Hannibal, Missouri, is a little off the beaten path. Actually, Hannibal is a LOT off the beaten path. I can’t even find the beaten path anymore.
On the way into town, my GPS kept getting confused in rural Missouri, and at one point I ended up in—this is true—Illinois.
It’s a river town. The gray Mississippi eases along Hannibal at 5.8 miles per hour, moving ever southward. The floodgates are up today. There is a flood warning in effect right now, wind gusts are clocking in at 33 mph.
I’m at a bar called “Rumor Has It.” Beside me is a riverboat captain.
“This is a beautiful river that can kill you,” says the captain who has been a commercial pilot on the Mississippi since the early ‘70s. “My wife calls her my mistress, because I spend more time with this river than with her.”
I am beneath the mistress’s spell this afternoon as I hang out on Hannibal’s sidestreets.
In the distance, a barge drifts along the Muddy Mississippi, moving at a tortoise pace. There is a riverboat
docked at the landing. A train passes and lays on the whistle.
Riverboats. Barges. Trains. It’s the 19th century in Hannibal.
“This is a town so small both city-limit signs are nailed to the same post,” says one merchant. “It’s great because it’s charming, and it’s actually affordable. And you meet tourists from all over the globe. Just yesterday I met people from Norway, Australia, and Japan.”
Downtown is quaint and touristy. It feels like the aftermath of a gift shop explosion. But everything is done tastefully. You won’t find any deep-fried Oreos or CBD shops here.
It’s Monday, for example, and all the shops are closed. Which is unheard of in a tourist economy.
And that’s the beauty of Hannibal. It’s a real small town. Even though it’s a tourist destination, these merchants have real families, and real lives. Shops…