. Traffic jam. (Cue mysterious music here.)

Cameron Probert is the Columbia Basin Herald county reporter. His mythical journey through our country from Maryland to Moses Lake is sure to continue with his next turn, but the only soundtrack will remain muted within parentheses.