Cleveland is the worst - Sunday, August 26

I don’t blame LeBron.

Cleveland was the worst city we visited.  It wasn’t close.  Cleveland might be the worst major city we’ve ever visited.  Cleveland makes Detroit seem like a resort.  Cleveland makes Fresno seem like San Diego.  

It’s nothing against Ohio.  I’ve enjoyed my time in Cincinnati, Oxford, and Columbus. Some of the nicest people I know—Dan Haughey, Neal and Melissa Schuett, Monica Dorman—live in Ohio.  Ari’s Ohioan friend Emily is a sweetheart.  Graeter’s ice cream is fantastic; nobody deploys chocolate chips like Graeter’s.  Naturally, Cleveland appears to be the one city in Ohio that doesn’t have a Graeter’s.  Why?  Probably because Cleveland is the worst.

Here are the ten worst things about our experience in Cleveland.

The Welcome Committee

We got to Cleveland at 1:30 in the morning.  We had just driven two hours from Detroit.  We were three miles from our hotel when we passed a police car parked in the center divide.  Ari had the wheel.  “It’s a good thing I’m not speeding,” he said.  The speedometer read 71.  The last speed limit we’d seen said 70. 

The next thing we knew, a car pulled in tight behind us and we saw the red and blue flashing lights.  Ari used language that even HBO wouldn’t air.  We parked on the shoulder.

It took the officer at least seven minutes to emerge from his squad car.  “What is he doing?” Ari asked.  I had no idea.  Eventually, the officer waddled to our window. 

“You were speeding,” he said without further introduction.  “You were going 75 in a 60.”  Of course, we couldn’t possibly have been going 75 miles an hour.  At 75, the powerful Ford Focus warns us that we’re approaching maximum speed.  The Ford Focus had issued no warning.  And we hadn't seen anything about a speed limit of 60.  What kind of city posts a speed limit of 60 mph on its freeway?

“License and registration,” the officer demanded.

The officer disappeared into his squad car.  We sat there for five minutes.  “What is he doing?” Ari asked.  I said I didn’t know.  

Another five minutes passed.  “I think I should get out of the car and find out what’s taking so long.”  I told him not to do that.  

Five more minutes.  “I really think I should get out of the car.”  He might shoot you, I said.  

Five more minutes.  “I hate Cleveland,” Ari said.  No argument from me.

The Hotels

In possession of a $179 speeding ticket, we pulled into the Residence Inn parking lot.  I dragged myself toward the hotel and Ari slammed a car door.  If we had been dwarves, I would have been Sleepy and Ari would have been Grumpy.  [Ari's Note: No fairy tale has ever been set in Cleveland.]

Kathy at the front desk greeted us with half of a smile.  She handed us two room keys.  “What are the hotel amenities?” Ari asked.  Kathy couldn’t think of any. 

We headed upstairs to our room.  We opened the door.  “You have to be kidding me,” I said.  “Awww, horseshit,” Ari said.  Our room that was supposed to have two beds had exactly one.  It was a not a large bed; lying diagonally, I could stretch corner to corner. The couch looked less than cozy.

Ari called the front desk and explained the situation to Kathy.  “Your reservation was for one bed,” she said.  Ari gave her the confirmation number.  “Oh, you’re right.  It was for two beds,” she said.  “But we give away the rooms when it gets late.”  Ari reminded her that we had called ahead during our drive to say we’d be there late, requesting that the hotel not give away our room.  “I remember that,” Kathy said.  Kathy told us that the best she could do was give us a double room at the sister, adjacent hotel.  If we had been dwarves, I would have been Pissy and Ari would have been Very Grumpy.

We left the room, went downstairs, waved at Kathy, and walked to Towne Suites.  Derrick checked us in.  We walked to our room.  My phone told me it was 2:58 AM.  We opened the door. 

One bed.

The same tiny bed we had next door.

We called Derrick.  “Sorry, this hotel doesn’t have any double rooms,” he said.  “Then why did Kathy send us over here?” I asked.  “I dunno,” he said.  I hung up and turned to Ari.  “I’ll take the couch,” I said.

[Ari's Note:  When we finally checked out, the manager (of the first hotel) explained the source of the commotion: the Cleveland Browns stayed there during their training camp, which led to booking and reservation problems.  The fact that its professional football team stayed in a dumpy Residence Inn makes Cleveland even more pathetic.]

The Utter Lack of a Pulse

I woke up Sunday feeling good.  Then I remembered I was in Cleveland.  We drove to the game.  The city was completely dead.  These are photographs of downtown Cleveland taken one hour before and blocks away from a major league baseball game:

[Ari's Note: Speaking of utter lack of a pulse ... There was one positive from the Cleveland experience.  It gave me justification to dislike Drew Carey even more than I already did.  Not only was he the lead in a terribly overrated and unwatchable television show that claimed "Cleveland Rocks," but he is a gawd awful gameshow host.]  

The Parking

Most lots near Progressive Field charge $20.  Those are “real city” prices.  We found a $10 garage about half a mile from the park.  “We close the garage at 7.  Make sure you’re back before then,” he said.  With a 1 o’clock game, we knew we’d be fine.  He told us to park anywhere that didn’t say “Reserved.”

It turns out that every space on the first four (entirely empty) floors said “Reserved.” 

This sign appeared on every level.

It also turns out that the elevator on the fifth floor didn’t work.

Walking down four sets of ramps, Ari saw some of Cleveland's best views

We returned to the garage at 5 o’clock, two hours before we were told it would close.  This is what we found:

We called the number listed.  A security guard at the hotel across the street came over to open the garage door.  We hiked up four ramps to our lonely car.  By the time we got back to the exit, the garage door was closed again.  I hit redial and explained that we also wanted to leave the garage. 

The Indians’ Customer Service

We ordered our tickets on StubHub, which meant we needed to pick them up at Will Call.  Some stadiums’ ticket windows are nicer than others.  In Cleveland, Will Call looks like a lemonade stand.

When there was a problem with our tickets, they sent us to window #6 for customer service:

Cleveland, you are the worst.

The Ballpark Prices

I’ve seen 12-packs of Blue Moon for $11.99.  The Cleveland Indians charged more than that for a single Blue Moon!  Here’s a good rule: if your team hasn’t won the World Series since Eisenhower’s first term, you should charge less than the other ballparks for beer, not more.

Milwaukee is known for great hot dogs and sausages.  Cleveland is not.  So naturally Cleveland’s ballpark charges twice as much for its franks:

$8.75 for a hot dog.  Really.

The Ballpark Experience 

Progressive Field is not much fun.  The televisions that line the corridors look like they were made in the 1970s.

Not HD.  

Despite perfect weather, the stadium was not especially attractive.

The Indians jerseys only include the uniform number.  If I played for Cleveland, I wouldn't want anyone to know my name, either.

Instead of a sausage race, Cleveland has a condiment race.  Have you ever wondered whether mustard runs faster than ketchup?  Neither has anyone else.

The red hot dog is supposed to represent ketchup.  

The yellow thing wearing a backwards cap while fitted inside a hot dog bun is supposed to be mustard.  This costume makes even less sense.  Hot dogs with mustard on them are not entirely yellow.  And the white thing with the lipstick?  That's supposed to be onion.  (1) Onion is not a condiment.  (2) In no way does that look like onion.

Why is there no relish?  Wouldn't that make one hundred times more sense than onion?

The Hometown Fans

This was the only game we attended where the road team's fans outnumbered the home crowd.  Yankee hats were everywhere.  When New York scored, the crowd roar boomed.  When Cleveland scored, we heard golf-claps.  During an Indians rally, an Indians fan decided he had better things to do:

On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, Cleveland showed its love for the home team.

The Food

In the second inning, I announced that I was ready to leave.  Ari wanted to see his fantasy player, Jason Kipnis.  We left in the sixth. 

It was meal time, but My Yelp and Zagat research had revealed no outstanding choices.  When we asked locals for recommendations, they mostly suggested chains and fast food.  The only place to get multiple votes was The Melt Bar, which serves creative grilled cheese sandwiches. 

We got there and found a one-hour wait.  For grilled cheese.  “What if we do takeout?” we asked.  One hour. 

We waited 30 minutes for a spot to open at the bar, and then decided to eat there.  The food came 30 minutes after we ordered.  It was tasty but way too heavy.  [Ari’s Note: Think about that.  Justin is saying the food was too heavy.] 

Grilled cheese pulled pork sandwich

Grilled cheese sandwich stuffed with pieorgis

The Beer

We went to a bar beside the stadium called the Winking Lizard.  Cleveland needs to learn what “winking” means:

There is a difference between winking and having a droopy eye.

I ordered a sampler of four Ohio beers. 

“What do you think?” the bartender asked.  I pointed to the two I liked. 

“One’s from Akron.  One's from a brewery in Dayton,” he told me. 

“What about the other two?” I inquired. 

“Cleveland,” he said.