The other day I happened to be in Hannibal, Missouri, on the broad Mississippi River, and naturally had to pay a visit to the place where the American novel was born: Mark Twain's boyhood home.
Expectably, everything in Hannibal seems to be named for Twain. The Mark Twain Hotel, the Mark Twain Dinette, the Mark Twain Caves, and so on. (There's an Injun Joe Campground, but fortunately Jim of Huck Finn fame has escaped the tarbrush of commercial insensitivity.)
Other than the myriad touristy connections with the writer, the town would be just another mouldering ruin on the river.