Cincinnati Motels

The car is a jumble of moldy roadmaps, plastic cups, hairbraids, junkfood bags, and spare pennies. We've just visited Cincinnati. To our disappointment, the Queen City was not a mecca for the kind of motels we love to visit. Too many square plastic signs - or not enough time to find what we were looking for. Either way, after a day taking Vienna to the museum (with its superb World War Two exhibit), Jenny and I felt fortunate to find even two sites. The first is the Green Gables - a strange burst of hyperhistory built in 1949. The buildings surround a square of neatly manicured grass - each is edged with green neon strips. As soon as I step into the office, the manager barks a "Can I help you?" with a tone slightly louder than friendly. He's not too impressed with where we've parked. I ask about the residents. No names, of course, but "we've got a guy who's been here for two years." Down the road, a squad car fills the night with red and blue flashing lights.

Miami Motel

Almost outside of town, we visit the Village of Cleves and the Miami Motel. Resting just off U.S. 50, the Miami is a site of stark beauty. Flat green squares in irregular patterns surround the windows. Atop the rooms stand roofs that climb like ziggurat steps. Crisscrossing power lines connect the building to a tree-lined road under a mostly cloudless sky. It is dusk and the shadows are disappearing. A woman brings a small bag of food to the occupant of room number three. They speak in the hushed tones of neighborly collegiality. It's a three hour drive home.

Many months later . . . Some guy emailed me, saying we missed the good motels of Cincinnati, that we'd find them in northern Kentucky. But, for the life of me, we didn't find them - except for the DenLou Motel. Vienna holds an umbrella over Jenny's head, so she can shoot the sign. In the office, I spy two signs: "it's my way or the highway" and "no parties, no exceptions." The only thing glowing in this drizzly evening is a bright red neon "no." The manager informs me that the rest of the sign worked until about three months ago when some kids threw rocks at it. The original owners, Denny and Louise, built this motel in 1956. This is one of those U shaped motels in which all the cars in the parking lot lack hubcaps. Like many old motels, this one rents to weeklies and months. Tourists on their ways to the bright lights of the queen city probably don't rent here anymore.

Greenwood Motel

At the end of March, a stinging chill continues to sweep out of the Ohio River. Just a few weeks ago, the waters covered many of the streets and some of the buildings in this area. We've pulled into Ripley, Ohio, about an hour out of the way from of our trip back to Athens. Lining the outer doors of the Greenwood Motel are metal and rocking chairs, and lots of plastic seats. Next to the road, a flagpole shakes violently against the gusting wind. The folks here, chatting amiably in the parking lot, are more like neighbors than temporary residents. Indeed, the motel is a buzz of activity, with pickup trucks entering and leaving every few minutes.

Further down on U.S. 52 in Aberdeen is Brown's Motel, where long awnings hang over the doors and windows. We park next to a square of tall green grass and tattered welcome mats. It looks like a great setting for a miniature golf course. Behind me, a screen door, straining against its spring, whips against the wall. The lights which separate the rooms bring to bumpy surface of the stone walls to sharp relief. Walking next to the rooms, I smell something that reminds me of the last time I visited my grandmother's house. Three men, with dress shirts hanging over their pants, play cards in room thirty-six. The office splits the complex into two halves - bells tinkle upon my entrance. The grey-haired manager marches through the door marked 'private,' smelling distinctly of ivory soap - she has little to say and is apparently relieved upon my exit.

Sarps Motel

Across the street, we visit Sarps Motel, its wind-chimes chirping in the breeze. A sign on the door reads: "Gone over in Maysville. Will be back in a while. Thanks, Betty." A frog, which was once the color of jade, guards the office. The doormat reads: "One nice person. One old grouch." Heading out on 52, we pass nuclear power plants and chemical processing facilities. Jenny chides my desire to classify the various complexes we pass. How would I know what a chemical processing plant looks like, anyway? They could be amphibian processing plants, given the number of frogs that make fatal hops across the road on this rainy night. We make up a naming game in which we compose titles for these sites from three words: an industry (like poultry, uranium, fuel, or nuclear), a production verb (like processing, distilling, isolating, or extraction), and finally a place noun (like plant, facility, complex, or factory). We pull into Portsmouth, Ohio at around eleven o'clock - lots of plastic, but little neon. However, if you're not too particular, the city is worth a drive just to see the Echo Cleaners. For us, it's time to head home.

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