Where is Toledo? I asked myself as I fidgeted with Google Maps.
A few zooms later, I had all the information I needed.
The Glass City was a mere 60 miles from Sandusky, Ohio, site of a youth dance competition, aka that which stretches the limits of my fatherly devotion and social skills.
The upside is that a strategically timed getaway—even to Toledo—can be a welcome distraction from the realities of parenting and trying to hold a conversation with dance mothers.
So there I was on a Sunday morning, one filled with dance workshops during which my presence was unnecessary, elated to dive deep—really deep—into the heart of the Rust Belt.
My where is Toledo research had, of course, provided fair warning. The city in northwest Ohio—the state’s fourth largest, 60 miles south of Detroit—wasn’t known for its brand.
In 1975, John Denver released a live album with a version of the song “Saturday Night in Toledo, Ohio,” famous for the line Saturday night in Toledo, Ohio, is like being nowhere at all.
In 1998, Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach asked in their song “Toledo” do people living in Toledo know that their name doesn’t travel very well?
And in 2001, when Jack White of the White Stripes mentioned in “Expecting” that he was sent to Toledo, he didn’t seem particularly enthused.
To all this, a friendly bartender in Sandusky added his own four-word take: Man, Toledo is rough.
But I was unfazed.
From experience, I knew that a city of 270,871 with a metro population of 606,240 would have gems. Wikipedia, ChatGPT, and some sort of visitors guide proved me right.
To start, the place had history—remember the Toledo War of the 1830s when Toledo went to Ohio but Michigan got the Upper Peninsula?
There was also a river, the Maumee River, that fed into a Great Lake, Lake Erie.
At one point, there were railroads and a canal, too.
Shipping and manufacturing became natural fits.
In this part of the country, automotive manufacturing reigned supreme, and the Glass City knew how to make glass. Along the way, they even got artsy with it, a legacy captured at the world-class Toledo Museum of Art. The Glass Pavilion there was designed by Japanese architects who later won the esteemed Pritzker Architecture Prize.
I read about a zoo and aquarium, a botanical garden, a science museum, a museum honoring the Great Lakes, a War of 1812 battlefield, and a Triple A baseball stadium, home to the iconic Toledo Mud Hens.
The area had given us Art Tatum, Gloria Steinem, Urban Meyer, and the Harbaugh brothers. Sure, industry had declined, but the region still had four Fortune 500 companies, a surprisingly active port, multiple solar enterprises, and the usual smattering of healthcare, education, and tech. Heck, Jeep still even had a presence there.
Throw in parks, a riverwalk, and a university, and I knew I would prove the naysayers wrong.
I fired up the GPS and headed west, taking mental notes through the persistent drizzle—Sandusky Bay, a bunch of farms, and a nuclear power plant. Changes in elevation, as expected, were not among the highlights.
Eventually, the population density picked up, and I knew I was getting close.
A few minutes later came the first—and only—thrill of the day. As I crossed the Veterans’ Glass City Skyway over the Maumee River, I soaked in a splendid view of downtown Toledo to my left. Somewhere to my right, possibly blocked by an 18-wheeler, was the lake.
The first stop would be the University of Toledo, and I allowed technology to map the most efficient route to the west-of-downtown campus. But that’s when I had my initial inkling that the visitors guide had left out some details. I passed through a sea of homes in disrepair, some fully abandoned and others just appearing so. Seeing as I was approaching the desired destination, I double checked to make sure I had entered the correct address. I had.
Once on campus, the scene changed abruptly. I drove by the Glass Bowl, home to the football team, and I took a few shots of the photogenic University Hall. On the other side of the school, the homes were well kept and quaint. As I kept driving, I noted some that were frankly majestic.
But my time was limited, and I turned around to head back toward downtown. Soon, another sea (or was it part of the same one?) of dilapidated homes appeared. I drove around aimlessly for a minute, quickly realizing I wasn’t in the greatest spot for GPS-less exploration. Thankfully, I stumbled upon what I thought would be the day’s second thrill—Rustbelt Coffee. I excitedly parked and opened the front door, only to be told the shop was closed that day and was being used instead for a church service.
Not feeling particularly holy, I got back in the car and headed toward the river, trying to follow the trail of human activity, of which there was very little. A few minutes later, I bumped into Fifth Third Field, home of the aforementioned baseball team. The grounds crew was tinkering with the tarpaulin, what with the soggy conditions threatening their hard work.
A couple pictures later, I decided to make my way to the art museum. Upon entering, I gladly learned of the free admission and began exploring. I crossed the street to the Glass Pavilion, where I was greeted by a friendly security officer. He beamed with pride at the collection he guarded, unlocking the door to his favorite exhibit. He spoke of his return to Toledo from Atlanta, happily pointing out the lack of traffic. As I couldn’t see a single car in the direction he signaled, it was hard to argue.
Later, he mentioned the low cost of housing, aided—I presumed—by the abundance of empty structures I had seen. His favorite hangout was the casino, which I assumed wasn’t the most uplifting place in town. He threw in a final anecdote about how Toledo was a preferred hideout for 20th-century organized crime figures. I thanked him and headed back to my car.
Promptly, the sea of abandoned homes returned. A man angrily yelled at me and/or my vehicle, apparently displeased that we had affected his ability to jaywalk. A few other folks gave me dirty (or were they blank?) looks. Remembering that wandering didn’t seem like the safest activity, I punched in an address across the river, which I would eventually have to cross again anyway. As I approached the bridge meant to take me to that point—Glass City Metropark—I noted cars turning around. There were no clear signs, but a friendly (or perhaps not that friendly) citizen had taken it upon himself to suggest that I, too, should turn around. Not in any mood to let him down, I obliged.
Facing the direction from which I had come, I knew that I would not be greeted by optimism. As such, I made the snap decision to head to Maumee Bay State Park, known for its views of Lake Erie and being conducive to birdwatching.
On the way, I passed an oil refinery, a nice complement to the impromptu energy tour that had started with the nuclear form. Once in the park, the first thing I noted was industrial activity on the western edge of the lake. I pulled up Wikipedia and reminded myself this was also the part of the lake affected by algal blooms, otherwise known as the cyanobacteria overgrowth that had once shut down the city’s drinking water supply. As I scrolled, the quiet was pierced by the sounds of a large flock of seagulls. I looked up, and my instinct told me to take cover in the car—right on cue, I heard splatter on the roof.
I glanced at the clock and felt an odd sense of relief that it was time to return to the dance competition.
On the way back to Sandusky, my thoughts drifted to the good people of Toledo trying hard to make their home a better place. (I would later learn that the number of good people was diminishing, as both the city and metro area were losing population.) My thoughts also drifted to the heavy—and quite honestly overwhelming—lift.
I reminded myself that Sunday mornings, particularly rainy ones, never paint cities in a particularly flattering light. In other words, I wondered if my attempt to answer the where is Toledo question had been met with the wrong day.
But deep down inside, I had the nagging sensation that it had simply been met with the wrong century.
