Jolted from a reverie incited by the beauty of the mountains and high desert of the Colorado Plateau, only one short week later I found myself on a rocket to Chicago on business.
The initial shock and ensuing depressive state of the extreme cultural shift threw me off balance only temporarily. With very little delay, I was quickly back on my feet again, hiking the valleys between skyscrapers, and wandering the one river trail available.
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| Looking East along the Chicago River from the DuSable Bridge |
Architects try repeatedly to match the beauty of the natural features such as the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, creating towering structures of glass and concrete, with yawning chasms that generally lead only to busy city streets.
Their efforts always fail to consider inclusion of a peaceful valley, where one might walk quietly along a mountain stream contemplating greater things. They are successful on one count only; replicating an environment conducive to producing predators.
I imagined all of these things as I wandered the streets of Chicago each evening for a week, making every effort to remember the journey to Colorado and Utah in as much detail as possible, as I have still not completed writing on that particular adventure. Time will tell if I was successful.
. . .
The flight out of Kansas City was a harrowing experience, with stormy weather only beginning to announce its arrival with a few low flying clouds and blustery winds. Informed that there would be no snacks or beverages during the flight, if there was any doubt as to why, the reason became abundantly clear, just after leaving the ground.
I am not particularly afraid of flying; falling from such a great height concerns me most. Indeed, with my knuckles glowing white clenching the arm of the seat, I perceived many of my comrades sympathizing. We landed safely though, and to much more fair weather than when we departed.
Quickly deciphering the various options related to attain my hotel destination with the aid of Google Maps, I found the Orange Line to be the most expedient of all of the choices available. The affair would only take about 45 minutes total, including a 15-minute ride on a bus.
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| Map of the Chicago Elevated Train System — Chicago Transportation Authority - 2016 |
While I have been a traveler on similar situations in New York, Washington DC, and San Diego, I had never had the opportunity to ride what Chicagoans simply and affectionately call “The L.” The experience alone is worth the effort. Some of the most interesting folks lurk within the public transportation system, and you can quickly gauge the relatively friendliness of any particular metropolitan area. Chicago is no exception.
I found the train empty at Midway though. Only one other person resided in the car I had chosen, and he had taken the very seat I was hoping to obtain. The perfectly positioned seat facing forward, could give one the illusion of actually driving the train. Two others straggled in just before the doors closed, looking somewhat frightened, angry, and lost all at once. They moved down the train though, whispering their fears between one another.
The one that had acquired the best seat was an odd fellow, who continually glanced suspiciously at me throughout the entire trip. On a couple of occasions I thought I would make some attempt to reassure him that I would make no effort to displace him from the prize. Just as I decided such a statement was past due, he stood for the next stop and scurried out the door.
A hoard people also entered at that stop. I think it was Ashland. It is hard to know for certain, since the announcer had proclaimed the previous three stops to be Ashland. I was concerned that he would announce all of the stops that way, so remained in my set in order to retain a perfect view of the station name outside the window, assuming those would not repeat unnecessarily.
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| Chicago Theater signage near the State/Lake Station |
State/Lake Station loomed outside the window, and I disembarked in search of the next adventure in public transportation. The folks on this particular portion of the route had not been especially friendly or talkative. Many of them simply scowled or stared blankly out of the window, and avoiding all eye contact.
Those that seemed friendly enough, and whom I might have enjoyed a superficial conversation with, were duly engrossed in conversation with their traveling companions in an entirely different language. That was deterrent enough to remove me from the conversation.I have no experience with Swahili, Aramaic, or Khoisan. My German is questionable at best, so I stick with straightforward transactions in my native English.
Pondering the situation momentarily, it seemed as though I was close enough to march on down to Ontario Street from there. However, should the need arise to return to Midway by the same route, I thought it more prudent to continue with the original plan.
My small bag and grossly overstuffed backpack made for slow progress as well, so I wobbled on down the stairs and across the street to hop on the bus. A friend would later remark that I should have just jumped the Red Line, but for whatever reason, Google never identified that option.
The 10/146 arrived in only a few minutes, and I greeted a somber crowd who only stared curiously at me until our gaze met, and then they quickly looked away. Nobody spoke as the bus lumbered towards and then down Michigan Avenue stopping it seemed, about every 20 feet or so.
I was beginning to believe that I had completely lost my hearing, when an elderly woman boarded, whom I immediately offered my seat. She shattered the illusion with a smile, declining and thanking me in a soft voice that echoed unusually loud off the apparent mutes that packed the bus.
Chicagoans are an odd breed when it comes to conversation. Most ignore each other on the street, unless they are paired up for a particular mission. Otherwise, they do not seem interested in talking with unknowns, except perhaps to curse and yell when some issue or another proves unsatisfactory; and then, prefer to use car horns, before vocalizing.
Being from more westerly points, where all manner of conversation occurs between individuals whom hardly know one another, all of this can be a little unsettling at times though.
My friends from the City have assured me that this is perfectly normal, even translating the language of the horn, although I generally understand it fairly well. When you hear it directed at you, move! Down the street, out of the way, away, does not really matter.
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| Looking south along Michigan Avenue from Ontario Street |
Finally arriving at Ontario & Michigan, I was more than ready to get off the bus, as it had become as packed as a sardine can, and the silence deafening. I got up from my seat and bumped a few people as I attempted to plow a path to the door before it closed, offering verbal apologies along the way, and receiving only wild-eyed stares in return.
The folks at the hotel shattered any preconceived notions related to interaction with those from Chicago, offering a warm and friendly environment, along with a good dose of conversation, before offering up the keys to my room. Boarding the elevator, I encountered others like myself, obviously in need of conversation with unknowns too.
After taking some time to settle in to my home for the week on the 20th floor, and soaking in the fantastic view my room afforded, I retreated to the streets of the downtown Loop. I spent nearly every evening of my stay wandering about admiring architecture and puzzling over the mass of humanity migrating here and there along Michigan Avenue. The weather was perfect for this sort of enterprise too, with temperatures hovering near 30°C every day.
Lake Michigan seemed as good as any destination, since I was only a few blocks away, so I started in that direction to have look at what might be developing there. A wall of traffic put this ambition in check quickly and I detoured south, ultimately choosing to discover what sources of sustenance were available, and wander around the River Walk.
The sources available were of the hopelessly generic kind, but I was happy to discover that the River Walk had undergone a relatively large renovation project since my last visit, making the area more enjoyable to the average citizen and less desirable to those engaged in questionable enterprises. Yet, some of the latter still occurred at random intervals.
. . .
After meeting with friends for Pho at little place up on the north side of town called Cafe Hoang the next evening, which was every bit as tasty as they promised, they dragged me over to a place called The Magic Hedge, and associated waterfront. I am still not quite sure where the place obtained its name, but I have a suspicion the magic is likely something better left undisclosed among polite circles.
It might have only been the rustling of birds, as the location is also home to the Montrose Bird Sanctuary. Birdwatchers have recorded more than 300 different species of birds at the site. As darkness descended, the shadows and noises seemed much too large for attribution to our fine feathered friends; that is, unless all 300 hundred were gathering in the same location.
. . .
I wandered alone around the north side of the river the next evening, after a fine round of Fish & Chips and accompanied by a Blueberry Blonde at Timothy O’Toole’s. Making it as far west as State Street, I zigzagged northward towards Chicago Avenue, then back down along Michigan Avenue.
Along the way, I encountered one of my favorite little buildings, the Cable House. A Richardsonian Romanesque-style house built in 1886 for a local socialite, it is a marvelous little castle with a courtyard that easily could have inspired numerous fantasy novels, especially with the array of multi-colored lighting on this particular evening.
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| Fountain at the Cable House Courtyard at night |
I am not sure exactly what drew me, but with a little time to kill the next evening, I drifted down to the Chicago Cultural Center. I had never been and it seemed as good a destination as any other. Roaming stairways and corridors containing some beautiful and artfully decorated interior architecture, I eventually found myself standing under the monstrous Tiffany dome, and remembered why I had been so interested in coming.
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| Tiffany Dome at the Chicago Cultural Center |
Staggering around staring at this ceiling for longer than was likely necessary, and probably attracting undue attention judging from the guards that began to appear in my peripheral, I realized I was running behind to meet my friends again for dinner, and sought a quick exit.
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| Mosaic under the staircase near the south entrance of the Chicago Cultural Center |
I quickly made my way back up Michigan Avenue to Huron and joined with friends for a brief ride out to Twisted Spoke. Identifying itself as a “Biker Bar,” I saw more of the trendy sort lingering than anything else, but it was good fun and good food with good company, from an upper deck providing for decent views of the surrounding area, and part of downtown.
Dining is very likely not the primary focus here though. The food menu is only a page long; the beer menu goes on for three pages. On top of that, they were hosting a half-price whiskey night; that menu, even longer than that for the beer. I leaned heavily on our server for the final decision on those latter points. It was simply too much reading.
After conspiring to meet again the following evening, my comrades retired for the evening, depositing me in front of my hotel once again. I was not feeling very tired though, so went a wandering again.
Just as I was arriving at Cityfront Plaza, I heard explosions and thought perhaps the City was under attack. I crouched and started to quickly make for a nearby concrete barrier when I noticed other folks in the area who stood their ground, unconcerned; some, clapping and yelling at towards some activity occurring to the east of the City.
Turning my attention in that direction, I realized it was only fireworks at the Navy Pier, and the location just happened to provision a grand view of the spectacle. I remain unsure of the special occasion, but it was quite lively and very much worth the 10 minutes wasted.
It was beginning to get late, so I headed back to Michigan Avenue from there, wanting to make a stop down at the Chicago Water Tower. It is such a wonderful old stone building with a storied past, as one of the few survivors of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Nearly 9 square kilometers of the old lakeside village burned in that event, but this structure and a few others firmly stood their ground. It is mostly unremarkable in the daylight but at night, the shadows cast from carefully placed lighting give it an perfectly beautiful ominous appearance.
. . .
My final night in Chicago arrived, much sooner than I expected, and much hotter than any of us thought it would be. Humidity had rolled in and the temperature jumped up to 34°C.
One would think I would have paused at this point and called for a lift to meet my comrades for the evening’s adventures. However, there were scheduling conflicts related to our escape times, and it seemed so unnecessary anyway. Making my way to join with them at the Aon Center, I almost wished I had called for ride.
The sun was sinking behind the superstructures quickly though, and shade was becoming more abundant, so the wish vanished before it had time to congeal. There was a moment of confusion in the heat, while I lingered at the southwest corner of the building waiting. She agreed to meet me there. However, I was unaware that corner of the building extended below street level.
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| A view of the southwest corner of the Aon Building |
Resolving this minor crisis, we promptly detoured through a nearby market to organize accompaniment to our scheme for the evening, related to lounging on the lawn. This sort of activity necessitates the gathering of blankets, beverages, and snacks. It would just not be proper otherwise; indeed, without as much would leave one begging around the lawn, instead of lounging.
The park was just across the street and with our various sundries in hand, we entered efficiently, without impedance, and landed a perfect spot in the shade of Fornelli Tower, and in perfect view of the stage at the J. Pritzker Pavilion of Millennium Park.
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| Panoramic shot of the J Pritzker Pavilion at Millennium Park |
The bands fired up almost immediately on our arrival, as if on cue. It was good to know that they received our message to delay until our arrival. They played well, and ended early enough to get yet more wandering the streets under my belt.
My friends implored me to ride back with them, as the walk back was too great a distance in the heat. I assured them that I would be fine, and actually looked forward to the quiet walk back to the hotel; well, as quiet as Michigan Avenue can be at 9 pm on a Thursday night.
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| Looking west towards Michigan Avenue from Randolph Street |
As I began the trek northward, I suddenly realized that we had really done nothing but snack and enjoy a variety of malted beverages the entire evening. It seemed sufficient at the time, and even when departing, but the walking reminded me that I need something with a bit more substance.
I recalled seeing Giordano’s up by the fabulous old and somewhat eerie water tower, and decided that might be a good option. Indeed, although it was packed full of folks waiting on pizza, it turned out to be no wait for a lone traveler willing to take his meal at the bar. I was not able to enjoy their fine pizza pie, but the meatball sub was just as good, and ended the evening nicely.
After handling various duties and obligations Friday morning, it was time to bid farewell to the windy city. It was only a 15 minute walk down to the Orange Line, according to Google Maps, so I decided to skip bidding adieu to the busload of zombies. Those on the Orange Line would have the pas the message along to the others.
Enjoying one last walk through the streets, I arrived in due time at the platform. The ride back to Midway was uneventful, excepting an argument with the transit machine, prior to entering the platform. It and its companion refused my credit card several times over. I now understand the plight of those usually found lingering nearby, asking for change to catch the next bus or train. I narrowly escaped the same fate.
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| Douglas SBD Dauntless suspended from the ceiling at Midway Airport |
The flight back was equally uneventful. Skies were clear in Chicago, and only beginning to cloud up back in Kansas City. Everywhere in between, a series of low flying clouds associated with one front or hovering just below the wings.
It had been a great trip; the day portions, as interesting as they could be and the nights, enjoyable in the warm company of friends with which I spend entirely too little time.
