Day: Twenty-four
Location: The Hotel Clemens, Hannibal, Missouri
Mileage: 3573.2

Yesterday was another classic Blue Highways day, and how appropriate since I am in the home state of William Least Heat-Moon, who inspires this blog and my life. He’s just south and west of me in Columbia, so if you’re reading this William, thanks for everything, and keep writing.

I brought up U2’s “Heartland” for inspiration then crossed the Mississippi in Memphis and turned north to pick up US 63 in Arkansas. The road was almost empty, and I was surprised as I went through Jonesboro in mid-morning and saw virtually no one else on the road or on the street. I stopped for breakfast and gas in Hardy, and it turned out to be a good layover. I thought I had found a good diner at the Corner Booth Cafe because there were all kinds of things hanging on the walls, but as I looked more closely, I didn’t see any calendars at all, and the meal was accordingly below average. Pulling out of the parking lot, I saw a small bookstore called Words, and attached to it was a coffee-shop called Afterwords that advertised a wireless hot spot. I stepped in and walked right into a writers’ group reading their works aloud while the other patrons ate their sandwiches and drank their coffee. I admired these folks, and some of them were quite animated in their reading. I perched myself at the bar and opened up the MacBook to get online. The owner saw me and struck up a conversation. It began typically enough: “Just passing through?” “Yep, on my way to California from Boston.” He had worked in New Jersey and Pennsylvania but decided he had to come back to Hardy (population 578) because that’s where his roots were. I wanted to ask him to define home for me, but I thought it was unfair to inflict a question like that on an unsuspecting and nice guy in front of his employees, so I didn’t. The staff was nice, but the connection was weak, so I did what I could on email then headed out. One of the writers stared at me as I left, and I gave her a big smile that I hope conveyed “Keep writing.”

Route 19 was all that I had hoped and more. I picked it up just over the Missouri line and took it all the way to Hannibal and the Illinois line. It’s not that usual to take a blue highway from beginning to end, but this road was exceptional. It winds its way through the Ozarks and into the cornfields, and the towns are small and beautiful. It also crosses a number of rivers, including the redundantly named Current. I would put Missouri Route 19 among the greatest drives I know in the US.

Mark Twain’s ghost followed me all the way to Hannibal, and I drove in with high hopes for his home town. Somehow I caught only the ugly parts though and got all snooty about the tourism. I passed the Hotel Clemens across from the Mark Twain Dinette and turned up my nose and headed out to the motels by the main drag. I asked Penelope to find one for me, and she picked a Best Western Inn, so I followed her directions. Before long, I realized that she was taking me back to the Hotel Clemens, so I deferred to her wisdom and pulled in. When I entered the lobby, I was almost overcome with the smell of chlorine from the indoor pool, and a bird in a cage behind the desk squawked irritably. The room was $55 and included Internet, so I didn’t argue and resigned myself to the place. When I opened the door to the room, I smiled. I was looking out over that river again, and she was as gorgeous as ever. I threw my things down and headed out to explore the town.

Just across the road is the River Walk, and I ran up the steps to the bluffs, taking photos here and there along the way. Then there was another set of steps, and I didn’t run. A few people were milling about, and we spoke quiet hellos as we passed. The views were stunning, and I now understood Twain’s references to caves and such because Hannibal, like Memphis, is on bluffs overlooking the river. What a gorgeous place! I call St. Judy of Ohio, and she listens patiently while I describe it to her. I read her the signs about Tom Sawyer, and Becky Thatcher, and I am happy at dusk at the river again. I walk through the town in the late night and think about checking out a bar. There are three: one looks a little too exciting for me, one looks too boring, and one is a sports bar, which isn’t a bar at all, so I pass. Besides, I don’t want a conversation to interrupt the one I am having with this lovely town.

This morning at the Mark Twain Dinette, I learn that the waitress had a grandchild last night, the man by the window lost his friend to cancer (“It ran in his family”), and that the woman thinks the dinette is cold because she says it twice, and both times her husband grunts. My waitress sees my atlas and asks The Question and I give her The Answer. She smiles and heads off. I need to head off too. I feel California pulling at me, so I think I’m through with north. I will point Penelope west through Missouri and Kansas today. I am heading toward home.