(Part I)
When we finally arrived in Chicago, I could not wait to get off of that Metra train. As I pocketed my ticket (which perhaps I should not have done) I watched Itchy, the checker-shirted red-head who'd sat way too close to me for comfort, leave his seat - giving me a spectacular view of London Calling.
The middle-aged punk rocker, wearing a black t-shirt so small the design printed on the fabric was hopelessly and grotesquely disfigured, stuffed his book into his bag. This simple, mundane act is only worth mentioning because of what he had to remove from the bag in order to return the book.
London Calling had been traveling on the Metra line since Kenosha with a little pink bunny rabbit in blue pinstripe pajamas. If that poor bunny hadn't looked so bedraggled, if London Calling hadn't been an overweight balding man too much in love with the eighties for his own good - I might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Unfortunately, the oddity playing out before me was of such magnitude that all of the neurons in my brain began to fire at once, leaving me a twitching mess.
When eventually I did get over the episode, Apt Teacher, her son and I ventured out into the train station.
There was a moment there, as we wandered about aimlessly in a sea of jabbing elbows, clicking heels and generally rude souls, when I had been absolutely convinced beyond any reasonable doubt that I had entered Hell.
Or at least Purgatory; we were lost (and not for the first time on this long trip).
By some stroke of luck we were able to find our way to the surface of the train station and into the jarring noise of the street. Never have I been surrounded by such noise. Never before or since have I been attacked - brutally raped and pillaged - by such NOISE.
The taxi we scurried into gave us no relief because, while the noise was quelled if only minutely, the stench of the vehicle was enough to subdue even the Headless Horseman.
That cab smelt of all kinds of death - none of them good.
Saying that the inside of that taxi was rank with the horrid stink of urine does nothing to convey the sickening strength of the odor. Saying that under the horrific smell of urine was something softer but no less terrifying - fecal matter, decomposing flesh? - cannot possibly explain to you the nightmare of that taxi ride across town to the lake. To this very day, over three years later, I still find that stink haunting me.
I fell out of the taxi, gasping-grasping-hacking for the sweetness of lake air.
Apt Teacher debated the fare, accusing the taxi driver (rightly) of driving to the Shedd Aquarium the long way in order to bleed us of our money. She relented for fear of the driver taking off with her belongings still in the trunk. He did begin to drive away without giving back her change.
Finally rid of that man, we walked to the side entrance of the aquarium because it's a bit difficult to wheel a child-filled stroller up an impressive set of stairs.
After waiting in line with all of the other people who either could not or would not ascend concrete steps, I got my admittance
( I apologize profusely for the eye-straining blur to these photos)
When we finally arrived in Chicago, I could not wait to get off of that Metra train. As I pocketed my ticket (which perhaps I should not have done) I watched Itchy, the checker-shirted red-head who'd sat way too close to me for comfort, leave his seat - giving me a spectacular view of London Calling.
The middle-aged punk rocker, wearing a black t-shirt so small the design printed on the fabric was hopelessly and grotesquely disfigured, stuffed his book into his bag. This simple, mundane act is only worth mentioning because of what he had to remove from the bag in order to return the book.
London Calling had been traveling on the Metra line since Kenosha with a little pink bunny rabbit in blue pinstripe pajamas. If that poor bunny hadn't looked so bedraggled, if London Calling hadn't been an overweight balding man too much in love with the eighties for his own good - I might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Unfortunately, the oddity playing out before me was of such magnitude that all of the neurons in my brain began to fire at once, leaving me a twitching mess.
When eventually I did get over the episode, Apt Teacher, her son and I ventured out into the train station.
There was a moment there, as we wandered about aimlessly in a sea of jabbing elbows, clicking heels and generally rude souls, when I had been absolutely convinced beyond any reasonable doubt that I had entered Hell.
Or at least Purgatory; we were lost (and not for the first time on this long trip).
By some stroke of luck we were able to find our way to the surface of the train station and into the jarring noise of the street. Never have I been surrounded by such noise. Never before or since have I been attacked - brutally raped and pillaged - by such NOISE.
The taxi we scurried into gave us no relief because, while the noise was quelled if only minutely, the stench of the vehicle was enough to subdue even the Headless Horseman.
That cab smelt of all kinds of death - none of them good.
Saying that the inside of that taxi was rank with the horrid stink of urine does nothing to convey the sickening strength of the odor. Saying that under the horrific smell of urine was something softer but no less terrifying - fecal matter, decomposing flesh? - cannot possibly explain to you the nightmare of that taxi ride across town to the lake. To this very day, over three years later, I still find that stink haunting me.
I fell out of the taxi, gasping-grasping-hacking for the sweetness of lake air.
Apt Teacher debated the fare, accusing the taxi driver (rightly) of driving to the Shedd Aquarium the long way in order to bleed us of our money. She relented for fear of the driver taking off with her belongings still in the trunk. He did begin to drive away without giving back her change.
Finally rid of that man, we walked to the side entrance of the aquarium because it's a bit difficult to wheel a child-filled stroller up an impressive set of stairs.
After waiting in line with all of the other people who either could not or would not ascend concrete steps, I got my admittance
( I apologize profusely for the eye-straining blur to these photos)and headed inside.
It's a wonderful place, the aquarium, with a lovely Pacific White-sided Dolphin show that I was unable to watch because of the three idiots in front of me. Orange Cornrows (a female, mind), Pink Bra Straps and her most charming loverboy Mid America Bank. Splendid people, them, flailing about and talking loudly throughout the entire show.
I did, however, walk down and over to the Beluga whales. Funny-looking creatures, but how they ooze affection. Had I a camera at the time, I would have taken many pictures.
After the aquarium, having bypassed the Field Museum due to lack of time (I was most unhappy about this), we took a stroll along the lake. I nearly froze to death, while inland the temperature hovered close to 150 degrees.
I was also nearly run over as I crossed the street en route to Michigan Avenue. If it hadn't been for the trio of city workers on scooters, screaming into walkie-talkies about the dysfunctional traffic lights, I would have been ended far too early.
It's a wonderful place, the aquarium, with a lovely Pacific White-sided Dolphin show that I was unable to watch because of the three idiots in front of me. Orange Cornrows (a female, mind), Pink Bra Straps and her most charming loverboy Mid America Bank. Splendid people, them, flailing about and talking loudly throughout the entire show.
I did, however, walk down and over to the Beluga whales. Funny-looking creatures, but how they ooze affection. Had I a camera at the time, I would have taken many pictures.
After the aquarium, having bypassed the Field Museum due to lack of time (I was most unhappy about this), we took a stroll along the lake. I nearly froze to death, while inland the temperature hovered close to 150 degrees.
I was also nearly run over as I crossed the street en route to Michigan Avenue. If it hadn't been for the trio of city workers on scooters, screaming into walkie-talkies about the dysfunctional traffic lights, I would have been ended far too early.
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