Some Damn Good Life Experience(through the eyes of Stephanie): Chicagoland

We have less than a month left in our trip, and we have several destinations, so the Suburban has been covering greater distances.

After passing through Kentucky, we entered Illinois, the “Land of Lincoln”. One of the first things I noticed about Illinois, besides the endless green of roadside fields and silos, was that they call their rest stops ‘oases’. (I had to look that one up…plural of ‘oasis’…we all get stumped when dealing with the English language at times.) To me, an oasis is a breath of fresh air, or a place of safe refuge; I suppose to residents of Illinois, an oasis is a McDonald’s and a few gas pumps. Our first two nights in Illinois were spent in Springfield, at the Best Inn. That was the name of it: the Best Inn. I don’t know what motels and hotels it considers itself so superior to, but whoever named it the Best Inn was a bit delusional, because it was not the best. It was nowhere near the best. The pool was covered over with black tarp-like material, and the chain on the inside of our room door was broken. This only freaked us out because every time someone opened the outer door to get inside the building, the air pressure would affect our door, and it would sound like it was opening. Our unchained door. There was a motorcycle gang staying there at the same time we were there, and they sat outside drinking cans of PBR during all of the waking hours they weren’t spending on their bikes. We ordered a mushroom pizza, and the motorcycle gang tried to intercept it and eat it. This place ain’t a Hilton, folks…but…it is the Best.

It was coincidental, and appropriate, that on Memorial Day we all went to the Oak Ridge Cemetery in Springfield to visit Abraham Lincoln’s final resting place, which is a granite tomb surrounded by oak trees and manicured lawns. I would have thought that Lincoln would be buried in Arlington or something…but after his death in 1865 his friends in Illinois lobbied to have him brought back to Springfield for burial. It was a very emotional time for Lincoln when he left Illinois in 1861 to be the President at a time when our country was on the verge of civil war. His farewell remarks to his beloved Springfield were: “My friends – No one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when, or whether ever, I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington…” (February 11, 1861). That speech was far better than the goodbye I said to my friends before I left on this trip, I must admit. I find it very appropriate that his final resting place is in his beloved home of Springfield, entombed with his wife Mary and three of their four sons. After I’m famous, and I’ve freed some slaves, defeated the Confederacy, and given a few amazing speeches, and I die, (hopefully about four score and seven years from now) I think I’ll have a nice tomb commissioned in New Hampshire.

The suburbs of Chicago, plus the city itself, are all referred to as “Chicagoland”. Ten million people live in Chicagoland. (As opposed to the 1.3 million people in NewHampshireland.) We didn’t stay in the city, though – we stayed in a suburb called Elk Grove. The Howard Johnson’s of Elk Grove is conveniently located close to O’Hare International Airport, which is great if you have to catch an early flight…not so great when you have squadrons of planes taking off and landing very loudly at all hours of the day.

The only place within walking distance from our Howard Johnson’s that had any semblance of interest was an inconspicuous white building with a sign saying HUNTER’S DANCE CLUB. Sarah and I wandered across Higgins Road and, as we approached the door of the place, telltale flashes of colored lights and eighties music leaked out from the darkened interior. Two doorways later, we found ourselves inside…you got it…a gay club. Of course, when a man and I were engaging in conversation, Sarah was told to “keep her girl in check” and we realized everyone thought that WE were gay. Ha, ha, ha. It was a good time, except for the occasional transsexual encounter in the girls’ room…but that just adds to the experience of life, right?

Driving into Chicago did not sound appetizing, especially since the front desk people told us there was a bus stop right in front of our hotel. We waited at the bus stop…and waited…and the bus didn’t come. When we called the metro transit company, they informed us that no, the 233 bus wasn’t running to our hotel. Great. We eventually made it to the train station in Rosemont, where we boarded the blue line and discovered that we were at the farthest-away possible stop from downtown Chicago, except for the O’Hare stop.

We had a very odd experience when we first arrived at the train station in Rosemont. We went to the booth to ask how much the fare was - and the obnoxious, obese, colorless woman who was perched flabbily behind the glass elected to separate herself from her chair and come around to help us. It was unnecessary; she could have just told us that five bucks would get us an unlimited day of train riding, given us a hint as to which stop to get off of the train, and sent us on our way into the Windy City. Instead, she waddled all the way out of her booth, all the way around the turnstiles, breathing heavily. The woman led us to the ticket machine, plucked our money from our hands, and handed us our tickets. Sarah and I tried to escape from her, but instead we were forced to wait while she lumbered back to her booth, produced a very thick 3-ring binder stuffed full of more Chicago tour information than anyone could ever need, and brought it around to us. “I’m showin’ you everything there is to see,” she rasped. There was no escape! She started pointing to a map, talking rapidly, chins wobbling in excitement, as she began to outline a Chicago tour day for us. Then she looked at me as if I were the village idiot. “You should get a pen and write all this down,” she commanded. Still attempting to be polite, I tried to rifle through my bag for one and realized I’d left my pen in my hotel room. (I usually do have a pen, okay?) “I don’t have one, sorry,” I said. “So, I have to go back into the booth and get one?” she asked, incredulous at what a horrible person I was to not have a writing implement. I shrugged. I felt I was a second-grader on a field trip and she was my chaperone. The immense train station woman then exhaled loudly in exasperation, ambled back to get a pen, pushed it at me, and I pretended to take shorthand notes as she rattled off no less than SIX possible tours we could take of the city. Nobody could have written that fast. Escape was sweet relief. *

* THEN when we finally made it back to the Rosemont train station after being in the city all day, the SAME WOMAN was working. I had to use the restroom, very badly, and I wouldn’t have asked except that it was very urgent…so I asked her if I could use her comfy private little powder room tucked behind her booth. “It’s against the rules,” she informed me, not letting on that she recognized us from her fifteen-minute diatribe on Chicago touring from earlier. “Show me your identification as a CTA employee,” she said. Needless to say, I did not have my Chicago Transit Authority employee identification, because I am not a CTA employee, which she very well knew. I do not like that woman, not at all. She’s on my list.

Trains can be fun for about five minutes…and only if you don’t have to take one in your daily routine. My only streaks of obsessive-compulsive tendency (the ones I’ve self-diagnosed) surface in two places: I WILL NOT touch public bathroom door handles, and the thought of railings and bars on trains and subways…nasty, nasty public germs. Of course if there isn’t an empty seat on the train, there’s no choice but to grab onto the smooth, contaminated metal. As much as I try to plant my feet wide apart and bend my knees for stability, I ended up stomping hard on an Asian guy’s sneaker. I was immediately humbled by the dirty look he gave me, conceded that I was not as good at balancing on a moving train as I liked to think, and grabbed on to the contaminated handrails. These are the trials of life.

We got off of the train at the Jackson stop, and wandered out into the unfamiliar streets. Chicago is the third largest city in our country, and compared to other cities I’ve seen…it’s very clean. I saw several workers picking up trash, and they had a good amount of public garbage cans scattered along the sidewalks. Of course there was a dude in ragged clothes who was mumbling to himself as he scrutinized the cracks in the sidewalk for castaway cigarette butts with any smidgen of tobacco left in them…and smoked them…gross…but hey, that’s city life.

We were super tourists. We actually took a grain of advice from the creepy Chicago Transit Authority woman and decided to ascend the John Hancock building instead of the Sears Tower, because it was closer to Lake Michigan and would give a better view of the contrast between the blue water of the lake, the Chicago River, and the city’s skyscrapers. Plus, it was closer to downtown. The John Hancock building is 100 stories high, boasts the fastest elevator in the country, and also contains over 700 condos – making them the highest residences in the world.

Millennium Park, in downtown Chicago, is new (completed in 2004) and beautiful; a 12-acre park constructed on top of parking garages and a railroad yard. The park is very nicely flowered and landscaped, and there were two works of art displayed there that really fascinated me: first, a $23 million sculpture by Anish Kapoor called “Cloud Gate”, which looks like a gigantic bean made of mercury. The sculpture is three stories high and you could spend a very long amount of time staring at yourself in the sides and from underneath the bean, because your reflection is warped in silver. (It’s also fun to watch other people looking at their reflections and waving at themselves with big stupid grins.) The best part about Cloud Gate, though, is the way it reflects the skyline, in a graceful curve of architecture. The second work of art that blew my mind in Millennium Park is Crown Fountain. This is an area of black granite covered with a thin sheet of water, with glass bricks forming two enormous panels with LED screens behind them. The screens show a slideshow of the faces of 1000 random “Chicagoans”, one by one, showing the diversity of the city.

Another big touristy thing in Chicago is Navy Pier, which juts out into Lake Michigan, which was dotted with Canadian geese. There’s a Ferris wheel, and charter boats, and beer gardens. Of course, we went on the Ferris wheel, but we felt a bit gypped because it only went around once. There was a cool Irish pub called Fado which I would recommend – the staff all wear cute, brightly colored soccer shirts, there’s a good variety of beer on tap, and the bathrooms were clean. The other place that we tucked ourselves into was called Pippens…a tiny locals bar with friendly people. We realized later that it was owned by Scottie Pippen! (He wasn’t there.)

Bill’s total mileage as of our departure from Illinois is up to 3131! He’s really done it.

Almost home…

Some Damn Good Life Experience(through the eyes of Stephanie)

What will certainly in the future become legend: my attempt to capture true adventure - the drama, pain, and hilarity of our largely unplanned six-month trip across the country. It's like reality TV, except you're going to read it!

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