trvlgs

Cleveland was as unattractive as it was the last time I visited, but it’s more pitiful than anything else. Cleveland is Theodore Roosevelt towards the end of his life when he wakes up in a sweat and realizes that it was a sham, all of it, every single moment. The Rock ‘N’ Roll Hall of Fame isn’t worth it. Jacobs Field is now called Progressive Field but the Indians are still called the Indians. I get the same feeling leaving Cleveland as I do leaving a Wal-Mart.

The Cleveland Greyhound terminal, though, seems a perfect replica of an old train station, with everything but the necessary clock. It’s all shades of brown. There are rows of lights hanging from the high, high ceiling, but none of them are turned on: the sun pours in from every window like an abandoned cathedral with the stained glass all smashed out.