A couple of years ago, I spent a weekend in Columbus, Ohio. I promise this isn’t the setup to a smug New Yorker’s unimaginative quip (“longest weekend of my life”). Those were a charmed 48 hours. A few things were on my side: I was escaping parental responsibility (our oldest was applying to high school, a fraught time) and the weather was unexpectedly beautiful (70 degrees in late October, disturbing but delicious). I was in town for work, but my work is, if I’m honest, not difficult. Turn up at the public library and talk? That would take but one hour out of a whole weekend. I had time to kill.
Like many Midwestern cities, downtown Columbus has grand architecture dating to a boom time long passed. There were few people around, which felt like a shame on such a beautiful streetscape. But the downtowns of such cities, even when seemingly vacant, remain cultural hubs; the Columbus Museum of Art was a five-minute walk from my hotel. I’ve had the joy of learning that many smaller American cities are home to beautiful art collections, and it’s a particular high when traveling to discover a masterpiece I hadn’t expected. That Saturday I was thrilled by a grisly Paul Cadmus and a monumental Helen Frankenthaler, two artists I so love. It was like running into old friends.
But I was as fidgety as a schoolkid on a field trip; the sun beckoned. As is common with American cities, Columbus is designed for cars, not people, but I wanted to walk. I had recommendations from Chris, an old friend who had moved home to Columbus, and I had my phone, which could provide both a map and a ride, should I run out of sidewalk.
Chris advised me to explore German Village, a well-to-do historic neighborhood with handsome old brick buildings and elegant houses. There I found that sense of vitality I had been missing downtown—it turns out pedestrians and cyclists would rather congregate on small beautiful streets. I’ve never been able to resist a used bookshop, which is how I found myself in The Book Loft. This bibliophile’s labyrinth is the kind of joyfully chaotic place where it would be easy to while away hours without buying a thing. But I had more to see. When I had walked enough to deserve a snack, I joined the queue of customers spilling onto the sidewalk outside Fox in the Snow Cafe. I bought a cinnamon roll so big that eating it required privacy, so I fled to nearby Schiller Park, where there are pickleball courts and lake views and what I most needed: a comfortable bench to be alone with my massive pastry.
For dinner Chris and I went to the vegetarian restaurant Comune, where we sat at the minimalist bar and dispensed with several delicious and unfussy shared plates. That night I slept the sleep of the unworried. My short trip would end the following morning at the public Main Library, an elegant marble edifice that was originally an Andrew Carnegie project. Visiting a library can be as uplifting as going to a museum. This is the best stuff this country has yet come up with: places that belong to all people.
Everyone has their own reasons to travel; every trip has its own particular goals. For obvious reasons, big cities will always be the draw for most tourists. Sometimes, though, what you want is simple: a warm spell, an old friend, an oversized cinnamon roll, a long walk, some world-class art. As Columbus shows, there’s more than one place to find those things in this country.
This article appeared in the November 2025 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
