Писатель совершил однодневное путешествие из Кливленда в Буффало, посетив завод свистулек и отель-призрак

Cleveland is a city in the U.S. state of Ohio and is the county seat of Cuyahoga County, the most populous county in the state Cleveland Skyline reflecting on the Cuyahoga River. Photo / Getty Images Travel writer Ash Jurberg takes himself on a solo road trip from Cleveland to Buffalo, embracing everything from kazoo factories to haunted hotels. “Can I pray for you?” I am standing in a small shop in Madison, Ohio, at seven in the morning, and I do not know howto answer. Behind the counter, the woman who has just made my coffee is waiting. Three customers who were sitting alone have drifted over. When I walked in and asked for a coffee, the whole room turned like I was a visiting dignitary. Someone asks what brings me to their town, and then they all want to know why here and why alone. For 10 minutes I am the most interesting man in Madison, Ohio. Then she asks her question and we are holding hands in a circle. We close our eyes and she prays for my journey and my family back home. A barista has never prayed over me. I am part way into a solo road trip from Cleveland to Buffalo. My wife Cece is American and always drives when we are in the United States. This time she looked at my itinerary and declined. So here I am, stressed and driving on the wrong side of the road through small-town Ohio, hoping to reach New York state intact. The nerves begin in Cleveland, before I even start driving. On my first night, rather than sit alone in my hotel room, I find a listing for the Cleveland Public Theatre. Once a month local writers bring 10 minutes of a screenplay and audience members read the parts aloud on stage. I did some acting at university, realised I was no good and stopped. At home I would never do this. But nobody in Cleveland knows me, and so I can’t be embarrassed. Can I? They hand me a part in the first reading of the night. Before we read a line, the writer explains that the scene was written for someone considerably younger than me. I drop my script on the floor and walk off in fake disgust. The room erupts. Thirty years too late, a star is born. There is free wine and beer, which helps. By the end of the night, I have spoken to nearly everyone in the room. Cleveland, someone mentions, has the second largest theatre district in the country. Good thing I did not know that walking in, or I would have stayed in my hotel room. I leave Cleveland in the dark, before a single coffee shop has opened, and drive an hour through rain. Every intersection is a test of nerves. I know which side of the road I belong on, and my hands keep proposing the other one. By the time Madison appears, warm and lit and full of people who want to pray for me, I am ready to be adopted. The route east crosses into Pennsylvania and then small Amish towns, where the road signs carry little silhouettes of men in hats driving buggies. I pull over to photograph one. It is the first traffic sign I have ever wanted to keep. Next, I stop in Eden at the only kazoo factory in North America and make a kazoo (a small musical instrument that adds a buzzing quality to the player’s humming). I finish it with no skill but plenty of confidence. It produces a sound my family will come to resent. In Buffalo, I’m staying at the Richardson, a grand building that spent its first century as an asylum. That night the Sabres are playing Montreal in the playoffs, Buffalo’s first postseason in 14 years. I head to a women’s roller derby match instead. My accent works its magic again. Staff hear me speak and set aside a couch in the front row, just for me, in full view of the crowd. It’s like the Friends couch but I have no friends. I try to recruit strangers to join me. Nobody does. The game is fast and loud and I cheer when the people around me do. The announcer welcomes me over the microphone. Afterwards, the players wave me in for the team photo, then ask where I am staying. I tell them the Richardson. “Oh,” one says, “the haunted place”. Despite the look on my face, they begin telling me the stories they’ve heard from past guests. I do not believe in ghosts. I also do not sleep. Every creak of that old building is a former patient coming to say hello, and I lie there rigid until the sun comes up. I make it home to Cece in one piece, full of stories she pretends not to regret missing. I would like to think the roller derby players were wrong about the ghosts.