Don’t worry if you don’t know the meaning of peripatetic. I didn’t either – until I became peripatetic myself!

I first encountered the word when I visited the United States in 1968, as a participant in a "Foreign Journalists Programme" held annually at Indiana University, Bloomington. It was the autumn of 1968, and an election campaign was in full swing.

Autumn in Indiana – or "The Fall," as Americans call it – was a magnificent sight. Bloomington was near a vast forest, and just a few miles away from the university, one could see the most incredible display of colours in the trees lining the roadside and extending far beyond.

The scene under the skyline resembled a masterpiece crafted by a talented artist, as though deliberately designed, rather than a mere tapestry woven by Mother Nature across the landscape. Leaves were changing from green to a kaleidoscope of colours – golden brown mingling with purple and lilac, with golden hues shining through shades of red. Simply beautiful beyond words.

As someone raised amidst the green rainforests of Kwaebibirem in Ghana, I had always felt privileged to experience such lush vegetation from a young age. I would have laughed if anyone suggested that I could ever feel “envious” of any forest beauty elsewhere in the world. But Indiana changed that – especially at the peak of autumn, which shattered my long-held beliefs about forest grandeur.

Kwaebibirem was the only forest that could offer such splendour? I was soon humbled.

Mottos on Ghanaian passenger lorries that I’d forgotten flashed through my mind: “Dade bi twa dade bim” ("Iron sharpens iron"); “Travel and see!”; “Aboa bi akum King Kong!” ("Some beast has bested King Kong!") and so on.

One of the superb opportunities offered by the journalists' programme was a chance to work at an American newspaper for a month or two. Before leaving Accra, a friend at the U.S. Embassy’s information section recommended a newspaper in Palo Alto, California, telling me I'd love it there. However, once in the U.S., the programme director suggested I go to Louisville, Kentucky, to work with the prestigious Louisville Courier-Journal.

The director told me to seek out "the peripatetic Assistant to the Executive Editor, a guy called John Herchenroeder."

This left me with two dilemmas: first, to my embarrassment, I didn’t know what peripatetic meant, and second, I wasn’t sure how to spell “Herchenroeder”! But I wasn’t about to let an American know there was something in the world an African journalist didn't know.

Of course, there was no Google back then, so I had to wait until I could visit a library to look up peripatetic in a dictionary. There it was: “traveling often, from place to place.” So Mr. Herchenroeder didn’t stay in one spot while working at the paper? What if he wasn’t there when I arrived?

Luckily, he was there when I reached the Courier-Journal. His name was just as difficult to pronounce as I’d imagined, but the receptionist promptly rescued me, finishing it for me. Clearly, his name was notorious for “slaying” tongues at the paper – as it should have been, since he was well known as the paper’s “point man” for handling readers’ complaints. Later, this position was formalised, making him America’s first “Newspaper Ombudsman” and a pioneer in arbitrating disputes between the paper and its readers.

Mr. Herchenroeder was a large man with an immensely friendly and welcoming personality. He quickly arranged for me to attend a high-profile event where Mrs. Hubert Humphrey, wife of the Democratic presidential candidate, would be speaking. At the gate, I informed security that I was sent by the Courier-Journal.

The guard asked, "Who at the Courier-Journal?"

"Mr. Herchenroeder," I replied.

He let me in immediately, muttering, "Anyone who can pronounce that name without hesitation must be genuine!"

Yes, America during an election year is certainly exciting. Even Trump would be hard-pressed to ruin the current one, try as he might! Good luck to "God’s own country."