Letting Myself Be Treated

Posted byrandy@letters-to-rachel.memorialPosted inAlong the Way, Updates From the Abandoned PlanetTags:, , , , , , , , , ,

Dearest Rachel –

I’ve no idea how long it’s been since I’ve been to Lake Geneva; in fact, as far as I know, I (and therefore we) never went there before. There are the odd sights that seem vaguely familiar from my childhood, but as you know, my childhood memories don’t seem to be as vivid as most people’s, though, so I really couldn’t say. In any event, it’s not as if there is anything pulling me towards the place, any more than there is toward the city proper; it’s not somewhere that it would occur to me to spend a day.

But apparently, it was somewhere that Lars wanted to take Roland and Evelyn to, to show them that the area isn’t simply wall-to-wall steel and concrete; there is such a thing as rural Chicagoland (I would say ‘rural Illinois’, but Lake Geneva isn’t in Illinois, and it’s more than happy for that, although it is well aware of its ties to the city of Chicago, which I’ll touch on later). And, for whatever reason, he wanted to have me come along as well, since this was the one time this week we might be able to get together. Any plans they had to dine out in Arlington’s alfresco district had fallen through, and I’m booked with this errand or that each day for the rest of the week, so this was it as far as getting together went.

This was a little different, however, since it was Roland who was driving when they picked me up. He had rented a car to give himself and his wife a little autonomy during their stay, especially since Lars has familial responsibilities that preclude him from squiring them about for the entire duration of their stay. Still, Lars was riding shotgun, navigating them up route 12… at least, until it wasn’t, and they had to double back a bit until they were back on the road again, headed northwest to the resort town.

Which is basically what it was (and is. ; Daniel would have compared it to some of the port towns we’ve visited over the past year or so; maybe Sydney, Seward or Sitka (although Lake Geneva would likely resent any such comparison). While its downtown is decidedly larger than Put-in-Bay, you might have seen a resemblance, and as for me, I’d probably compare it to Minocqua (which, given that both are Wisconsin resort towns built on a lake, is probably the most comparable).
We wandered around the lower downtown area for a bit, and found ourselves at a lookout point overhanging the beach area. Despite the mild overcast, I’m sure you would be down there with the lone family, running toward the water (assuming you had come properly prepared, which you probably would, given that the place has ‘Lake’ in its name)
Across the street from the beach was what Roland referred to ironically as “a little beachfront restaurant,” which stretched for the better part of half a block. Lars suggested we eat there, since he (thought) he knew the place, and we agreed.
The thing is, he’d remembered the place having the name Popeye’s (not the fast food fried chicken chain, obviously), and was curious as to what had happened to it. It seemed that the original owner had turned the operation over to a son, who had put his own name on the place. There was still some old signage within the place, though, as might be visible from inside.
We didn’t stay inside, however, but rather ate on their spacious covered patio. I will say that their brisket was tender enough to cut with a plastic fork, so that was impressive. Roland said that their cole slaw was the best he’d had (whether in the States or ever, I wasn’t entirely clear), but refused mine when it was offered to him.
After lunch, we walked around the downtown area again for a little while, but not for long, as Lars had bought tickets for a boat tour around the lake. It wasn’t a full loop, as we’d just missed that cruise when we’d arrived in town, but this would be fine.
Our guide pointed out the many stately homes that line the lake shore, some of which are still standing from the town’s heyday during the Gilded Age and the turn of the century. Back then, this was the summer home capital for Chicago’s captains of industry, who would come up here for the fresh cool air of one of Wisconsin’s cleanest lakes (fed by local springs, as opposed to runoff from any nearby hills or mountains). Several of them were behind the construction of a rail line between it and the city, making the place that much more accessible in the days of horse-drawn carriages and the like.

After the tour, we stopped at a local place for ice cream, which I’ll be honest, felt like the most familiar part of the trip. I wouldn’t call it déjà vu as such, but the little shop with the multitude of flavors and a painting of the town on the wall (however inaccurate, as the shop was depicted as a freestanding building, rather than part of the lakefront condominium that it was) really felt like I’d been to this place when I was young – or wanted to, at a time when my folks weren’t keen on letting us kids have ice cream every time we wanted it or some such. So maybe I’d been there before, and maybe not.

I offered to pay for my own dessert, since Lars had already purchased lunch and the lake cruise tickets. He wouldn’t hear of it, though, and since I know how full well how annoying it is when someone won’t let me pay for them, I let him take care of it yet again. To be fair, he did invite me on this excursion, when I could have just as easily spent the day at the ‘office’; some times, you just have to let yourself be treated in exchange for your time and company.

The drive back was uneventful; unlike on the way up, we basically stayed on route 12 the whole time. Longer, in fact, as Lars tried to guide Roland onto Lake-Cook Road in order to get to home until I pointed out that, if they were aiming for route 53, there was an exit directly on 12 that wouldn’t require a left turn (and, more to the point, the interminable line to actually make that turn).

When we got close to the house, I offered to pull my car out, so he could use the turnaround driveway and get out – it’s tricky to do so, as you well know. However, Roland drove past our driveway and dropped me off two doors down, so I couldn’t help him on that front. In fairness, the car in their driveway was also white, so it’s somewhat understandable; at the same time, it wasn’t a turnaround driveway, so… yeah.

But that was the day, honey. I’m kind of sorry we never got up there (to my recollection), as I’m pretty sure you would have liked it there. Maybe you were there on one of those women’s retreats at some point? Still, it’s nothing compared to where you are now, although I do wish you could send me a postcard or two back; after all these letters, it would be only fair.

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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