If you compare the geography of Ohio to Oregon, there's no contest. Mountains? Oregon 1, Ohio zip. Ocean beaches? Oregon 2, Ohio zip. High plains? Dense forrests? Lush vineyards and orchards? Spectacular canyons? Cosmopolitan cities? It goes on and on. Sure, Ohio is a fine, solid, American state, but it just can't compare. The ribbing I'd give my Buckeye-state-friends was never-ending.

But Ohio taught me that friendship can make you do some crazy things. Like buying tickets on Amtrak to Ohio sort of crazy. In Winter, even, when the state would likely be snowy and frozen, and the days short so that even the trip East would have little scenery to view.

Sure enough, my ribbing was right on the mark. Once my feet hit its soil, I could see that Ohio was different from Oregon in almost every conceivable way. What came as a surprise, though, was that this didn't bore me at all, but did the opposite.

Here was an environment nothing like my own, a place totally new to me, with its own unique history, geography, and culture. Small storefront towns straight out of an Edward Hopper painting. Great steam-belching smokestacks of power-plants that raked the sky. Lonesome streets lined with haunting brick-and-morter decay.

I had stepped into Rustbelt America, and I loved it.  

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