We reached Cleveland by four, driving directly to the D. & C. wharves. The “Eastern States” was being loaded, and the monster “City of Detroit III,” a floating palace, was starting out for Buffalo, I believe. Although the week-end travel is always heavy, and this was Friday, we were most fortunate in getting staterooms, with brass beds (not bunks), running water, and a bathroom. It may be of interest to state that the cost of shipping the car to Detroit, a night’s run, was only $14.50. As we did not sail until nine o’clock, and we could not go aboard nor leave the car, we drove out the Lake Shore drive overlooking Lake Erie, through beautiful suburbs, with attractive homes and gardens, and then something told us it must be time to investigate the hotels. As we had all sampled the excellent cooking at the Statler, we dined at the fine Cleveland Hotel--modern in all its appointments, in good taste, and unexcelled service. We remarked the appearance of the people. There was not a smartly gowned woman in the dining-room, and the waiters had a monopoly of the dress suits. Being hot, and in midsummer, and a more or less transient gathering, might have been the reason. In many large cities, in first-class hotels, we found the tired business men in business suits and the women in skirts and blouses. Never did anything taste more delicious than the broiled fresh whitefish, just out of the lake, green corn on the cob, melons, and peaches. As long as we remained in the Great Lakes region, we reveled in the whitefish, broiled, sauté, or baked. It is the king of fresh-water fish. I am beginning to realize that I am exhausting my descriptive adjectives when it comes to hotels. Time was, not so very far distant, when a hotel like the Cleveland was not to be found, except in possibly half a dozen cities in this country. Now it is the rule. On all our long trip, with the exception of three nights, we had perfectly comfortable, clean double rooms, usually with twin beds, and private baths with modern sanitary plumbing and an abundance of hot, not tepid, water. We have been assured by the proprietors that the change has been wrought by motorists who demanded better lodgings. I think the farmer is the only member of society who still holds a grudge against us as a class; but when he is the proud possessor of a “Little Henry” he slides over to our side unconsciously. A book could be written on “Motoring as an art, a profession, a pastime, a luxury or a necessity, a money maker or a spender, a joy or a nuisance”--and then much more! Before leaving Cleveland I must speak of its fine municipal buildings, its many industries, and its far-famed Euclid Avenue, once the finest of streets, lined on both sides with massive, splendid residences, many with grounds a block square; alas! long since turned into boarding-houses, clubs, and places of business--the inevitable transition from a small to a great city.