Playing Tour Guide

Posted byrandy@letters-to-rachel.memorialPosted inAdrift in the World, Along the Way, Updates From the Abandoned PlanetTags:, , , , , , , , , , ,

Dearest Rachel –

It was an interesting start to the day, honey. I was assured by Copilot that the trains departing the Arlington Heights station for Ogilvie would show up there at about 48 minutes past the hour, so I made a point of leaving the house shortly after nine (but not without extending a last minute offer for Daniel to join me; as expected, he declined). This would allow me a relatively leisurely walk to the station, although I couldn’t help walking at a quicker pace than I might have with Lars, especially when I heard the sound of a train (which I assumed to be the one heading from Chicago to Harvard).

However, it turns out that my AI assistant was completely mistaken about the time; trains show up here at the exact opposite point of the hour, leaving me to wait for a full half hour. That train I heard was probably the one I should have caught – although maybe not, as the trains going in either direction show up within a couple minutes of each other here. And to think, had I left fifteen minutes earlier, I could have been well on my way. Oh well; it’s my fault for trusting AI as opposed to going to the Metra website itself for my information .

The matter only worsened as the appointed minute approached; an announcement came over the public address system stating that the train had been delayed in Cary for unknown system issues, and with no expectation of when the matter would be resolved. I suppose this is why certain folks prefer to drive into the city; despite being cheaper (and ostensibly faster, especially on that last mile and regarding parking), you’re on someone else’s schedule, and have to deal with their delays.

Finally, at eleven o’clock, I could peer over the yellow safety line and just see the light of the train heading in from Arlington Park (where I’m not sure they have a public address system to keep us informed of what was – or rather, wasn’t – going on)
For future reference; it so happens that, at the Jefferson Park station, I can get off the Metra and catch the Blue Line into the city (or to O’Hare, if I’m so inclined. Of course, given the morning’s reliability test, that wouldn’t be the best of ideas; better to stick with Ubers). Then again, why bother with switching, when I’m already headed into the city on this train?
Once arriving at the Ogilvie Transit Center, I had to make my way outside and around the building to where the bus stops were. And there were a lot of them; there was one waiting as I approached, but it was a different route, that would be taking me to a part of the city I didn’t want to go. I mean, if I wasn’t meeting Lars and his friends, maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad, but I was already an hour late at this point.
After several similar buses had come and gone, I started to openly wonder if I wouldn’t be better just walking to the pier. However, once I checked the map, it indicated that if I did, it would take three times as long as if I were to just wait a few more minutes for the correct bus to appear. And sure enough, one did show up in a matter of a couple of minutes.
It didn’t exactly whisk me over to Navy Pier – it still had to obey the same traffic lights, as well as making various stops to pick up and drop off passengers along the way – but soon enough, I found myself in front of the place for the first time in I really don’t know how many years.
When I texted him as to where I was, Lars indicated that they were enjoying the view at the end of the pier, so I just needed to head out and join them there, at which point they would continue to check out the place. I hadn’t realized that for entrance to end, it was a little more than half a mile. So while it was nothing like our usual walks together, I still got in a fair amount of steps, but in and out.

Roland and Evelyn hail from the days when Lars served in some capacity at Willow Creek. He’s never mentioned any title or position that I can recall, but it was at a level that had him traveling with or on behalf of the pastorate to various parts of the world when he was a young doctor. So as it happens, they’re probably a good decade older than either of us. As a result, the two of them would occasionally need to stop and catch their breath while we walked back from the end of the pier. That, and the fact that there was and is a lot to take in from a touristic point of view meant that our walk back was punctuated with a few stops along the way.

Being proper Germans, and thus knowing their way around good brew, at least one of those stops was at kiosk for the Billy Goat Tavern. Roland seemed to actually appreciate Yeungling dark lager. Meanwhile, while I didn’t bother to partake, I was puzzling over the concept of “citrus” rum; I only thought that they existed as ‘dark,’ ‘white’ and possibly a ‘brown’ one in the middle. I may have to look that one up at some point, as well as lay in a stock of cranberry juice.

There was some discussion about a hop-on, hop-off bus, like the one we took in San Antonio (and Daniel and I took in Glasgow). However, the price was rather eye-watering; about eight times what I paid in terms of train fare (and which proved to be overpaying itself, but I’m getting ahead of the story). So that idea was scrubbed.

Instead – as is de rigueur for tourists in Chicago at some point during their stay – it was decided that we should grab a late lunch of deep dish pizza. And since it was in the same neighborhood as the hospitals in which Lars cut his teeth, we decided to hit Gino’s East; a place I haven’t been to since the one in the triangle closed up (to be replaced by a Panera, of all things) and I retired from work, where a location set up shop out on Barrington Road.
The waitstaff gave Evelyn a marker in order to add her name to the graffiti that is a literal signature of the place. I guess we’d always done it wrong, honey; we should have asked to write on the walls or booths, rather than bringing our own paint markers and having at it – you’ll recall they didn’t appreciate it when we took our own initiative, which surprised us. Not that it matters, since the places we would have marked up have been torn down or closed.

Roland and his wife come from a little village in Thuringia, only some twenty or so klicks from what used to be the West German border when they were young and growing up. He spoke of being able to watch television and listen to radio from ‘the outside,’ but not being able to talk about it with friends, as anything spoken about such Western influences could get a knock on the door from the Stasi – and anyone could be an informant for the Stasi. It was instilled in them at a young age to keep secrets, lest their parents get in trouble and taken away.

He made several references to his first trip to Paris, but Lars had to restrain him from elaborating too much on the subject. It would seem that the memory of being free to travel upon the collapse of the soviet bloc and reunification was so overwhelming that, even now, he gets emotional about it. Which would be all well and good, but having suffered a stroke within the last decade, such outbursts could actually be hard on his heart, so he can only mention it in passing.

As it is, I’m not clear as to whether this is their first trip to America; it seems to be a first time in Chicago. With their village being only composed of two hundred people, it’s that same dichotomy that you had coming up here of living in an island surrounded by cornfields and moving to a continent of concrete and steel. Sure, the suburbs are a little more verdant and spread out than the city, but it’s still one building after another in what seems like an infinite progression. I may be used to it, but I get that it’s daunting.

After lunch, Lars drove the three of us around various parts of the city – which made sense, too, as they were in no condition to do the sort of walking he and I are used to (although in any case, this wasn’t exactly the sort of walking we’re used to, apart from the sheer distance). There was some talk about visiting the Skydeck at the Sears Tower (as a local, that’s what it’s always going to be; none of this ‘Willis’ nonsense), but again, given that the price would be considerably lower during the coming week, that was put on hold. He indicated the hospitals he worked at – or rather, where they had been, since some have been torn down and replaced – as well as areas like the ‘Magnificent Mile’ of Michigan Avenue, the entertainment district that is Rush Street…

…where I spotted a place that I can’t tell if it’s a restaurant or what it might be. A taco made out of velvet doesn’t sound appetizing in the least, and velvet décor has its own reputation for bad taste. I can’t help wondering if it isn’t a euphemism for something, but if it were, they’re being far too blatant about it, so I doubt that’s what’s going on here, but still, you wonder.

I was glad to not have driven down here myself, as the one-way streets and the congestion of both pedestrian and vehicular traffic would have tried my patience, but Lars seemed to be having fun playing tour guide as he indicated one sight after another. It was amusing as he pointed out various stores and shopping centers to Roland, who had already expressed his shopping philosophy of knowing what you wanted, and getting in and out quickly – the “surgical strike” method, as you and I would put it; a very male-oriented style of shopping. However, I pointed out that, as a tourist, you wouldn’t know what a store would have in a foreign country, so battle plans would be useless. You have to go in thinking there might be something that would catch your eye, or not bother to go in at all.

Initially, the idea was for Lars to then drop me off at the Ogilvie, where I would catch the train back and walk home from one station or another. But at some point, I realized that he was getting onto the Ohio feeder ramp heading out of the city. It turns out that Roland and Evelyn are staying at a B&B somewhere between Mount Prospect and Des Plaines, so he would have to come out my way (albeit not necessarily ALL the way, not that it stopped him from doing so) in any event to get them back ‘home.’ So that’s what he decided to do; meaning that I wasted my money buying a round trip train ticket.

There was some talk about the three of them coming to Arlington Heights and the Alfresco district at some point – certainly, it’s a lot closer to them, and the parking fees aren’t nearly so exorbitant – but that remains to be seen. It might be worth letting the girls know about it, if it were to be a thing – certainly Kerstin might be able to make Evelyn feel a little more at home, as she did basically all of her talking with and through Roland.

Anyway, like I said, this was going to take some time to relate to you; I hope you don’t mind. I keep saying I need to get into the city and look around a bit more, although I’m certainly glad to not have to do so on any regular (let alone compulsory) basis, so this was a good opportunity to do so. Who knows when – or if – the next chance will come around?

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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