Thursday, June 28, 2001 3:09pm
Today, the second batch of minimal preparations for my Chicago journey has been made. The first preparation for the trip was, of course, purchasing two Amtrak train tickets: one to get there from Quincy, Illinois and one to bring me back home. I bought those last Saturday at a cost of $51.00. Not bad, considering 1) how pleasant and comfortable a train is, and 2) how financially strapped Amtrak is.
A quick titbit of etymology to help get into the traveling mood. There isn't anything like word history to get one in the adventure mindset.
Journal - from Latin, diurnus, meaning daily.
Journey - see journal for root meaning. Although they share the same root, journey comes from Latin, diurnata, meaning a day's work.
"A day's work." That's not an incredibly encouraging foresight for a week that is supposed to be spent relaxing, learning and eating - the extent of my plans while in Chicago. I am purposely trying to avoid any kind of planning because this is not a trip specifically for touring Chicago. I did that last August with three other friends. It was fun, yet very tiring.
In fact, for this trip, I have yet to plan what I will bring (other than several journals), where I will sleep, or even when I will leave Columbia, Missouri, for Quincy, Illinois, to catch my train, which will leave promptly at 6:00am. I have two options, neither of them all that great. I could drive the two hours to Quincy the morning my train leaves (which will require waking up very early) or the night before (which will require spending extra money to stay in a hotel, something I am not too keen on doing). Spontaneity, and doing what I feel is right at the time, is the philosophy of this journey. It requires a bit of faith on the goodness of the unknown, but this is the spirit of my journey.
Fate, do please be kind.
One last thing: I just tried calling the J. Ira & Nicki Harris Family Hostel in Chicago - affiliated with Hostelling International - to make reservations for my first night in Chicago. I got the answering machine. Not a great sign, especially since the week I am staying is the week of Independence Day and I suspect they will book quickly. I hope they call back.
Sunday, July 15 9:15pm
I believe I have a rough itinerary for the first two days I will be in Chicago. And I think I have gotten away with making the least amount of plans. To me, this is pure travel! If I were taking just a vacation, I would have invested a lot more time planning for the trip. But this isn't just a vacation to have every need and desire met. It is a vacation from work, yes, and that bit of pleasure will definitely be present, but this is travel - a journey - to gain new knowledge and experience. There's adventure and romance in not knowing for sure where you will sleep, eat, or go. If you spend all day worrying about these things, you won't look up and see all of the possibilities around you. What's the saying? "You can't see the forest for the trees." If you spend your time scared that you won't find accommodations, you won't be able to see the adventure.
Having said this, I can safely say that I have a definite place to sleep on Monday night. Well, let me rephrase that. I know that I talked to someone on the phone about reservations, and I think that our eventual conclusion was I having reservations at the hostel. When I called the hostel, I was connected to a very Asian-sounding girl with a name that was suspiciously American. The following is the conversation I had with Hostel Girl:
Me: Hi! I would like to make a couple of reservations to stay at your hostel this week.
Her: Ok. For how many days?
Me: Just two. I want to stay Monday, July 2nd, and Thursday, July 5th.
Her: Ok. Four nights, at $24 a night, comes to $96. Your confirmation number is-
Me: No… I just want to stay two nights. (I then repeat the dates.)
Her: Oh. Ok. July 2nd and 3rd, and that total comes to-
Me: No! I am staying two separate nights.
Her: So, you are staying here on the 2nd?
Me: Yep! (If that was the only night I was staying there, we would be good to go.)
Her: Ok. Your confirmation number is 5431. Thank you for calling. Goodb-
Her: Ok. Your confirmation number for July 6th is-
Me: No… July 5th.
Her: Right. July 6th.
Me: 5th!
Her: 6th?
Me: FIFTH!!! (slightly annoyed, slightly humored, slightly worried that this wasn't a sign of good things to come)
Her: Ok. Two, three, four, five, six.
Me: Wha-
Her: Which day?
Me: Oh. Five.
Her: (laughing) Ok. Your confirmation number for July 5th is 5432.
Me: (finally!!!) Great! Thanks! By the way, what is your name?
Her: (remember, she sounds quite Asian, and this whole conversation was a strain for me to understand.) My name is Debby. |
Debby, eh? I've noticed that Asian people like to choose Western names when they come for a visit, and it sparks my curiosity about how they usually choose the blandest of names. I have run into several Joes, Bills, and Debbys. Not a single Garrett, Rita, or Moses among them.
Maybe I am just an insensitive bastard.
But I am willing to bet that I have reservations sometimes in December. I hope this whole fiasco wasn't an omen of times to come: diurnata. Speaking of a day's work, my day begins tomorrow at 3:00am. I decided to just drive to Quincy the morning my train leaves. I figure if I stay in a hotel, I will have to wake up early anyway, which would really cut down on the number of hours I stay for the amount of money I spend. Not worth it.
Monday, July 2nd Approx. 6:30am
Sometimes, the smallest things can alter the course of history: hitting "snooze" on the alarm clock one more time, heating up a sandwich at the gas station, stopping to take a picture. If I had done any of these things, I would have missed my train - the train - to Chicago. In fact, I got on the train only three minutes before it left. When I say, "got on the train," I mean arriving in Quincy 20 minutes early, following one of those maps that give two or three lines, names them "8th Street" and "Main Street," that says it will only take about 2 minutes to get to the train station if you take these two streets.
I call this the deception of simplicity. After finally stopping for directions (somewhere on a street whose line wasn't represented on my little map) I peeled into the parking lot of the train station honking my horn. I yanked my bags from the car and jumped onto the train as the conductor was retracting the step onto the passenger car. I breathlessly and clumsily dragged my baggage through the train, trying to find a seat, while the train was "taking off." Or whatever trains do when they start. Diurnata is not a friend of mine so far this morning.
There are a lot of what-ifs that accompany this first leg of my journey. What if I did stop and get a sandwich? Because Lord knows I was hungry all morning. I don't like to play the game of "what-if," though. It's a waste of mental wonder and a drain on traveling morale. What matters, and what is the truth, is that I am safely on the train. When traveling, you have to live in the now. There are no what-ifs in the world of adventure.
I did find a seat in time to enjoy watching the people who send off their friends or loved ones. Especially touching are those with a tear in their eyes, a forced smile on their lips, and a sad wave goodbye. It's a treasure to have someone there who cares enough to say goodbye, even if it is a good pal just to see you off safely. I, of course, didn't have such a send-off. It is kind of sad to not have anyone there to see you off, but I found a way to survive. I waved back at those who were staying in Quincy.
When the conductor came to welcome me and check my ticket (after the train was off and running, which I think is strange), I asked him about food. The café car is way up front. I was way in back. I was thinking coffee and a bagel would be delightful. So would a nap, but I was way too excited for that!
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Walking through the train towards the café car, and seeing all of the people who aren't too excited about the trip to sleep on the train, one would make the incorrect assumption that each new person who comes aboard has their own way of sleeping on a train. After seeing them all, I have noted that all train-sleeping people fit into one of three categories:
1) Conservatives: These are the people who sleep in an upright, respectable sleeping position. There are also sub-categories, which include those who sleep with their backs resting on their reclined seats, those who sleep with their seats unreclined, and those who sit Indian-style with their backs against the window.
2) Romantics: Also known as lean-tos, these people lean on each other for support. Sub-categories include the hand-holders (especially sweet), the "put-your-head-on-my-shoulder" types, and the people who actually lay on top of each other (romantic to them, downright embarrassing and/or gross to everyone else.)
3) Contortionists: Of which I belong. These are the people who find ways of sleeping laying down! This includes small kids to grown adults. They more often than not have blankets covering them completely - except for maybe a foot or the very tip of their head. I suspect the blanket is there to stop the gawkers who tend to laugh; or, in my case, learning tips and tricks of lying down on the train so I can do it as well as they do.
There really isn't much to see in Central Illinois. Thomas Malthus, a 19th century economist and demographer, focused on ideas about the world's food supply. He theorized that the world's population would constantly outgrow its food supply, causing economies to collapse and nations to fall. In order to reduce this threat, he said, nations should limit population growth and keep a close eye on food production. The United States heeded at least part this advice with the Louisiana Purchase in the early 1800s. Most of the new land would be used solely for food production, and today it remains "the bread basket of the world." Illinois, though not part of the original purchase, is still mostly farmland. And the Illinois Zephyr, the name of this particular train route, runs right through the heart of what seems like one giant farm.
There is one thing farmland doesn't provide, and that is interesting sightseeing. Unless you think that mile upon endless mile of corn and soybean plants is entertaining. Thankfully, though, there is the occasional tree and farm home that keeps things interesting.
Since there isn't much to see outside, I opted for helping the attractive 42-year-old from Keokuk, Iowa. She had just boarded the train and needed her baggage put up in the storage rack above our heads. She too was off to Chicago, but her trip was to visit friends and do a little sightseeing. Like me, this was her second time taking the train. She used to go to Chicago quite often when her then-8th grade daughter had surgery and physical therapy to fix a bad case of scoliosis. The same daughter is now 23, single, and "makes a bundle" selling cellular phones. Supposedly she is quite good at it.
I would fail miserably," I conceited. "I couldn't sell water to someone dying of thirst."
Oh, I bet you would do great. You are quite charming!"
Well, then. Let me smile some more so you can introduce me to your well-to-do, single daughter, I thought. There are some things you just don't say to people you have only known for a few minutes.
We talked until stopping at Union station in Chicago. Small world reminder: The lady who sat behind her has a daughter who is in second grade. Her second grade teacher is the 42-year-old's sister in law. I was impressed.
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The train made it into Chicago about thirty minutes late - right at 11:00am. All the better for me since I couldn't check into the hostel until 2:00, and I had to find something to do until then. My first line of duty was to get Hunter - my backpack - somewhere safe. I checked three different locker locations throughout Union Station until I found one open locker where Hunter would fit.
My next, and most important, priority was to make a beeline to Lou Mitchell's Diner. Lou's is the home of the double-yolk omelet. The other things this place is known for (other than the excellent food) includes orange juice that you can watch being squeezed before it is brought to you, pure filtered water (in large tanks in the middle of the restaurant), and "the world's best coffee." A good food tip for big city eating is to find where the taxi drivers go and eat. This is the place.
My personal favorite thing about Lou's is the free donut holes they give you for simply walking through the front door. And the ladies get a free box of milk duds, though no one seems to know why. As far as diners go, this one ranks among the best. I eventually decided to order a Greek salad, although it isn't really diner food. I needed something light after the morning of car driving and train riding.
As of right now, I am in a small park right across the street from the Sears Tower. There are banners all around telling me that I should come see the newly renovated sky deck and that I should "come be a part of the new Sears Tower." No thanks. A lesson I learned from the seemingly hundreds of trips I have made to the top of the St. Louis Arch: an elevated view of the city is a view that basically looks the same every time. I went up there last year. I suspect the city looks the same.
This park, though, is very trendy feeling, warm and welcoming. There are small, foldout chairs sitting out for the drained lunch hour business people. There are also pieces of fiberglass furniture sitting about, painted black but brightly decorated with very vivid colors in abstract designs and random pictures. I am sitting on what I first considered to be a Lay-Z-Boy, but it is more like a chair and ottoman. If it weren't so hard, I would want it for my apartment.
It is amazingly cold here! I would guess that the temperatures are hovering in the mid-60s in the shade to the low-70s in the sun, which is horribly bright. I accidentally left my sunglasses with Hunter at the train station.
I guess the disadvantage of not making many plans is not really knowing what to do first. Sitting here, realizing my legs are now numb from sitting on the hard chair, I have to make my first big decision of Chicago: Where do I go?
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Tuesday, July 3 11:13pm
A full day and a half has passed since I sat in my wooden Lay-Z-Boy across the street from one of the largest skyscrapers in the world. Actually, it is very hard to believe it has been nearly thirty-six hours since I sat there, not knowing what to do in such a large city. I can see where the expression "New York Minute" came from. I have never had as many activity-filled hours in a row as I have in Chicago.
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After leaving the park, I walked down Jackson Blvd. just to pass away the time. It seemed like a good street on which to do such an activity. I eventually wandered to the Chicago Board of trade, which isn't hard to do when walking down Jackson. Thinking I could easily blow a good half-hour watching the exercise of pure capitalism, I walked in and asked the really tough-looking guy at the receptionist desk where to find the observation floor. "Fifth floor. Take the elevator around the corner." No problem.
Thank goodness there is easy access to the fifth floor from the fourth floor, where I accidentally got off the elevator.
There was a surprising amount of people on the fifth floor, but there was plenty of space on the observation deck so I could catch a view of the goings-on looking down on the trading floor (incidentally, also known as the "Fourth Floor"). It seemed to be a busy day down on the trading floor, though I have nothing to really compare it to. The sea of people screaming and gesturing seemed to be a textbook example of organized chaos. It seemed hectic down there. I watched and admired for quite a while.
Especially impressive was the guy whose job seemed only to involve ripping up pieces of paper and throwing them up in the air in a way so they rained down in a firework fashion. I didn't know if that was his only responsibility listed in his job description, or if he was just excited about the Fourth. Whether it is or isn't, he must have ripped up several thousand strips of paper during the forty or so minutes I stayed at the Board of Trade. I ended up spending my time watching this guy. Whatever importance his contribution has to the future of capitalism, it must be quite significant. I just wonder if he had to go to a specialty school to learn how to most effectively rip pieces of paper in two.
It was close to 1pm when I left the Board of Trade. It was about 1:15 when I arrived back to Union Station. I had to change $4 into quarters in order to get Hunter out of prison. It isn't cheap to store your bags in Chicago.
Since check-in wasn't for another 45 minutes, and my walking the streets of Chicago seemed to be going a lot quicker than my initial estimates, I decided to sit and read in the main sitting area at Union. The walk from the storage lockers to the main waiting area of Union led me by a very pretty, curly-hard brunette girl about my age who gave me a bright smile as she passed. I returned it, noticing that she, too, was carrying a backpack. She was heading towards the trains, not towards the sitting area, so her journey to Chicago was just ending. It was quite nice to get a friendly, albeit silent, exchange from a fellow backpacker. I wondered if she had stayed in the hostel.
Come to think of it, she could have been smiling as an attempt to hold back a full-blown laugh at Hunter. He isn't the prettiest thing in the world. I call him Hunter as a reflection of his color - bright hunter orange. It's hard to miss him. I guess a look on the bright side would suggest that he would be hard to confuse with fellow backpacks.
I sat and read until my eyelids started to rebel my lack of sleep over the past 24 hours. So, at around 1:45, I decided to load up Hunter and start my trek towards the hostel. I felt reasonably comfortable walking with Hunter while on the same block as Union Station. But I tell you this: once leaving Union, nothing makes you look more like an out-of-towner than a full-sized camping backpack strapped to your back and a foldout map in your hands. Likewise, no one makes a better target for laughs, stares, honks, swears, and just overall general bullying than an out-of-towner. I could see tomorrow's headline:
OUT-OF-TOWNER WALKS THROUGH DOWNTOWN CHICAGO
Locals enjoy distraction
Then you see a full-sized satellite photo of downtown Chicago with a big orange blob somewhere in the middle.
I ended up making it to the hostel in one piece with not a single snide look, honk, or swear. I guess the locals are used to me. "Me" as in young, intelligent, good-looking travelers looking for a fun time - or their hostel - in the Windy City. I didn't make it there without error, though. I ended up going down Van Buren street, which is one block north of Congress, where the hostel is. So, I ended up walking around a few unnecessary blocks until I figured how to read my map.
At the hostel reception desk, I was somewhat surprised - and consequently relieved - to see it almost completely staffed by young Asian ladies. I was relieved because I then knew it wasn't just bad luck that I got someone who couldn't speak good English. Nope. The whole lot of them couldn't.
I gave one of them my name and confirmation number, then asked, "One of you wouldn't happen to be Debby, would you?" After a few moments of them translating what I had just asked, a hand shot up in the middle of the group. Debby stepped forward smiling. I think she was excited that someone actually asked for her by name. Actually, I think all of the ladies were excited that someone asked for one of them by name. I suspect they don't get that too often.
Debby, also known in Asian circles as Shu-lian Chen, was probably one of the shortest reception desk workers there. She was rather cute - glasses, well kempt hair, a nice smile - and quite inquisitive. If she were American, I think I would have interpreted her as a flirt. But I think people from Asian countries learn how to have impeccable manners when they come here, as they are all very nice and polite. Debby (although I prefer using her real name, "Debby" is much easier to remember) and I would spend a good bit of time together during my stay in Chicago.
Debby gave me the room and bed assignment I would have for the night: Room 307, bunk 'B.' Bunk 'B' is a top bunk. I feel that top bunks are the best because you don't have a lot of the worries that bottom bunk fellows have. For example, you don't have to worry about people crawling all over you to get to their top bunk in the middle of the night. Since I have the top bunk, I can do all of the crawling and climbing.
I got to the third floor, saw the hallway with the sign that said, "Rooms 301-308 this way," and went that way. Following the room numbers down the hallway: 301, 303, 305, 321, 323, 325…" Why must room numbers do this? What happened to rooms 307-319? I honestly don't follow the logic behind the person who does this. Perhaps he was soon to be fired and decided to do this out of spite. Maybe a gang of ne'er-do-wells raided the hostel of these rooms.
I realized that I had to turn down two halls to get to the missing rooms. I wanted to find the imbecile who decided to number rooms like this and teach him a lesson. I wanted the last five minutes of my life back. Most of all I wanted to put Hunter down and take a bit of a rest.
I was delighted to find my room empty of any inhabitants, but I saw evidence that they would be there eventually since there were other breeds of backpacks laying on bunks, leaning on the wall, and resting in opened lockers. Seems like security wasn't much of an issue there, which I was glad to see. It seemed like a normal dorm room, except for the lack of any posters on the wall of nude women and small refrigerators tucked in the corner. There were clothes draped over chairs and shoes lying about. I didn't much care about any of that. Hunter went and rested in the corner. I went and rested in bunk 'B'.
Four hours later I woke up.
I was surprised to wake up so late. I was expecting to sleep only an hour or two. Actually, I probably would have slept a lot longer had another hosteller not unwrapped a CD case, the shrink-wrap screeching and scratching. I asked what time it was - a little past six - and decided to get up. On the way down from 'B', I saw an Indian fellow (from India) snoozing below me. He was decked out in fancy silk pajamas. They looked more comfortable than the clothes I slept in which I had been wearing since 3am.
I knew it was too late for any kind of museum tours, but I did want to do a little bit of walking around. I wanted to browse a few shops, see what the food situation was like in downtown Chicago and maybe meet a new friend or two. My ultimate goal, though, was to find a drugstore. I remembered to bring a toothbrush, and at the last minute I remembered to grab the toothpaste. But I left the toothpaste in the front seat of my car when I went running for the train. Thankfully, a Walgreens was right around the corner.
After getting the toothpaste, I remembered a store I passed while I was trying to figure out my street map. Called "The Savvy Traveler," it reflects a name of a radio program on National Public Radio that airs every Sunday morning. I don't know if they share the same funds or not. But I figured that I was both 1) savvy, and 2) a traveler, so off I went.
Although the prices were a little too high for my travel budget, I did find a few things in the store that I liked. I also saw a picture of one of the rowdiest, dirtiest, most redneck-laden bars in South Mississippi - The Broke Spoke - in a book in the "Travel America" section of the store. I was surprised, as I thought only people in Kiln and Picayune, Mississippi, knew about that place. Of all places… Chicago!
I decided to wait on food and head back to the hostel for a while. I figured that my best bet for finding a dinner buddy would be to go and sit in the common room. For the hostelling uncultured: most hostels have areas specifically set aside for meeting fellow travelers. This Chicago hostel has a rather large and comfortable meeting, or common, room. There are plenty of plush, comfortable chairs, a history display of Chicago and of the building that is now the hostel, a traveler's information desk, a ping-pong table, and about 10 internet computers that cost $1 for eight minutes of internet time.
The idea of meeting a complete stranger and becoming comfortable enough to go eat dinner with them seemed a bit daunting. I am not the best at going up to someone and starting a conversation with the intent on asking them to dinner. But sitting in the common room, conversation seemed to come to me. I think just sitting in the common room advertised that you were there to talk to anyone who would humor you.
Within a few minutes, I began to talk to a girl from Argentina. Valentina had been in Chicago for a couple of days and would be staying for the rest of the week. She had real short brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a pretty accent. Sitting beside her was a guy I assumed was also from Argentina but was actually a German native, age 29, who was studying in Baltimore, Maryland. He was working on his doctorate in Physics. His trip to Chicago was a prelude to six months of dissertation writing on the growing of crystals that can be used in laser making. He has quite the diurnata ahead of him. What's the Latin word for "spending six months writing a paper that no one will ever read"?
Across from me was Kelly, a freshly graduated architect from Kansas City, Missouri. She was just hired in Chicago at an architect firm and was up here finding an apartment. I found that most Americans I met at the hostel - though not many at all - were up looking for places to live. She seemed quite happy to have found a job in Chicago, as her eyes were bright with such a future ahead of her. She got giddy every time she talked about her new job. Though we just met, I also felt excited for her.
Jean-Luc was the next to walk up. He was from France. I assume he still is. He was a nice guy, though his French accent was strong, making it difficult to talk at length. I asked him - probably like any other American who watches any TV probably has asked - if he has ever watched Star Trek. He erupted in laughter; he assured me that many people have asked him the same question (an individualistic kind of guy, I am not). Then he kept saying, "I'm Jean-Luc Pee-caaaaaah," meaning Jean-Luc Picard, one of the main characters on that show. But that French accent made the name sound much richer. He also kept wondering why I had such a French-sounding name. Many other people asked the same question.
The next person to show up (we were beginning to become a crowd) was Gabriel, another guy from Argentina but from a different region than Valentina. He had a lot of facial hair - roughly shaven at best - long hair, loosely fitting clothes, and a strange combination of metal things in his hand that looked like a cup and a pipe got together one night and nine months later had a baby.
Had I been anywhere else in Chicago besides this particular hostel, I would have automatically assumed that the wet, green contents were some sort of drug - probably quite illegal. By the looks of the guy holding this contraption, the side effect of this illegal substance made your hair grow. But we were in a really great hostel, and he seemed like a calm, nice guy (could be from the drugs). But the curiosity was there, and I wondered what was in the cup.
"So, what's in the cup?" I asked with a smile. I assume you are less likely to get punched in the face if you are smiling. I also assume a swift punch in the face is the result of asking someone about their illegal drug. Either that or you lose something important, like your head. Either way, smiling reduces the threat significantly.
"Oh, this is Maté, the national drink of Argentina. It isn't drugs." Was I thinking out loud again? "It comes from a plant very similar to the kind of plant tea leaves come from. Would you like to try it?" I met this guy less than one minute ago. I just was told that this wasn't anything illegal, but for all I knew, he was trying to get me addicted so I would be his next regular customer. The kindergarten lessons were flooding back into memory. Mom's warnings about taking things from strangers were screaming in my mind. But I decided to have more faith in humankind than that. I am actually way too trusting, probably more than what is good for me. This guy smiled a lot too. At least we had that in common. So, intuition took over and I took a drink.
It tasted like tea. It also had a slight taste of sushi-grade seaweed, but that could have just been a fragment of my imagination. It wasn't bad at all, really. My Americanized tongue probably would have preferred a drop or two of honey or perhaps a little bit of sugar to sweeten it up slightly. But all in all, it was a very good hot drink. Gabriel carried along a Thermos bottle full of hot water so he could keep his Maté full and warm.
The next-to-last person to arrive was Inbar, a very attractive girl from Israel. This was her last night in Chicago until taking the Greyhound down to St. Louis where she would spend a couple of days and then end up in New Orleans. After hearing her plans, I was tempted to call work, tell them I was quitting and travel with Inbar. The only thing keeping me back was that I had already seen plenty of St. Louis and New Orleans to last quite a while. Inbar had very dark brown hair, light eyes, and a slim body. She was intelligent, funny, and quite adventuresome. She tended to forget English when she got tired - another good reason for not quitting work right yet as my Hebrew isn't up to par.
Ting showed up last, a Japanese exchange student living in Michigan. She didn't really talk all that much, so I never got to learn much about her. I think the deepest we delved into her past was that she was allergic to alcohol. Bummer.
Once the group was established, we decided to catch the "El," Chicago's Elevated train (though it sometimes goes underground as well), to some random suburb that a couple of people had learned of earlier. Supposedly there were some pubs in the area that had live music and good beer. I was up for anything, as long as I could get something to eat. I was starting to get hungry.
The town looked seedy at best. It looked like a whole community of people stuck in the hippy culture. It didn't look like the intellectual center of Chicago for sure. But then again, we weren't really looking for the intellectual center of Chicago. It wasn't my idea of a great place, but Gabriel really loved it there. Inbar wanted to go down dark streets in search of a bar, but we pretty much talked her into staying on the main road.
We walked for about a mile before coming across the Holiday Bar and Grill. They had great outside seating, we were all hungry, and most of us wanted a pint of beer of some kind. I got a grilled portabella sandwich, as did Valentina. Inbar got chips and salsa since she had never heard of salsa before. Gabriel, surprising me with everything he did or said, got coffee and a salad. He doesn't like to drink, and he loves salad. Major lesson learned: appearances are greatly misinterpreted when traveling. Quoting Mark Twain:
"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things can not be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."
This is a terribly important lesson to learn, especially when meeting people from around the world. From our conversation over coffee and beer, I learned that Gabriel treasured things like good music, coffee, great friendships and making fond memories. I realized that he was someone from whom I could definitely learn something. He was a truly wise person, and I wanted to learn more.
When the drinks all arrived, Gabriel rose up his coffee mug and invited everyone to a toast. He wanted to toast to new friendships and celebrate the night together. It would have been a very touching toast, if only he would have better translated the American holidays.
"I want to toast to new friends, a perfect evening, good memories and a happy Christmas."
After eating our fabulous meal, we sat and talked for about an hour and a half learning about each others' cultures, predilections and tastes, and telling jokes from around the world. It was fantastic conversation. I learned so much. I felt a large amount of pride to be in the company of these people. Each of them was incredibly beautiful with a deepness and sincerity in their words that is hard to find in normal conversation. I had never been in such a diverse group of people, and the idea of world peace and harmony didn't seem far away; in fact, it was right there outside Holiday Bar and Grill. At times, I found myself just scanning the group of people sitting around our table and feeling lucky that I was there that night.
Sitting to my left was Gabriel; to my right was Inbar. She drank enough to where she couldn't translate English much more. Quite funny, I think. It is a disadvantage of alcohol I had never before considered. Gabriel and I got to talking about music. He runs a record store in his hometown in Argentina; he loves all kinds of music, his favorite being disco. With my prejudices, I would have considered him a hard rock and rap kind of guy. His favorite James Taylor song is "Goin' to Carolina." When he told me that, I had no doubts that this guy was all right.
Before she got quiet, Inbar told me how her family made it to Israel from Poland, where her grandparents lived up until the Holocaust. "It's not until recently that they even talk about Poland. They lost everything there." She also said that her last name - Daum - is one of the only German-sounding names she knows of in Israel.
After dinner, much of the group went to a dance club. I found out - a little too late - that Valentina and Ting decided to head back to the hostel. If I had known, I would have tagged along with them. Dance clubs normally aren't my cup of tea. I may be missing the whole point of the thing, but for social places, you don't really get to know much about people without screaming loudly at them. For a place to meet people and make first impressions, you have to scream as loudly as you can for hours, just so you can ask what her name is. I am more of an orchestra and dancehall kind of guy, where you can hold your girl close and whisper sweet nothings in her ear as you waltz the night away. I guess I was born into the wrong generation.
The dance club was completely empty when we got in. I ordered a beer - which cost too much - and stood at the bar, which had no chairs. People eventually started to trickle in. The music had the same beat for hours, and it was deafening. The transvestites were a bit distracting. So were the large amount of guys and girls dancing with members of the same sex.
I think it was a gay bar.
Inbar started to get really tired. I was sick of the music. So, we left. I feel like Gabriel didn't want to go, as he was having a great time. I hated to pull him away, but I was concerned about Inbar. She looked to be getting overly tired and hot. When we got off the El in downtown Chicago, I was surprised to see that the streets were completely empty. For a town that is so busy during the day, it seems to be quite good at rolling up the sidewalks at night. If I needed something during the night, I don't think I would know where to go until the next day.
The bunch of us moved into the hostel kitchen and eating area and drank weak coffee from the coffee machine. We joked and talked some more, exchanged email addresses, and pointed out places on the big map hanging on the wall where we have been and where we would like to go. We seemed to lose someone to sleep about one person every half-hour. Eventually, all that remained was Gabriel, me, and 2am. Besides the small nap I had earlier, I had been up since 3:30am the morning before. I didn't want the evening to end, but I eventually had to surrender to the night.
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Day Two
I didn't sleep too well. It probably all started when I sneaked into the room, hearing the muffled, heavy breathing of my unseen roommates, and tried as intricately and inconspicuously as possible to clear off my bed, lay down a primitive layer of sheets and pillowcases, and get undressed - all while being as quiet as humanly possible. For such a small task, I ended up laying in my bunk, face up, sweating and out of breath. I probably ended up waking everyone in the room, but I did it quietly, thank you very much. I tried to make it known that I was doing everything quietly so if I did wake someone up, they would realize I was at least attempting to be quiet and they wouldn't come over and whack me in the head.
After finally drifting off to sleep, I couldn't really stay asleep for exceptionally long periods of time. I can think of a few reasons why:
1. I had two cups of coffee - extra strong with medium sweetener and extra "whitener" - right before going to bed. And they weren't even all that good. For extra strong coffee, it was terribly weak.
2. I was still on a high about the success of my first day in Chicago. I had already seen and done so much that the excitement of the day was still pulsing through my veins.
3. The "El," Chicago's Elevated train, ran right by my hostel window. It normally wouldn't have been much of a problem, as I have been described as able to sleep through anything short of a nuclear blast near my head. If there were contests in the ability to sleep on command and for lengths of time, I believe I would win. But, the combination of excitement and coffee amplified the rukta-rukta-rukta of the train going by at all hours of the night.
4. I was afraid of oversleeping, thus costing me another day. Checkout was at 11, but I was to meet someone at 10:30. That was more important than being late for checkout. So, every time the El woke me up, I wondered what time it was. (Note to self: Buy a watch!)
I finally got up, showered, dressed, and packed as hurriedly as I could, scared that I missed my meeting. The more the minutes passed, the more I could envision my friend standing on the street corner wondering where I was. Poor girl. She probably thought I had been mugged, or worse, gotten lost.
I put Hunter on my back and rushed down to the check-in desk. Debby was working, and I gave her a big smile. She inquired about my day and made me assure I would be back at the end of the week. I looked up and saw it was only 9:30, plenty of time to leisurely make it to the corner of Union and Clinton. I had learned from my friends the night before that I could store my bags at the hostel all day for a small fee of $1, a lot cheaper than at Union Station, where the same amount would buy me only 30 minutes.
I took Hunter down to the first floor, gave it to the security guy, gave him a dollar, and started to head out. I looked in the café that was also on the first floor, seeing Inbar, Jean-Luc and Ting eating a light breakfast. I stepped in for a bit to see what their plans were for the rest of the day. Inbar was back to her good ole English talking self. It sounded like they were going to spend a majority of the day at the Chicago Institute of Art - one of the most beautiful, most extensive art museums in the world. I was happy to hear this, as I wanted to show off my new friends to my old friend, as I was hoping we would go to the art museum that day. I promised I would see them all again, but I had an appointment I had to keep.
I stepped out the front door and noticed for the first time - despite all of the windows in the hostel - that the weather was quite dreary and bleak. Perhaps even drab. It's rare you see a genuinely drab day, but I think I was seeing one on that day. It was raining a constant drizzle, the wind was blowing, and it was unbelievably cold for July. I would say mid- to upper 50s. It didn't matter what direction I was facing, the rain was in my face. The tops of almost all of the buildings were not visible because of the low-lying clouds. The Sears Tower was hardly visible at all. Had I not known its massive size, I wouldn't have believed it if you told me.
Yes. It was definitely drab.
I stopped at a crosswalk, and there were a few other out-of-towners along with me. I leaned over and said, "Kinda a drab day today."
"Yes. Drab it is. The weather guy said it would be sunny and warm today."
I didn't have the luxury of a television to see a weather guy, but I was just glad I got confirmation on my observation. It was, indeed, drab, and I was walking in the whole mess. I knew it wouldn't take long to get to Union Station, and I didn't know what I would do while I waited for my friend. Normally, on a sunny and warm day, I would have sat against the wall and read. But I didn't feel like getting my bottom all wet.
I was there to meet an old high school friend, Lisa Kemp, whom I hadn't seen in eight years. She and I, along with Jenny and Paul, ate lunch every day together for the first two years I was in high school. They graduated after that second year, and I hadn't seen any of them since then. Jenny and Paul went on to get married, and all three of them live in the same neighborhood on the outskirts of Chicago. Lisa and I hadn't talked much at all until we had just recently begun talking over the Internet. We have very similar senses of humor, intellectual interests and points of view. We mostly chatted on the Internet, but I finally called her a few days before my trip. Seeing Lisa was definitely something I was looking forward to doing.
Since our meeting time was at 10:30, and it was around 10:00 when I made it to Union Station, I decided to call mom and tell her that I was still alive. Her main concern was that I was going to be killed in Chicago. Her main concern is that I will be killed somewhere, anywhere. So, it is always a good idea to call home periodically just to reassure her that I was still alive. Plus, I was still excited about the previous night, and I wanted to tell her all about it.
We talked for the entire 30 minutes I had to wait. I described Union Station (how beautiful I thought it was), downtown Chicago (how safe I felt), and the hostel (how secure it is). I tried to illustrate in as many ways as possible how unlikely it would be for me to get my head kicked off by some street tough. She was glad that I was having fun, and she told me that she wanted to visit Chicago one day as well. After numerous reminders about how unsafe big cities are and that I shouldn't sit in any parks for too long (for risk of losing my head, I guess), we hung up and back out into the elements I went. I felt loved, and I was grateful to have a mom who cares enough to worry. Not everyone has that luxury.
Lisa and I met at the wet intersection; each of us took the few moments of readjustment to the changes eight years will do to a person. It was good to see an old friend in such a busy town. I decided then that eight years is too long of a gap between friends.
I insisted Lisa meet Lou Mitchell, though I was a bit concerned that she would become addicted to this café. She was to move back to Mississippi within the month so she could get her doctorate in polymer science. The withdrawal from Lou's would be hell.
Lou Mitchell met Lisa with donut holes and a box of Milk Duds, as he did for me 24 hours earlier. We sat down, and I must admit that I was a bit disappointed that Lisa only ordered a bagel and cream cheese. Different strokes for different folks, I know, but still… This is Lou Mitchell's! I got a mushroom, tomato and Swiss cheese double-yolked omelet with a side of hash browns. Lou's must use at least a half dozen eggs for their omelets, as I was starving and yet could only eat half of the omelet. I did scarf down the complimentary prune and orange wedge, though.
After a pleasant breakfast full of catching up and laughing, we headed east towards Lake Michigan. The first item on our agenda was a tour of the art museum. As we neared the Chicago Board of Trade, Lisa mentioned that she had never been there. So, up we went, getting off on the right floor this time. We watched for a bit while Lisa verbalized some of the same items of awe I internalized the day before. I explained how the buyers and sellers stood at different places, how there were certain people overlooking and reporting the prices of each trade going on, and what some of the hand signals meant; I also explained that, during the heat of intense trading, a raised middle finger wasn't a widely recognized trading gesture. She seemed as disappointed as I was by that fact.
Lisa wanted to go spread rumors that the price of corn was skyrocketing so she could somehow make some kind of extra spending money. I expressed my doubt that it would work; she agreed. So, we left the Board of Trade and continued our trek to the art museum.
I figured that Tuesday would be the ideal time to hit the art museum because, during the summer months, Tuesdays are free days at many Chicago museums. It would definitely save some cash, plus we would get out of the rain and drab. We went in and immediately got hounded by the bag police. Turns out, you have to check in any bags, umbrellas, purses, baby strollers, babies, or anything other than basic outer garments worn in a tasteful manner. Lisa and I consolidated all of our stuff into my day backpack and stood in the long, winding "mouse maze" line so we could give the highly irritable bag ladies my bag and a one-dollar bill. For me, the $1 wasn't a problem, but it could easily add up, considering the number of items you had to check.
For a nice, serene, intellectual center of Chicago, Lisa and I made adequate fools of ourselves. If you ever meet up with a friend you haven't seen for nearly a decade - especially one that knows how to really make you laugh - don't go somewhere where you are supposed to be all quiet and mature. "Nude Woman Floating in Water," though generally a thought provoking study in light and composition, ended up being the inside joke of the time we were together. We were shot a snide look or two. We joked why medieval body armor was no longer in use (the can opener was invented) and why the Greeks, shown by their statues, had no arms (they all fell off of cliffs while trying to scratch their bottom sides until evolution gave them arms).
We made fools of ourselves for a good four hours or so. My feet were aching. I wasn't used to standing up for so long. My job requires adequate sitting on the butt. My feet don't get much experience in holding my overweight body. Plus, my stomach was starting to show a bit of concern about where lunch would come from. As luck would have it, the Taste of Chicago was going on right behind the art museum.
Let me spend a moment or two describing the Taste of Chicago; or, as it was described to me, the Mardi Gras of food festivals, minus the boobs. The city was expecting 3.8 million people to attend the festival for the 10 days that the festivities would be going on. For the mathematically inclined, that's an average of 380,000 per day eating from 64 food booths. It's a complete practice of gluttony, celebrating the many facets thereof. I have never been the one to judge, so who am I to say that gluttony is all that bad? Therefore, I ate.
And ate.
There is a process of diving headfirst into the greatness of the Taste. And I was glad I had Lisa there to show me how to do it most efficiently. First, you stand in line to buy tickets like you would do at a carnival. They sell tickets in strands of ten for $5. Again, for the mathematically inclined, that's only 50¢ per ticket. But, the terrible amounts of work that counting $5, counting ten tickets, and exchanging the two items must have proved to be way too much work for the ticket people (Surely they have a title other than "Ticket People," as they looked like they wanted one. I didn't ask. I was thinking about food). So, all of this hard work made them impose a $1 handling fee to help them overcome their woes.
While waiting for the Ticket People, I noticed that the ticket booth was completely surrounded by endless rows of Pots-O-Gold (Port-O-Potties). I figured it was a sort of "Taste of Chicago" for flies. Perhaps its location was for the convenience of the binge-and-purgers. Another possibility was that they were running out of food and figured that this would be a way of cutting down on ticket sales.
Maybe it was just really, really bad planning.
Lisa and I did what I call tag-team eating. I bought ten tickets, Lisa bought five, and she had three left from her visit the weekend before I came. We agreed to share our tickets and food, thus providing us the best coverage and the best use of our tickets. Analyze, divide, and conquer. Our strategy was militaristic, but there was a lot of food to eat. The good fight was to be fought hard.
I ended up not eating everything at the Taste, but I ate everything I wanted to eat. The following is a complete list of what I ate, in the order I ate them, and what I thought of them:
1. Cajun Alligator: Both Lisa and I were expecting this to be fried and possibly on a stick. It was instead smothered - overly smothered, in my opinion - in a super-spicy sauce that didn't make me too incredibly happy. It had the word "Cajun" in the name and it was spicy. Go figure...
2. Crab Rangoon: Always a favorite of mine in Chinese restaurants, this particular Crab Rangoon had a distinct shape. I think so it could hold more stuffing. It was quite good. Then again, Crab Rangoon tastes like Crab Rangoon no matter where you eat it.
3. Toasted Ravioli: You don't see this much in the South. I was introduced to it when I neared St. Louis, where I have been told it originated. It is one of my favorites, and it tasted just right. They gave me plenty of tomato sauce. Taste of Chicago planners must enjoy giving lots of sauce.
4. Roasted Corn on the Cob: Dipped in a five-gallon tub of melted butter, this corn was all right! It was grilled with the husk still on, which kept it sweet and juicy.
5. Mustard Fried Catfish: "Best thing on Earth," was my initial assessment of this wonderful catfish, first dipped in mustard before being battered and fried. The mustard taste was just a hint, but enough to make you addicted. Lisa agreed. Good ole' Lisa.
6. Fried Plantains: A food I was introduced to only a few months previous, these were quite good. Perhaps a "sneeze" of cinnamon and nutmeg would have improved it a bit.
7. Baklava: As sweet and rich as any other baklava I have ever had. This one, though, was impossible to cut, forcing Lisa and me to use our fingers. Tasty!
8. French Vanilla Ice Cream: Dessert number two. It was sweet, tasty and runny. I needed a napkin.
It was a day full of embarrassing ourselves at the museum and stuffing our faces at the Taste. It was a day that lessons from a decent and civilized upbringing were thrown out the door. We were quite exhausted. Our feet hurt. We looked at the schedule for the Taste and saw that a pop band was to play soon and so we went to find a shady spot where there was a particularly soft patch of grass. Other than the ground still being a bit wet, the weather had improved to near perfection. The temperature was in the mid-70s, there wasn't a single cloud in the sky, and the breeze coming off of the lake - not 100 meters away - was constant and cool.
We listened to the music - while sitting down, mind you - talking about all kinds of nothings that are important only when you are tired and your belly is full. We sat for quite a while during which time we managed to laugh at a few cops walking through who seemed to be looking for any scraps of food anyone may have left behind; observe a kid who tried - quite unsuccessfully - to ride his bike up a hill; and talk about the plans for the rest of the day.
The Taste was becoming increasingly full. Although this was July 3rd, this was the day that Chicago was going to put on its Independence Day fireworks show at 9:30. We had originally planned to stick around to see the show, catching one of the last trains to get back to Lisa's. But the more the wind blew, the more tired I became. And each breeze seemed to bring in another thousand people. This combination of exhaustion, a full stomach, and millions of people made fireworks seem awfully bland. My mind was quickly reasoning that I had seen numerous fireworks displays in my life. Looking back through memory, they all seemed to look the same. I doubted this one would have been much different.
I proposed my feelings to Lisa, and she liked my reasoning skills. We got up, checked each other for muddy bottoms (I offered to take a picture of hers with my digital camera so she could look for herself, she declined), and headed off to the hostel to fetch my things.
No lie: For every one person leaving the park that afternoon, there were easily two to three thousand people entering. The concentration of people at the park was beginning to become downright ridiculous. I was really liking the choice we made.
I showed Lisa around the hostel. She seemed impressed, saying that it looked nicer than she thought it would look. I saw Inbar and Kelly one last time before they left for their respective destinations. It was good to see my new friends one last time, as I knew I would most likely never see them again.
Lisa and I made our way to Northwest Train station, a very modern and comfortable train station. There were literally two police officers on every corner directing foot and motor traffic. I felt like sending a telegram:
Dear Mom, Chicago feels safe. No chance of being killed. Thinking of you. Love, JP
Every train entering Chicago from the many surrounding suburbs was standing room only, packed as much as the train cars could pack. Lisa and I arrived about five minutes too late to catch the 6:30 train to Algonquin, Illinois, where she lives. We definitely ran to try and catch it, a hard task to do with a fully-packed backpack on your shoulders. I was out of breath and a bit disappointed that we didn't make it. But there was another train going in that direction at 7:30, so we got some iced coffees and watched the multitude of people arrive to see fireworks. As the minutes passed with a constant stream of people passing by, I felt the need to toot my own horn. "Jon-Paul, you had one fine idea back there about leaving early," I said to myself.
"Thanks," I replied.
The train ride back was quite relaxing. It was an hour-long ride back to Algonquin. If you could judge the amount of activity that was going on at the destination by the number of people on the train, there was nothing going on in Algonquin. The train was quite empty, save a few older people sitting here and there. There was plenty of room to stretch out. I was able to get caught up on some post cards while Lisa decided to act on her creativity inspiration from the art museum. She drew a little bit of artwork in my mini travel journal. "Stick People at the Lake," was a bit of train riding artwork genius. It was a lot better than I could have done.
Surefire sign that you are "A Southern Tourist in a Big City" #1249: When the train rides alongside the interstate, you spend a good ten minutes waving at people to see how many wave back. Just for statistical knowledge: None of them do.
We arrived in Algonquin at around 8:45 and headed straight for Lisa's house, which was very nice. We didn't stay long as I wanted to surprise Paul and Jenny. I told Lisa not to tell them I was coming. I assumed they would be enjoy a bit of a surprise visit.
It was a fun surprise, and they seemed to be happy to see me. I walked in and saw that Jenny's mother was also there for a visit. It was by far the largest concentration of Picayune people that northern Illinois - heck, probably all of Illinois - has ever seen. It was a meeting of the best of the South. It was PICAYUNE FEST 2001!!! And I wondered why our train earlier wasn't absolutely packed.
We only stayed at Paul and Jenny's house for an hour. We asked the normal, generic catch-up questions that old friends ask while still adjusting: How are you? How have you been? What are you doing these days? How's your mom-an-dem? (For your typical Southerner.) I met Bo-bo, one of the Robbins' two family pets. Bo, for short, was a white Labrador who had a fondness for stepping on peoples' feet. He also enjoyed putting his paws on peoples' shoulders and looking them straight in the eye. Despite these inane qualities, he still had more manners than some of the people I had seen earlier.
We all made plans for breakfast in the morning. All of us but the dog, of course. We invited along Ms. Sprouse, but she insisted that "the kids" go out on their own and do some catching up. All of this work making a name for myself, all of the schooling I have been through, the years dedicated to making a career, just to still be considered one of "the kids." Although we didn't mind her tagging along, it was a sweet gesture to let us go out alone.
Lisa and I could barely stand the exhaustion, so we made a hasty exit from the Robbins' and went back to her place. We exchanged night-ending pleasantries and went into our respective bedrooms. She checked her email (receiving the one I had sent the night before, frantically inquiring where we had planned to meet since I forgot to write it down. Email only seems to work when both parties participate). I tried to do a bit of catching up in my journal. I didn't last long, though. I went to sleep, realizing my journey was half-way over.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lisa let me sleep in her bed.
Clarification: Lisa slept upstairs in her guest bedroom, and she let me take her bedroom. I tried to argue against it, but she insisted on being an exceptional host. Her bed was king sized, wonderfully firm, warm, and cozy. I slept very soundly, not even waking up when she showered in the bathroom that was right next to the room where I slept. I finally woke up at 8:30, lay there for fifteen minutes, and got up to see Lisa showered and ready to go. She made some comment about my bed-head - a remark I chose to ignore. Forty-five minutes later, I was also showered and ready to go.
We met up with Paul and Jenny and went to some kind of fancy breakfast restaurant specializing in any kind of pancake or waffle you could ever want. I was starving and was originally wanting to get their house specialty: a six-stack of fresh buttermilk pancakes. At the last minute, I decided to order something from the "gourmet" section of the menu: potato pancakes.
Paul ordered about a third of the total menu - Belgium waffles, pancakes, and an omelet - thus making our order to come out after a long wait so the cooks could order the extra supplies. Married life must make you hungry.
The potato pancakes, though good, were less than filling. But, after the previous day's gluttony fest at the Taste, I wasn't looking to stuff myself again. After we finished our breakfasts, Fourth of July duties were assigned: Paul and I would go buy a grill, groceries, assemble the grill (Paul) and start cooking (me). Lisa, Jenny, and Ms. Sprouse were to go to the mall. It was hardly a fair separation of work, but the girls were happy with it. And that's what counts.
It took Paul about three hours to assemble the grill. Coincidentally, it took me the same amount of time to make a dry rub, apply it, and let the six pounds of pork ribs to pre-bake. During this time, Paul introduced me to his other dog, whose real name evades me. I tended to call him Satan.
Satan was a white dog, not much taller than a foot, and probably as long as he was tall. I think if you would have wetted him down and fed him a huge meal, he would have weighed fifteen pounds. That was a guess, though, as I refused to pick up Satan to check his weight. I love appendages like fingers, ears, and noses - especially my own. Satan was, by far, the meanest dog I had ever encountered, and he had an affinity for human flesh.
You see, Satan had a natural, deeply embedded dog instinct to hate anyone - especially anyone named Jon-Paul. Since I am so unlucky as to have said name, it was Satan's foremost desire to kill, maul, devour, or otherwise maim me. He didn't care about which came first, just as long as I could have been processed into lawn fertilizer within 36-48 hours. |
