There are few places finer to sleep than a wigwam. Especially if that wigwam is owned by real Indians. From Mumbai.

"Ain't there any places owned by AMERICANS?" says the fat, elderly woman with the skinny husband who just got the keys to a wigwam two away from ours. Moments before she brandished a washcloth. "One washcloth! How can you shower with just one washcloth! These people! The son, now he speaks English, but the mother - she doesn't speak any English at all! One washcloth!"

The fat woman, who asserts she isn't prejudiced, isn't alone. A nearby hotel advertises "Free HBO - American Owned!"

Maybe a single washcloth in a double room is a hotelier felony, but maintaining and running a 70-year-old motor hotel where all the rooms are teepees is a fantastic undertaking.

We're in Cave City, Kentucky, a town consisting entirely of motels, tourist attractions and rock shops dependent on visitors to nearby Mammoth Cave. In the two miles between Wigwam Village #2 and Mammoth Cave, a visitor can visit Dinosaur World, golf at one of four miniature golf courses, ride an alpine slide or two tramways, get an old-time photo, buy a knife or a Confederate flag or a bucket of sand from "a real jem mine". It may be the single kitschiest town east of the Mississippi and I love it.

The occupants of the next wigwam are homosexuals from Ohio. There may be other homosexuals in Ohio, although I've never met any. Over ice cream Greg (not his real name, or maybe it is) told us he'd wanted to stay in the wigwam motel since he was a child. These gays become our stalkers and follow us the next day as we tour Mammoth Cave, the largest cave system in the world and perhaps the only one with an in-cave cafeteria and bathrooms 260 feet underground.

We have a very enjoyable dinner that evening with the Ohiosexuals, Jim is a professor of art history and Greg is a computer programmer. They explain Ohio is key to the presidential election, which reminds me that I neglected to request a absentee ballot before leaving home.

Our next stop is St. Louis, where we are scheduled to spend a single day before heading to Chicago. The Smart, however, has other plans. As we leave Kentucky, the trip odometer stops working. Then the radio quits, followed shortly thereafter by the air conditioning. I begin to worry. We're shortly to turn westward - where there are no Smart dealers and I'd prefer not to be flagging down truckers who may require more than "thanks for the ride."

I'm already in a mood when we pull over at Stoll's Authentic Amish Buffet for lunch. What could be better than Amish food to lift our spirits?

The dining room of Stoll's is carefully placed to prevent any previews from the lobby. Guests are well on their way to a table before being able to notice the buffet is pedestrian and the other guests are not. It's the only place I've ever eaten with more space for Hoverounds than chairs. Muzak muffles the requests of the other diners to have their food strained or pureed and the lone waitress seems to expect tips that make noise. I've never seen an Amish person, so I peer through kitchen door. The kitchen is empty. I'm starting to suspect Amish is actually spelled S-Y-S-C-O when I ask the hostess: "Do any Amish people work in the kitchen?"

"Well no," she replies, "The owner's grandfather was Amish and we use his recipe."

We limp into St. Louis and I deliver the Smart to the dealership. There it will remain for three days having electronics replaced, the windshield resealed, water drained from the frame and the upholstery cleaned.

Five years ago I visited St. Louis and wasn't complimentary. I've changed my mind. St. Louis is not only a beautiful city, it contains some amazing bits I've missed before. First, and most useful, is the laundromat where a wash costs $2.75 and the dryers are free (free!). Second is the City Museum - a museum where everything is made from recycled materials and which contains the most amazing jungle gym you'll ever see. Add to these the resurrection of the downtown area where beautiful lofts can be had for as little as $80K, art galleries filled with the work of exceptionally talented artists, and a movie theater with leather couches for seating and martinis to go with the film.

Of course, St. Louis is also a place where I overhead, at least twice, businessmen say to each other: "I'll have to review that Biblical passage."

With the Smart ForTwo fixed and pronounced safe for cross-country travel, Burqa Boy and I headed north to Chicago. Along the way we stopped in lovely Lincoln, Illinois, home to the World's Largest Abe Lincoln on a Wagon (Does anyone know where the other contenders are?), the Russell Stover factory outlet store (where I noted the Christmas candy was already out and Burqa Boy replied it had been since last year), and a Bonanza restaurant with a needle-point sampler over the urinal asking "Where will you spend eternity?"

I won't attempt to describe Chicago. It's a beautiful city that everyone should see during a lifetime. Just leave your children at home. Children are dreadful.

Tomorrow we go west, young man. West to Des Moines. West to Orange City. Orange City? Oh yeah.

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