The Lincoln Highway is destined to be a much-traveled road. Already the
motorists of the West are turning the hoods of their motor cars to face
the East and the motorists of the East are starting Westward. Happy is
the man who has his hotel or inn situated on the road marked by the red,
white, and blue. The traveler is bound to come his way, and the traveler
is bound to alight at his door if only he has something to offer that is
worthy of the name of hospitality. But he can no longer afford to be
careless. There is an unwritten rule of the open road which reads that
the traveler shall tell his fellow traveler of places at which to halt
and of places to avoid. It is inevitable that in the course of a short
time the slovenly and careless inn-keeper must be supplanted by a better
man.
The tourist does not enjoy looking out of his hotel window on piles of
old tin cans and heaps of barrel staves and discarded packing boxes. Nor
does he enjoy looking at mounds of ashes, and quantities of vegetable
parings. He will not long endure a soiled table cloth, horrible green
tea, and indifferently cooked food. Nor will he endure a lack of hot
water and utterly careless sanitary arrangements. He may say little
about them to the landlord who entertains his party, but he will very
soon see to it that better inns take the place of the old ones of
careless and indifferent management. The hotel keeper congratulates
himself that his open door looks out on the Lincoln Highway, and that
his own sign proudly bears the three distinguishing bars of red, white,
and blue. He must have more than this to make his inn a success. It is
surprising how fast the news of a clean, well kept inn, with excellently
cooked food, travels from mouth to mouth.
In France there is a roll of honour for inn-keepers under the direction,
if I mistake not, of the Touring Club of France. Only those inn-keepers
whose houses and whose tables attain a certain standard, not of style
but of simple cleanliness and of wholesome excellence of food, are
admitted to this company. I have seen the certificate of the roll of
honour hanging on the walls of more than one country inn in France.
It is to the credit of the many places in which we halted for the night
that in only one did we find conditions impossible. We slept in a rather
indifferent bed-chamber, having reached the inn late. But when we saw
the dining-room the following morning, we paid our bill and fled;
driving on twenty miles farther for a late breakfast. Surely the average
commercial man of the United States who travels in country districts
year in and year out must have a charmed digestion and an iron-clad
constitution. He may well rejoice that the days of motoring have come,
for with the motorist is coming not only the broad Highway, but the
clean and comfortable inn. Not necessarily the fashionable hotel, with
its expensive and extravagant accessories; but the clean, immaculately
kept country inn, with its excellent cooking of the abundant food in
which our country is so rich. Perhaps we shall need to import some Swiss
inn-keeper to tell us how to do it. Whether we do or do not, the man who
knows how and the man who is willing to live up to his knowledge will
inevitably displace the inn-keeper who is careless and indifferent. The
biggest bid for a motor tourist is a clean bed-chamber, a comfortable
bed, and a well cooked though simple dinner.
If I were crossing the Lincoln Highway again I should take with me a
spirit lamp, a little sauce pan, some boxes of biscuits, some excellent
tea, some cocoa and other supplies. Not that this is a necessity. But it
would be very pleasant to have a luncheon or a cup of afternoon tea al
fresco, now and then.
For our own comfort and convenience we laid down for ourselves certain
rules of the road.
First: We did not wear our good clothes. The long, dusty journeys are
very hard upon clothing, and for a lady a comfortable light weight tweed
suit with plenty of washable blouses with rolling collars, covered by an
ample motor coat, gives the greatest comfort and satisfaction. The dust
of the plains is ground into one's clothing and one should be ready for
this. The requirements of the hotels along the road are very simple, and
a fresh blouse will usually be all that is needed. We took care to use
only such dust robes to cover our luggage as could not be injured by the
wear and tear of the journey. We did not take with us our best rugs and
robes.
Second: We did not travel by night. We found it very delightful to
travel in the late afternoon, when the lights were particularly fine,
but we avoided as much as possible traveling late into the evening. In
this way one does not miss the scenery of the country, and one is not
over fatigued. We found that when we were obliged to arrive late at our
inn, it was wiser to eat supper at the proper supper hour wherever that
might find us.
Third: We did not as a rule travel on Sunday. Partly because we wished
to attend church in whatever town we might be, partly because we found
ourselves fresher for enjoyment and sight-seeing after the rest and
quiet of a day.
Fourth: We resolved at the outset to take the days and the roads as they
came; not looking for luxury and well satisfied with simplicity. It is
surprising how one is fortified for the vicissitudes of the road by such
a deliberate attitude of mind.
The Lincoln Highway is not as yet a road for those motorists who wish
only luxurious hotels, frequent stops, and all the cushioned comfort of
the much-traveled main roads of the favorite tourist parts of Europe.
It is, however, perfectly practicable in its entire length of 3200
miles, and rich in interest and charm for those who care for what it has
to give.
We drove a Studebaker car as far as Denver and a Franklin car from
Denver to New York. In all the distance traversed we were not conscious
of braving any dangers or of taking any particular risks.
THE END.