Columbus, OH — The Buckeye Beat

I pulled out of my Harvest Hosts spot in the heart of Amish country around 8:15am. As I reached the road, an Amish farmer crested the hill, guiding four horses and pulling what looked like a very modern hay rake. Behind him, a long line of cars and trucks followed patiently at a crawl. Over the next eight miles, I passed at least a dozen buggies going in both directions, all carrying women and children. I figured the men were working the fields while the others made supply runs into town.

Instead of taking the interstate to Columbus, I opted for the back roads. It added nearly an hour, but the reward was a peaceful, rolling drive through small towns that seemed to operate on their own timeline. One place had a BP station where buggies and pickups shared the lot. A few men in straw hats sat on a bench, chatting like it was the town square. The horses weren’t even tied up—just waiting patiently. The station seemed to double as the local grocery and social hub.

A little farther down, I passed through another town—quieter, with more rusted machinery sitting in open lots and fewer people out. One strange house had a yard full of parts, tools, and forgotten bits, as if the story behind it had been lost to time or intentionally left untold.

I passed through a small town, it seemed like the county seat, not much there but a main intersection. I was stopped beside the court house for a few minutes while a large rig negotiated a left turn in heavy traffic. I was just impressed by the architecture of this building.

Out in the countryside, the homes thinned out. I'd go miles without seeing anything, then suddenly pass a sprawling estate with five garages and a perfect lawn. It looked like someone’s countryside escape from city life. One moment stuck with me: a lone, bright white barn glowing in the afternoon light, so pristine and isolated it almost looked Photoshopped.

As I reached Columbus, the shift was immediate—more traffic, newer cars, people in business clothes, and the buzz of a midweek city. I passed Ohio State University’s hospital and found a shady spot just three blocks from the Statehouse, next to the Firefighters and Police Memorial Park. Parking was 85 cents an hour—a welcome surprise. The moment I stepped out, my Starlink dropped out, I was parked under a large tree. A not-so-subtle nudge from the universe to unplug.

Ohio Statehouse Grounds

The Ohio Statehouse is surprisingly modest for a capitol building. No towering dome—just a low, round cylinder rising from a square structure grounded in Greek simplicity. The Doric columns and clean lines made it feel strong and intentional. The grounds were perfectly manicured, and the air smelled faintly of summer blooms.

As I wandered the lawn, I stumbled into a loud public worship service hosted by the Center for Christian Virtue. A preacher was shouting scripture through huge speakers, his voice bouncing off the stone buildings, while a hundred-person choir sang backup. Everyone wore plain, modest clothes—it looked like a choreographed scene from a documentary. The whole thing felt a bit more theatrical than spiritual, but it clearly meant something to those involved.

Scattered around the lawn are close to a dozen statues and monuments. A few stood out. One bronze statue of Christopher Columbus holds a globe and references 1492. Nearby, the William McKinley Monument features symbols of "Peace" and "Prosperity" flanking the Ohio-born president. The one that really caught my eye was These Are My Jewels—a monument to Cornelia and seven Civil War-era Ohio leaders: Grant, Garfield, Hayes, Sheridan, Sherman, Chase, and Stanton. I had just visited the Civil War Museum, so seeing these names again—knowing they all came from Ohio—was impressive. Turns out, after the Civil War, eight presidents came from Ohio.

Funny fact: despite being the seat of state government, the Ohio Statehouse didn’t get indoor plumbing until 1888—probably making it the most powerful outhouse in the Midwest for a while.

Inside, two men greeted me at security—friendly, easygoing, not what I’ve experienced in every state. One state trooper pointed the way to the Map Room and smiled, “Your tour starts in 8 minutes. Enjoy!”

Touring the Ohio Statehouse

The tour group was small—just me and two women with their four young kids. Both were from Ohio. I told them I was originally from Pennsylvania, now living in a van and traveling around North America. They gave me the polite, slightly surprised nod that’s become pretty familiar by now.

My visit began in the Map Room, where a giant floor map of the state greets you underfoot. It’s impressive and detailed—but, fun fact: the marble used in the floor isn’t actually from Ohio. A small irony, considering how much pride the tour exudes for all things Ohio. Beside the Map Room is a gift shop, which was the first time I’ve seen that in a statehouse.

Our guide was sharp, funny, and full of stories. We visited both chambers of the legislature, though the Senate was in session, and for the first time in her career, she said she wasn’t allowed in. “I’ve never been denied entrance while they were in session,” she told us, sounding both amused and mildly scandalized.

She walked us past large, dramatic murals—one depicting Perry’s victory over the British on Lake Erie, others celebrating Ohio-born astronauts and the Wright brothers. The walls felt like a gallery of state pride.

When she explained how Ohio came out of the old Northwest Territory, she turned it into a quiz for the kids: “What other states were formed from that territory?” The answers came quickly at first, then stalled. I offered “Michigan,” and without missing a beat she laughed, “Oh, we don’t say that word here!” Clearly, the Buckeye-Wolverine rivalry runs deep—even in civic education.

She highlighted the architecture too, noting its intentionally simple, Greek-inspired design. Unlike many other capitols, there’s no massive dome—those are Roman. One chamber had fancy Corinthian columns, but the other was toned down to better reflect the original vision.

At one point, she taught us how to spell “O-H-I-O” with our arms and said with a grin, “If anyone ever says ‘OH’ to you, you better respond with ‘IO!’” It felt more like a secret handshake than a cheer—like we’d been officially inducted into the Ohio way of doing things.

Before leaving, I spotted a replica Liberty Bell—one of the 50 given to states by France—and got a quick photo of our guide standing proudly beside it. A perfect ending to a tour that was part history lesson, part architectural appreciation, and part pep rally.

Public Library

After rescuing the van from an imminent parking ticket, I took my guide’s advice and headed to the Columbus Metropolitan Library—a short drive away. She’d mentioned it was worth visiting, especially since the original funding came from Andrew Carnegie.

I circled the block looking for parking and eventually slipped through an alley that led to a narrow side street beside a modern residential building. There were plenty of open spots, no signs saying otherwise, and a couple of cars already parked. Just to be safe, I asked a man nearby if it was okay to park there. He held up a finger, pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and began speaking into it in Spanish. When he finished, he tapped again and held the phone out. In perfect English, it said: “I work in this building. There is no problem parking there. Have a nice day.” He smiled, waved, and walked off. One of the more polite parking confirmations I’ve received.

The library was just half a block away. From the outside, the building felt grand but inviting. Classic stonework and arched windows gave it a timeless feel, and yet it blended well with the more modern additions behind it. Carnegie’s donation helped build the original structure back in the early 1900s, and you can still feel that sense of civic pride in the design—solid, symmetrical, dignified.

Inside, the space opened up with light and height. High ceilings, huge windows, and a thoughtful mix of old and new materials made the place feel more like a museum than a library. There was a quiet buzz to the place. A small café in one corner gave it some life. A few homeless folks were inside, as is often the case in city libraries—finding warmth, shelter, or just a place to be. There was a surprising amount of art—paintings, sculpture, even a large LEGO exhibit showing landmarks from around the world, presumably built by a local school group.

I wandered through the reading rooms and admired the details in the architecture—sweeping staircases, ornate woodwork, and just the right balance of function and beauty. The outside grounds were equally well kept, with flowers blooming and not a scrap of trash in sight. For a city library, it was incredibly well-loved—and it showed.

Kirk Mangus Installation

Outside the Columbus library, down an alley beside a residential building, I stumbled across five large mural panels—bold, colorful, and full of energy. They were reproductions of watercolor paintings by Kirk Mangus, a vital Ohio artist whose work spanned ceramics, drawing, painting, and sculpture. The murals depict scenes inspired by Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, each one bursting with imagination, humor, and a kind of raw charm that stops you in your tracks. I love seeing art in the streets—it makes you pause, pay attention, and maybe even smile.

Mangus was born in Sharon, Pennsylvania and grew up surrounded by art, often visiting museums with his artist parents. He earned his BFA from the Rhode Island School of Design and an MFA from Washington State University. His work was both serious and witty, blending storytelling with a deep understanding of craft. Over the years, he received numerous awards and fellowships, including support from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Ohio Arts Council. In 1985, he became head of ceramics at Kent State University, where he created a space for freedom and creative exchange that continues to shape young artists today. Seeing his whimsical take on Lewis Carroll’s world here—tucked into a quiet alley in Columbus—was the kind of surprise that makes wandering a city worth it.

Wandering Griffin Brewery & Restaurant

I ended the day at Wandering Griffin Brewery & Restaurant, another Harvest Host stop. For dinner, I went with the chicken tacos and a spinach salad—simple, solid choices. I sampled two of their house-brewed beers: a smooth milk stout and a crisp pilsner. According to the bartender, all their beer is brewed right on site.

I spent the night in their parking lot, tucked between the highway and a Home Depot. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a quiet mountain meadow. But the beer was good, the food hit the spot, and it was a safe place to park—which, on a long travel day, checks enough boxes.