OBERLIN, Ohio, Sept. 30-Instead of accelerating past the traffic light like the dozens of cars before it, the minivan puts on its hazards and ambles to a stop. In a moment of disbelief and elation the three of us jump in the air, withdraw our thumbs into fists of celebration and run down the road to our sliding door of freedom."I'm only going down the road about 15 miles to Wellington," the driver says. "But I'm happy to take you that far."

With that, we leave our comfort zone of Oberlin College, and head south into the heart of Ohio.

Max and I have discussed hitchhiking together throughout our five-year friendship, but not until today have we actually followed through on this particular daydream. The plan was hatched shortly after I arrived from Brandeis for the long weekend, when Max and I talked about our narrow view of Ohio. Before transferring, I went to college in the south of the state for a year, and Max has attended Oberlin for two-plus semesters, but our collective knowledge of Ohio was just a string of useless facts: it's the birthplace of Alcoholics Anonymous, the death place of Pretty Boy Floyd and home to the world's shortest street and largest basket-shaped building. But as far as knowing the landscape and understanding the people, we were largely ignorant.

After persuading Max's friend, Helen, to come along, the three of us, dressed in flannel and corduroy and with long dirty hair in our eyes, walked off the college campus toward the highway. The only plan that made sense was to head south and visit my old school, Kenyon College, and take in as much of the state as we could along the way.

Geographically and culturally, Ohio is a strange place. It is most often considered part of the Midwest, but its characteristics transcend regional stereotypes. By bordering Michigan and Kentucky, Ohio is both a northern and southern state; it is a place where both "eh?" and "y'all" are appropriate colloquialisms. As one of the first places settlers traveled to during the American



westward expansion, Ohio is speckled by various traces of New England. Even the prairie-like farmland of Ohio is complicated and cannot be thought of as strictly "Midwestern": Unlike in the Great Plains states, the fields of Ohio were manufactured. It used to be said that a squirrel could cross the state from treetop to treetop without ever touching the ground. To travel Ohio, to a degree, is to travel the United States.

Christian, the first driver to pick us up, with his lightly stubbled face, narrow frame and big youthful eyes, looks like just another college student. His minivan, filled with small pink sweaters, dainty shoes and a baby doll, seems to indicate otherwise.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to stop at my house real quick to take a shower," he says, rubbing at his paint-speckled pants. "If you can wait, my friend will take you further down the road."

We accept the offer gratefully and gaze out the window at a town only a few miles, but worlds apart, from Oberlin. Wellington is filled with old colonial houses and looks liked it could be located next to Concord, Mass, my hometown.Wellington is a town of creaky stairs and attics with hidden corridors.

Once in Christian's house, we take off our shoes, our emergency money stuck to our sweaty soles. When we see the first of many affirmations on the wall-"Let all that ye do be done in love: 1 Corinthians 16:14"-our faces flush slightly at the thought of hiding our money from the man who let us into his religious home. As if expecting us, Christian's wife, Debbie, a prettier and pregnant version of Sarah Plain and Tall, greets us at the door and offers us a seat and a drink in the living room.

"All we really have to drink here is apple juice," she says with a laugh, pointing to two children clutching her legs. We talk to Debbie about her home in Montana, where she lived until moving to Ohio to marry Christian. Before we really can take in the whole scene-the smell of old wood, the colorful crayon drawings of a squiggly Jesus walking on water, the pleated apron hanging from a peg in the kitchen-Christian is out of the shower and we are back on the road in his friend Joe's car.

Joe takes us to an intersection and lets us out. When we thank him profusely, he refuses to takcredit for his good deed.

He hands us a pamphlet about how, with prayer, we can protect ourselves from disasters like the 2004 tsunami in the Indian Ocean.

Suddenly, the suburban town of Wellington feels just as far away as Oberlin. Instead of colonial houses, old stalks of corn surround us, and the road halving the fields is the only part in this yellow sea. I have taken to watching the thousands of grasshoppers on the side of the road. They catapult into the air with only vague ideas of where they'll end up. As if unprepared for the landing, they tumble across the pavement, only to eventually find their feet and do it over again. I wonder if despite such erratic leaps they find their ways home by the end of the night.

I am so caught up in this reverie that I hardly notice that an old green pickup has pulled over to the side of the road.

"You picked a nice day to be doing this," says a elderly man as he adjusts his mesh cap to fully cover his few wisps of hair. "I can give you a lift to the Ashland exit on the freeway if you can squeeze in." He has a slight Southern accent, but sounds like he grows corn, not cotton.

"I saw you guys walking about 20 minutes ago when I went to town to get gas," he says as we pile into his front seat. "I figured you guys could use a lift."

"You travel that far to get gas?" Max asks.

"It's a lot cheaper in town," he says. "I fill up a couple of gas cans and bring them back to my tractors. My tractors are real special to me." As he tells us about his various tractors from every decade since the '40s, his face lights up like a father talking about his college-bound children. "These guys are not for sale," he says with a chuckle.

We pass two Amish men standing beside a horse and buggy selling homemade pies, and suddenly we're at the highway.

We walk quietly to the Route 71 onramp, thinking about our strained relationship with our surroundings. Once at the entrance, we stand for 30 minutes pantomiming various emotions, from desperation to euphoria, in hopes of attracting a ride. Around us are reminders of the corporate takeover of middle America: A monolithic Wal-Mart sits across the highway beside a McDonald's, a Shake 'n' Steak and a Best Western Inn. This rest stop exists solely for the thousands of cars that traverse the highway between Cleveland and Columbus each day.

Most cars completely ignore our existence. One woman stops across the road and asks if we need to borrow her cell phone to call home. Mothers in SUVs mouth the words "I'm sorry" as they speed by. Young couples put their arms up sympathetically and point out how full their car is with junk. A man points to his wife as if to say, "I'd pick you up, but the ol' ball and chain won't let me." A pickup pretends to stop, and speeds up when we approach it. Finally someone stops.

"You guys aren't serial killers are you?" says a young blonde in a new car shaped like a squat bookshelf. "As long as you promise not to kill me, I can give you a ride south."

"We'd be the worst serial killers ever," Max says and we skip merrily to the car and jump in.

In a classic Midwestern accent, the driver introduces herself as MacKenzie, and says, "I don't know why I even got off the highway. I guess you guys are just lucky."

It turns out that MacKenzie doesn't remember much of anything recently. She tells us that she just had a concussion playing field hockey and has severe damage to her short-term memory. We promise to keep reminding her who we are and why we are in her car.

"Just out of curiosity," I say, "why did you decide to pick us up?"

"Because you guys look like me," she says. "Where am I bringing you to, again?"

We tell her again, but it doesn't really matter. She'll only forget in a couple of minutes, and at this point, getting to another college is the last thing on our minds.

Since my memory is intact, I know exactly what I'll find when we get to Kenyon: just another school like Brandeis. Once I get there, I'll be itching to turn around again and stick my thumb out. I'd rather be out in Ohio, out in America where there are cornfields and suburbs, WalMarts and Amish pies. A place filled with Christians, old men who love old automobiles and people with bad short-term memory.