Falling In Love, Chicago-Style

Tomorrow was better.

Much better.

I woke up around 9 and called a cousin of a friend of my father’s that works as a lawyer in Chicago. I know, it’s really convoluted, and I didn’t want to call, but my dad’s friend insisted. So

I called the super crazy high-powered medical malpractice law firm where this guy is a partner, trying not to state the obvious by saying, "Hi, I’m a random girl who knows you through four degrees of separation. Please take me out and pay for me to eat." He was very gruff on the phone, saying, "I’ve been waiting for you to call all morning! Get down here by 11:30 and you can come along with my partner and I to Manny’s Deli. See you then."
"Didn’t I live in New York City for four years?" I wondered aloud. "Wasn’t I once used to people being short with me?" I was re-developing the tell-tale sign of being from the sticks - taking things personally.

I showered quickly and high-tailed it - with semi-wet hair - to one of the largest office buildings in Chicago, 15 minutes early. That gave me time to call The Billy Goat and complain to the owner, Sam Sianis, about Nick and the night before. "Sir, I’m really sorry to have to call under these circumstances, but...." I explained the situation.
"Okay, I look into it," he said, shrugging me off.
"Thank you, sir."
So much for The Billy Goat. I’ll be damned if I ever go there again. Unless I’m with Frank. Frank would go apeshit on some old bartender ass.

I went up to the seventh floor and thanked my lucky stars it was Casual Friday. That meant I didn’t look too terribly out of place in my 3-dollar Wal-Mart jeans, green top, and Doc Maartens. Just slightly out of place. Tom, my dad’s friend’s cousin, met me in the hallway. I knew just by looking at him that my anxiety about his gruffness was unfounded. He was charming and funny, a fast-talker like any lawyer should be. His brown hair was lightening with gray and his blue eyes sparkled behind his glasses. He had on a checkered shirt and a flamingo tie. I relaxed. He cracked jokes about his cousin - "Why on earth would you ever be friends with Mary?" - and gave me some Harvick family history. After chatting briefly about my trip, he called someone to his office, saying, "My associate will be coming with us. I thought you’d enjoy talking with a female lawyer in Chicago rather than just me. Here she is!" I turned around, expecting to see a buttoned-up broad with tight lips and a bun. Instead, I saw Reese Witherspoon.

Honestly, this girl looked so much like Reese Witherspoon, and when she opened her mouth to say, "Hi, I’m Heather!" she sounded just like Reese Witherspoon, to the point where I felt bad, like I was staring. And of course she’s a lawyer! It was too perfect, too contrived in these post-"Legally Blonde" days. It was hilarious! I adored her from the start - it was impossible not to.

While Tom got caught up in a phone call, we talked about my trip, her home state of Oregon, law schools in Southern California, and how much she loved working with Tom. "He and I worked an interesting case together, a penile implant malpractice case. Very enlightening. I was the only female on the case, and here’s this seventy-year-old man outlining the problems with his penile implant. Tom’s sense of humor was the only thing that got us through that deposition. And apparently there’s all kinds of these things on the market, y’know?"
"What, you mean like the pumps?"
"Yeah, and I guess there’s like, rod ones too."
"Oh my god, really? Have you ever pitched a tent?" I asked her, images of the build-a-rods dancing in my head.
"Oh my god! That’s totally what I was thinking sitting in that room!"
It was kismet.

Heather went to Whittier Law in Orange County, CA, where she was a champion of individuality and very outspoken against the typical female stereotypes. "So of course I ended up in Chicago by following a boy!" she added. She was in her Casual Friday - what else? - pink shirt, jeans, and pink sneakers. After a few minutes I couldn’t stand it any longer.
"Do people razz you for being a lawyer when you look....so much..... like......" I trailed off.
"Reese Witherspoon? Yeah, I get it all the time - "Legally Blonde"! "Legally Blonde"! I’m used to it. Actually, I even had my flight upgraded to first class once because the staff refused to believe that I wasn’t her."

We forwent Manny’s Deli and instead walked to lunch at a swanky hotel restaurant that offered a great view of the city. On the way over, Tom pointed out the Chicago courthouse building. It was a bloody shade of rust. "See that? It was supposed to be called The Golden Building, but some chemical reaction occurred that made it turn ugly brownish red." The restaurant had a spectacular buffet - I’m usually not a fan of buffets but when it offers warm brie and poached duck, I won’t argue. Lunch was awesome and Heather and Tom teamed up to convince me to go to law school. I have to admit, it was the last thing on my mind but now I am seriously considering it, assuming my DUI can be expunged. (Doubt it.)

I learned a few interesting things about Chicago while out with Tom and Heather. One, the Chicago Cubs are a crappy team but their games are sold out every day. The White Sox are a fabulous team but their stadium is never even half-full. Chicago hosted the first World’s Fair, known as The Columbian Exposition in 1893, during which a serial killer preyed on the city. Heather recommended a book called "The Devil in the White City", outlining the events, which I picked up on the way back to the hostel. Both Tom and Heather advised me to check out Marshall Field’s department store (although I stopped into H&M instead), and they told me stories of the old roustabout businessmen in Chicago who literally built the city through savvy and sweat - Daniel Burnham, Frank Millet, and somebody named Atwell. It made sense then, that civic spirit that still swirls about Chicago; the ghosts of hundreds of well-fed men in bowler derbys smoking cigars under thick mustaches and making noises like, "Harharharharharhar", mingled and fed with the blood of the stockyards. Several times after that conversation, I felt if I turned my head quick enough, I would see them.

Tom ran off into the hot Chicago afternoon to get a haircut before going back to work. Heather unfortunately had to go back and study up on a case, else I would have kidnapped her and played hooky the rest of the day. Well, hooky for her, normal everyday life for me. I hugged her goodbye with the hopes we could keep in touch, then set off back to the hostel. I took my new copy of "The Devil in the White City" and my laptop on a walk and ended up by a huge fountain whose name starts with a B. The park was beautiful but stifling, but I chose to sit in the sun anyway, hoping to even out my t-shirt tan with a wifebeater tan.

I got a lot of writing done in between watching a gnarled old black man feed the seagulls. He was the kind of old person you find yourself pining for long after they walk away, the kind you want to hug and hold onto out of mixture of pity and protection. He was tall, seated carefully on a sunny bench, wearing black jeans and a navy windbreaker with a Star of David on the back. His salt-and-pepper afro stuck slightly out from under his mesh cap, worn high on his head. On his lap rested a plastic bag from 7-11 and a black knapsack was at his feet. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he were in pain from arthritis. I watched him carefully unwrap a sandwich and eat it, the seagulls violently jockeying for position in front of him. One gull in particular bullied the rest, cawing and chasing them out of his way. "Sounds like he’s sayin’, ‘Get out!’, don’t it?" the man called to me.
"Sure does," I said, trying to figure out why watching this man made me want to cry. Even now, more than a week later, just writing this is difficult. Maybe it was the careful way he moved, maybe just the look about him that spoke of Every Black Man In Every Film That Ever Depicted Racism. I wanted to grab him and put him in my pocket, making sure he’d be happy every remaining day of his life. I want to do that to a lot of people. I saw many people like that in Chicago.

Sometimes I get so sad that I can’t save people from sadness that I find it hard to move, like a weight is tied to my heart. Maybe that’s why I felt like crying - the pain of knowing I can’t fix things.

The man threw the last bit of his sandwich to the birds and watched them fight over it. Then he reached into the bag and slowly pulled the seal from a small plastic bottle of whole milk. He was so beautiful. When he finished the milk, he put the bottle in the plastic bag and stood up, bouncing on his heels to shake the crumbs from his jeans. I saw his Star of David necklace as he turned to me, drawling, "You have a nice day, now!"
"You, too," I waved as he turned away, limping slightly out of the park.

I had been so intent on watching him that I hadn’t even noticed a friendly red-headed man sit down on the same bench as me. This younger man and I got to talking after awhile and he told me all about his novel. It sounds really good, a mystery with a lot of twists and turns. If you see a book called "Lunar Falls" someday in a bookstore, pick it up. I’m betting it’ll be worth it.

When my battery died I went back to the hostel, de-stunkified, and met the latest addition to Room 415. I forget her name but she was from France. We talked for awhile, during which we asked each other a lot of questions. Bizzarely, the majority of my questions and answers were all prefaced by, "Now, I don’t want to sound like an ignorant American, but...." She didn’t seem to mind, though. She was one French person who actually preferred America to her native country.

I left a note for Susan on her bed with my cell number, so she could call me when she got back from her conference and we could go out on the town, and then hopped in a cab, armed with my new best friend, "The Devil in the White City". I was headed to Pizzeria Due’s for some Chicago-style deep dish pizza. Based on the events of that night, I owe a lot to the devil in the white city.

I was expecting a huge wait, it being Friday night and having seen the line outside the night before. I use the word "line" loosely - really it’s just a bunch of people milling around on the corner drinking beer out of plastic cups, whiling away the hour-long wait for a table. Lucky for me, I was alone. Dining solo: bad at The Billy Goat, good at Due’s. Anyway, I got a table right away, albeit a high-top in the bar area. Still, it was the perfect size for one and it beat sweltering outside trying to hold a flimsy cup of beer and a book open at the same time.

The Cubs were playing and there was a group of aging frat boys gathered at the tiny bar, causing a general ruckus and bothering me while I was trying to read. They were so obvious - I could see them daring each other to go over and talk to me. I mean, seriously, the whole restaurant is about the coffee mug, so standing 4 feet away in a huddle and looking over at me is going to be pretty freakin’ noticeable. Not to mention "breaking" with a hand clap. Ugh. I hate stupid people. (Honestly, guys, if you see a chick in a bar with a book, the book is not bait. It’s not a conversation piece. It’s a conversation preventer. And just because a woman happens to be out alone, IT DOES NOT MEAN SHE WANTS COMPANY!!!!)

Anyway, here comes this middle-aged balding guy in a Jimmy Buffet ball cap and Hawaiian shirt, getting way too close, asking me the most inane questions about my book, and making the strikingly astute observation, "Hey, this doesn’t have any pictures!" (I swear I am not making that up.) I looked at my waiter imploringly, hoping he would come over and save me, but he didn’t notice. That left me to shun this dude with my usual stockpile of uninterested responses, silent nods, and failure to make eye contact. The next guy picked for The Impromptu Team Of Men Who Will Bother The Single Chick tried the "Hey-This-Place-Is-Crowded-Can-I-Set-My-Beer-On-Your-Table?" approach. Perhaps he thought he had a better chance, what with his sexy graying goatee and all. I told him the table was too wobbly.

Thankfully, my pizza came just in time. No one wants to hit on a chick with her mouth full. Of pizza, at least. (I added that because I knew you would in your head anyway, you dirty-minded sons of beetches!) So I was five chapters and three deep-dish slices in when I looked up and saw Rivers Phoenix standing at my table. In a Pizzeria Due’s uniform.

"Hi, I’m David!" he said brightly.
My mind: "Oh my god, he is devastatingly cute..."
My mouth: "Uh, hi! I’m Jessica."
We shook hands. He had Buddy Holly glasses, my favorite Guy Accessory. I blushed like a schoolgirl.

"I saw you reading and I just wanted to come over and introduce myself. Only because it’s not often that you see someone reading in a restaurant, much less a bar." He was speaking very fast, probably trying to squeeze this conversation in between taking orders or something. "I’m a writer, so it’s nice to see somebody reading. Do you write?"
"Uh, yeah, actually! I’m writing a book right now, that’s what brings me to Chicago!" I quickly explained a little about my crazy life.
He took a pen out of his apron and began writing on a tiny slip of paper. "Wow, that’s great! Well, thanks for being on the front lines, y’know, actually writing! It’s not often that you meet someone who lives the dream. Um, this is my number, in case you want to get together or something, y’know, later. Or whatever. I just... think it would be nice..... to....talk about writing. You know." He suddenly got very shy, looking at his hands.
"Yeah, I’d love that!" I told him. "Tonight I’m getting together with a girl from my hostel, maybe you could come too?"
"Great! Well, give me a call!"
We both giggled nervously for a second, nodding our heads like dorks.

He sped away to wait on his tables. I tried to hide my cheesy grin. Around 9, I had to leave to get back to the hostel, to meet Susan and renew my parking permit at the lot near the hostel. The waiter brought my reciept and I started to write a note for David on it with my number. Usually, I don’t go around giving it out AT ALL, but I got such a good vibe from him that I made an exception. David appeared at my table before I could even sign my name, like he materialized from somewhere.

"Oh! Goodness!" I stammered. "Well, here! I was going to give it to my waiter to give to you, but here you go. Um, I guess just give me a call when you get out of work?"
"Yeah," he said. "Definitely! And thanks again, y’know, for just being on those front lines. There aren’t many of us. Maybe you can tell me some stories of your travels or something."
"Oh, yeah, I’ve got some crazy ones!" I said, jumping off my stool and shaking his hand again. "Nice meeting you!"
"You too! I’ll give you a call a little later!"

Okay, so maybe a book is a conversation piece every now and then, albeit unintentional, though. On the way out of the bar I whispered, "Thank you, devil in the white city," as though he were an imaginary friend.

I all but floated out of the restaurant and onto the street, hailing a cab and bounding up to the parking attendant on Congress and Wabash like a kid who knows his birthday is tomorrow.

Racing up to the room to meet Susan, I found she wasn’t there and the French girl was asleep. I waited downstairs in the common area for some word from Susan but it never came. I read my book until David called at midnight. "I’m finally out of work," he said. "What’s up with you and your friend?"
"Well, looks like it’s just me, actually."
"Oh. Well, that’s cool. Do you want to just have coffee or something? You can just meet me up here and I’ll take you to this little 24 place if you want."
I had been falling asleep and coffee sounded perfect. "I’ll be there in 15 minutes."
Yet another cab ride later, I came around the corner and found David perched on the steps of an apartment building next to the restaurant. He smiled. "You ready?"

We walked a few blocks, chatting in that way that people who don’t know each other do, where they try to say and retain as much stuff, as casually as possible, without sounding neurotic. I learned that David is the oldest of five, grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, graduated from the University of Illinois, and his whole family is into the arts. His mother is shaking her head because there’s not a doctor, lawyer, or architect among them. We cabbed it up to Boystown, his neighborhood, aptly named because it’s Chicago’s gay area. "I’m straight but I live in the gayest place in Chicago. It’s cool, though. It’s also one of the cleanest."

He took me to a place called The Golden Nugget, one of those diners that does most of its business after the neighborhood bars let out. Walking over, David told me his mom worried when he moved to Boystown, especially after learning that his best friend is gay and that the two of them frequent gay bars together. We ordered coffee from a stocky little waitress and kept right on talking, mostly about writing. It was one of those conversations that you wish would go on forever, but then the waitress drops your check and you notice all the drunk people filtering in as she says, "I’m gonna need this booth."

At one point while David and I were talking, an old woman padded in and took a seat at a tiny booth near the back. She had on a dingy gray winter coat and red knitted cap despite the heat. Her eyes were sunken, her skin loose, hanging from her jaw like droopy cloth ceiling in an old car. She ate her small meal carefully, chewing each bite thoroughly and slow. David was telling me something but I couldn’t pay attention; I was too caught up in watching this woman. As groups of young, beautiful people came in, she looked up with sad blue eyes and watched them walk past, still chewing. They didn’t notice. "What is going through her head right now?" I wondered. I felt that same tugging sadness that I had earlier watching the old man in the park, only stronger.

David noticed me watching her. "She’s homeless," he said. "She goes to the mission across the street a lot. I’ve actually written about her."
"She’s so beautiful. But not. She’s..... I can’t...... I can’t even look at her or I’m gonna cry. She’s Eleanor Rigby."
"Yeah. There’s a lot of people like her around here."
That sadness was a swelling ache in my chest. I wanted so badly to run over and hug her, to pull her into my lap and rock her like a baby. Instead I rambled on, looking around the room aimlessly and asking David questions there are no answers to.
"Why is she homeless? What happened that set her on that path? Something had to happen. What is she thinking? Why is she so sad? Why can’t I help her? Why can’t I just wave a wand and erase all that pain on her face?"
"I don’t know," was all he could say.

Other than that, our conversation was fun and happy, lasting well into the wee hours of the morning. When we left the coffee shop I grabbed a print copy of The Onion and David invited me up to his apartment. For the first time in three months on the road, I didn’t feel apprehensive, like he was trying to get in my pants. Actually, I couldn’t even tell if he considered this a date or not, he was being so physically distant. As we climbed the stairs, I said, "You should feel special. You’re the first guy I’ve been alone with that I haven’t cocked my pepper spray on, just in case."
"Oh, trust me, I do."

I parked it on one couch and he sat on the other. The sun started turning the street outside a dusky blue. We talked until I started falling asleep, about the same time he got up to show me something out the window and sat back down on the couch I was on. I was too tired to even think of anything else to say, so I opened The Onion and we read it together. I still couldn’t tell if he even thought I was pretty, but then he leaned over and kissed my cheek while I was reading. It was the sweetest thing ever. I kissed his cheek. We both blushed, looking back and forth at our hands, then each other. I laughed nervously, not knowing what to say. He spoke first.

"I made one dollar tonight."
"What? No way!"
"No, seriously. I made one dollar in tips."
"Why so little?" I asked. "Are you a really shitty waiter?"
"I’m decent. Well, our credit card tips get put on our check and we just keep our cash tips. I made $51 in cash. But....um... I gave fifty of it to another waiter so he would close for me. So I could get out early and hang out with you. So I made one dollar tonight."
Blushing the color of raspberries, I couldn’t say anything but, "Awwwwwwww..... thank you."

It was a John Hughes movie. We both leaned in slowly, still facing away from each other. We kissed softly and fireworks exploded in the sky over Chicago. The geek got the girl and all was right with the world.

We both fell asleep on the couch around six. Glenn’s words echoed in my mind as I fell asleep. "If you meet a guy who’s worth it, hold it down for awhile."

Wow, I Love Today!

Today didn't start out too great - it's rainy, I found I gained another pound, and then I washed my whites with a red sock in the load - but this article really cheered me up!

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/07/29/AR2005072900158.html?sub=AR


Bill Frist's Evil Level officially dropped from Massively Evil to Moderately Evil! He went from a Code Orange to a Code Puce. Way to go, Bill Frist! I'll even go so far as to apologize for that time I flipped you off during the Inaugural Parade. Never thought I'd say this, but Thanks, Bill Frist, for giving me a wonderful day!

Guess Who's Photo Software Is A Piece Of Crap?

Mine! Once again, it won't f*cking work! Hooray for sh*tty software!!!!!

Tomorrow Will Be Better...

Waking up and breaking camp the next morning, I broke the bag that holds my tent, so now I have a huge tent flopping around in my back seat. Way to go, Jess.

I left for Chicago and made it in good time, following the directions that Frank told me briefly the day before. I was shooting for Navy Pier. I ended up on the Northside, lost. I called Frank. "Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you to get off 94 at Skyway," he said. "Sorry about that."
I cracked up. "It’s cool, it’s cool. It’s early yet, and this area is pretty nice. I’m just gonna tool around here for awhile, then I’ll come meet you when you get out."

Driving through Chicago to get to where I was lost (Wrigleyville), I got to see a lot of the skyline, which was awesome. Not as big as New York, obviously, but still enough to almost distract me from driving. Some sort of vibe was penetrating the air, even as I was on the freeway. It went beyond the ordinary permeating energy that you feel just walking down a city street - it ran deeper than that, truer, as though the soul of something was rising from the pavement.

Wrigleyville was interesting - a little neighborhood with brick sidewalks and tiny boutiques. Trendy little cafes - even one called "Toast" that had a ginormus wooden piece of (what else?) toast hanging from a signpost, peppered the street in between the couture clothing and housewares stores. Down a side street, an otherwise unmarked bar boasted having Milkwaukee’s Best On Tap, oddly pedestrian-looking next to "Diviynl".

I looked into a few of the stores, where most everything was over $50, and ended up having to buy something because the salesgirl was so helpful in explaining the train and bus system to me. There was a fight between my size 8 body and my size 4 brain in the dressing room, but I finally settled on the cheapest, most covering shirt in a gaudy shade of orange I’ll probably never wear. But she was helpful and I had to do something.

Not wanting to keep Frank waiting if I got lost, I left shortly after our conversation. Turns out I forgot that Chicago keeps Central Mountain Time and I was still an hour early. Frank works at the Tribune Building on Michigan Avenue, The Magnificent Mile, in the midst of one of the most touristy areas of town, so there was still plenty to see and do. Mainly shopping related, however, and expensive.

I parked and ate a grapefruit in a shady little courtyard between some skyscrapers and got juice all over my fingers. Then realized I had no napkins. I improvised, sitting down on the lip of a pretty fountain in the corner of the courtyard and, making sure no one was staring, dipped my hands in, quietly singing, "Doo-doo doo, nothing to see here...." Then I wiped my hands on my pants and promptly tripped on the sidewalk, drawing everyone’s attention. Go figure.

When Frank got out I met him in the side courtyard of the Tribune building, a massive gothic structure that looks more like a cathedral than an office building. Then again, I’m used to the more streamlined, modern skyscrapers of New York and Los Angeles, cities that both seem eager to market their history while creating more new-age vistas everyday. Chicago seems the opposite, wearing its history like a badge of honor. Look up in New York and you’ll see shiny steel, glass, and clean lines. Look up in Chicago and you’ll see the same, but merely interspersed between brick, gargoyles, and spires.
I was falling in love with the city. That same core-cutting vibe was everywhere, sweeping through the alleys and avenues just like the famous wind. It’s impossible to name and impossible to distinguish; a mix of pride, tenacity, valor, hope, and sadness, as though the souls of something are still singing.

Frank came around the corner and I laughed - he still had his Birkenstocks on with his khakis and Hawaiian shirt.
"Is it casual Friday?" I asked.
"No, I wear this everyday," he said.

A few minutes later, over Coronas at a café by the river, he explained. "I get called into HR a lot. They told me I couldn’t wear open-toed sandals. I said, ‘Okay. Well, when you tell the women that they can’t wear open-toed sandals, I’ll stop wearing my Birks.’"

Some more stories of Frank The Hippie at work in the big city: "I take the guys from my floor outside to the courtyard for hackey-sack games. HR told me I couldn’t but I do it anyway."

Another one: "I play at work. How else is it supposed to be doable, y’know? So Barry, the guy across from me, and I, we’re always throwing hackey-sacks at each other and flipping each other off. Stuff like that. So here comes this new guy - my height, black guy, fully ripped, he’s a karate instructor, chip on his shoulder out to here, right? So he comes over and I say, ‘Hey!’ and throw a hackey sack to him. It hits him right in the chest and falls. And he gets all offended! He gets in my face and (through clenched teeth) says, ‘Don’t. Ever. Do. That. Again.’ I explained to him that it’s a game, and I’m inviting him to play, but he just repeats himself. So of course I throw another one at him. He got so mad. Then he walks away, all pissed off and I throw one after him. It hit the wall right next to his head. The next day I get called down to HR and they have a whole incident report ready for me to sign, listing ‘what happened’. But it was that guy’s interpretation of it, not mine. I said, ‘I’m not signing that’. They got on my case, telling me I had to sign it, they needed me to sign it, but I wouldn’t. I told them, ‘I’ll sign a piece of paper saying that you gave me a piece of paper with his account on it, but I’m not going to put my name on his side of the story’."
"Wow," I said. "I have so much respect for people like you, because you stand up for yourself in situations like that. I would have kowtowed."
No, it’s not balls. I’m just arrogant," Frank said through a grin.

"If I’m ever 35 and I become one of those women who hunt down a husband just to have a baby, will you promise to beat my ass?" I asked him.
"I may beat your ass if you ever get married, period."
"Good looking out, Frank."

Following the spray of a water cannon, we walked over to a nearby fountain that Frank likes to play in, but a little sign next to the fountain showed a stick figure waist-deep in water, in a circle with a line through it. I wanted to take a picture of Frank standing in the water next to the sign, but a security guard nearby made sure that wouldn’t happen. "Screw this," Frank said. "I know where we can play."

We walked a ways down to Milennium Park, a giant expanse with a concert venue, sculptures, gardens, and - of course - fountains. On the way there we went past the Tribune Building again. "You want to see inside?" he asked me. Of course I said yes, the building is a landmark. The funny thing is, at that point I didn’t realize just how much of one. Since that afternoon I started reading a book on the history of Chicago in the 1890's and was floored by how much the Tribune Building plays a part. Now I wish I could go back in again. Not much has changed, apparently, in the building’s structure or layout.

Back out on the street, we hit up the multi-leveled garden section of Millennium Park, where tiny canals lined the levels. People scattered along the edges of the water dangled their feet in. Frank and I rolled our cuffs up - I had to wear long pants the whole time I was in Chicago because my mosquito bites were so vicious I looked like I had a disease.
It was truly disgusting. Frank said, "Ew, you got cooties!" Frank stood up in the water while I sat on the edge.
Soon a security guard came over and said, "Sorry, sir, no standing."
"I can’t stand in the water?"
"No, sir. I know it’s a stupid rule. I hate enforcing it."
"Who’s rule is it?" Frank asked.
"Probably somebody’s who is bored."

We took a walk through the rest of the gardens before Frank said, "Let’s head back over towards Michigan Avenue. I know there’s a fountain there we can play in." I didn’t believe him, until we came around a corner and there were two huge rectangular screens facing each other, broadcasting close-up images of faces. Water poured off the top of each, making droplets fly in all directions on the smooth pavement beneath. Wet children ran back and forth between the sprays, shrieking. Many were in bathing suits. The asphalt between the screens was drenched, making it slippery and cool. This fountain was definitely a playing-okay zone.
Frank and I cooled our feet as we watched exasperated summer camp counselors monitor some of the kids. "No running! Hey! I said no running!" After a quick stroll through the water, my pantlegs soaked, we saw the rest of the park. A giant chrome bean sits on the north end of it, although I still can’t figure out why. Half of it was being polished that day, making the other half look like a giant chrome boob coming out of a gray wall.

A marching band in bright orange uniforms was performing in the shiny bandshell. Howie Day was giving a free concert at a tiny outdoor café by the street. It was blistering hot, but still so enjoyable. After taking some pictures, we went to get food.

"What are you in the mood for?" Frank asked me.
"Well, this is Chicago, and you’re the expert. You pick."
"Do you remember the Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger sketch from the old ‘Saturday Night Live’?"
"Do I? Oh, my god yeah."
"Do you want to go to the original place that sketch was based on?"
"Let’s do it!"

He led me to a stairwell descending from the street. It looked exactly like subway entrances had in New York. I half-expected to see a sign with colored circles reading, A-C-E-1-2-3-9. However, the only sign was a gold one with black letters that read something like, "Downstairs, The Famous Original Billy Goat Tavern". At the bottom of the stairs was another street, called Lower Michigan Avenue, where Frank told me all deliveries are made so trucks never have to block the street. "We should have that in New York", I thought, remembering laundry trucks doubled-parked on narrow streets on the Upper East Side, clogging traffic for blocks.

Tucked away in a corner of the subterranean avenue was The Billy Goat, a cozy little place with a wrap-around lunch counter and grill in the center. A well-stocked bar ran the length of the whole righthand side, and tables filled the rest of the space. It was dim, lit by scant florescent lights and neon signs behind the bar, and smelled of grease and meat. The walls were painted red, all but fully covered by black-and-white photos and memorabilia. Everything was just yellowed enough with age to make it perfect.That pulsing energy was everywhere, stronger here than it had seemed in the park, that dizzying aroma of history, pride, and love mixed with burgers and bacon. The pictures told the thousands of stories that had taken place within those walls since 1934, pictures of dapper men in suits, beauty queens in gowns, old employees wearing their paper hats, and the original owner, immigrant Sam Sianis, Sr. You could almost hear the old wartime trumpet fanfares just by looking around the room. The burgers are served on wax paper, not plates, and they are some of the best burgers in the world. In-And-Out is the only possible rival at this point. Frank got me one of the paper hats as a keepsake, it was just wonderful.
"I had no idea there was a bar as well!" I told him.
"Yeah, and they have awesome bloody marys!"

After dinner Frank helped me look for a hostel and dropped me off at one on the corner of Congress Parkway and Wabash Avenue. "Give me a call tonight and let me know you’re okay, and call me tomorrow, too," he said.
"Sure thing! Thank you so much!" I said, hugging him goodbye.

I raced up to the front desk and checked in for three days, then took a cab back up to get my car from the parking garage. That’s when I figured out just what I was in for in Chicago - I parked for 4 hours and had to pay $28.00 to get my car out. TWENTY-EIGHT DOLLARS!!! Not only that, but I had to stop at the ESPN Zone for cash before getting it, and the ATM was $3.00. "What the hell?!" I lamented, trying not to get pissed off, but when the attendant said, "$28.00" I couldn’t keep quiet.
"You know this is rape, right? I mean, Jesus, you could have used some Vaseline first or something."
"Escuz me?" she snapped in a thick Spanish accent.
"Nothing. Have a wonderful night."

Back at the hostel, I opened the door to my room slowly, but still scared the quiet girl brushing her teeth at the sink. "Hi, I’m Jessica!" I said, shyly. She smiled and nodded. Another girl, about 27 and blonde, came out of the shower room. "Hello, dere! I am Susan." She had a thick German accent. We got to talking and I invited her to come out and explore with me.
"I don’t really know where I’ll end up but you’re welcome to come."
"Oh, thank you very much, but I have to present at a conference tomorrow morning. But maybe Friday, yes? After 9 o’clock I will be done with my work." She began getting ready for bed, putting lotion on her legs.
"That sounds great! What kind of conference are you presenting at?"
"Oh, it is for speech pathology. I am speech pathologist. I work with kids who stutter. I run a summer camp for them in Germany, where they learn to not stutter."
As she spoke, the quiet girl, also thin and blonde got into bed. I learned later that she was from Khasikstahn.
"That’s awesome! Well, Friday it is, then." I

changed my shirt, brushed my hair, grabbed my journal and a taxi, heading back to the Billy Goat. I had to see it again, at night, when the tourists were gone and it was just old men sitting around talking about the good old days.

I had the cab drop me off a few blocks south, to save money. Walking north, most of the shops were closed and dark, save for one brightly lit window. Red letters stenciled on the glass read, "IARCA GALLERY". The walls inside were lined with colorful paintings, obviously influenced by Picasso. A man in white painter’s pants and white t-shirt, off-set by his long dark hair, stood at a painting near the back of the room, adding finishing touches. The door was wide open and strains of Vivaldi trickled out onto the dark street. I walked in and met my first crazy Romanian.

"It’s beautiful," I said, startling him. Looking me up and down, he didn’t seem angry about it.
"No, you are beautiful. This is just paint," he mused in an Eastern European accent, looking me right in the eye. I wondered how many times he’d gotten laid with that line.
"Thank you. Where are you from?"
"Romania!" he said, rolling the R, making it sound like, "Rrrromeneya". "And you?"
"All over. Mainly DC. My cousin is from Romania, though. She’s adopted."
"Ahh. Is good. You paint?"
"No, sir. I just admire."
He turned to look at me again, taking a step closer. "Sir? Why you call me sir? I am no sir, I just like you. You are so beautiful, you no need call me sir."
I stepped back, restoring the distance between us. I wasn’t some swooning tourist who was gonna melt over some cheesy lines and an accent.
"What’s your name?"
He turned back to his painting, a girl seated at a table with some flowers. "Iarca. You?"
"Jessica."
"Ahh. Is beautiful name. It fits you."

His pieces were not still lifes, but most were of the same girl in the same position. Only the colors or her facial expression changed. "Do you ever have models sit for you?" I asked, looking up at the dizzying array of colors he had used for one painting.
"Yes, I love to paint naked women. Do you want me to paint you? Take off your clothes right now!" His smile was childlike, his eyes lecherous, the perfect juxtaposition for snagging a chick. Too bad I’m not a chick, I’m a lady. A lady that laughed right in his face.
"You’re smooth but not smooth enough. Sorry, I don’t do that."
"Oh, come on! Take them off! You are so beautiful! I paint you naked, maybe you become famous. Take only two, maybe three hours. Why you say no - you have husband?"
"No, just dignity."
"Oh, you no need be scared of me. I am good guy. But you, you travel alone, you need be careful. Watch out for crazies."
The irony was falling like rain. "Yeah, I’ll be sure to watch out for crazies, thanks."

"I’m serious," he continued. "You are alone, many guys will lie to you. Like me, I tell only truths. I want to fuck you right now. See, I just told you a truth. But these guys, they will lie and then you will go to do fucks with them and maybe they kill you. I will not kill you. Only fuck."
It was then that I noticed his silver wedding band. "Does your wife know you’re out here dispensing all this ‘advice’?"
His eyes lost their impish sparkle for a moment. "No, I am very bad boy."
"I see that. Well, take care, Iarca the Romanian Manwhore!" I called on my way out the door, stepping carefully to avoid slipping in a puddle of irony.

I was within blocks of The Billy Goat when my friend Glenn called from Los Angeles. He and I were actually loosely engaged to be married some years ago, but now he’s about to marry his new girlfriend this coming winter. He fills me in on the details from time to time. "Tell me all about it, hon," I said. "I need to live vicariously through you because I’m going to die alone."
"Shut up, Jess. You’ll find somebody. But when you do, I’d recommend staying in that place for awhile. Y’know, holdin’ it down for a bit. Kinda get your claws in that. Mark your territory. ‘Cause I’ll tell you, no guy will want anything to do with you long term if you just up and leave the next day."
"Yeah, right! If he’s a good guy, he’ll understand! And he’ll wait for me!"
"Okay, Idealist. Listen - I’m a dude. And as a dude, I’m telling you, hold it down for a while. Stay with him."
"Well, it’s not like it matters anyway. I’m not gonna find anybody anytime soon."
"Hey, my dog is wearing a cone right now." I

got to The Billy Goat around 11:30, skipping happily down to the door, ready to immerse myself in the history there and maybe even hear some great stories. The place was nearly empty - more employees than customers, that sort of thing. The bar is shaped like an L and I grabbed a seat on the long part, opening my notebook to write down all the stuff Iarca The Romanian Manwhore had said while it was still fresh in my mind. The bartender was an old, squat Greek man. He asked me what I wanted and I ordered from a sign hanging on the stuffed head of a goat behind the bar. The sign read, "Try Our Signature Drink, The Horny Goat!" It was basically a Cosmo in a highball, not a martini glass.
"I’ll take one of those signature Horny Goat things, and can I please have a napkin, too, for my gum?"

He wasn’t friendly at all. He picked up an plastic ashtray sitting in front of me and slammed it down again. "You put gum in there." His accent was thick.
"But then it’ll stick to the inside. And you’ll have to touch it and pull it out."
"What is it with you women and gum? Here’s napkins. Napkins, napkins, napkins." He slammed a stack of napkins about two inches high in front of me, along with my drink. "There. Now you have napkins."
"Thank you, sir." I wasn’t writing him off just yet. He was the perfect story, the bartender who’d seen it all and didn’t give two shits.

He walked away and I went back to writing until a middle-aged couple sat down to my left. The wife went to the bathroom and the husband saved the seats, asking me about my notes. I told him about my trip. "That’s really great," he said. "Plan your work, work your plan."
"Exactly right," I said. It made me laugh to think of how hard I’d planned in the years leading up to this and now I live with absolutely no plan at all.
His wife came back from the bathroom and he filled her in. "This young lady’s driving all across the country by herself."
"Oh, my god," she said. "Be careful."

We talked for a good hour or so, long enough for them to buy me two drinks, about kids and colleges and love and cigarettes. Their names were Dan and Lisa. They were fabulous. "We live right outside of Indianapolis if you want to come visit," Lisa offered. "We could introduce you to some real characters!" They told me about their two teenage sons, back at the hotel. It seemed they had very good relationships with both of them. "They were laughing at us earlier at the restaurant because Dan and I started talking to a couple that was sitting near us and it turns out they live close to us and their friends keep their boat in our slip and their daughter’s been to parties at our house and it’s just such a small world, y’know? So the boys are laughing, like, ‘Only you, Mom!’"
"But how else would you know if you didn’t talk to strangers?" I posed.
"That’s very true," she said. "But you be careful! Aren’t your parents freaking out right now?"
"Yeeeeeeeaaahh," I said, slightly proud, like Bugs Bunny saying, "Ain’t I a stinker?"

"Nick’s a great bartender," Dan said at one point.
"Yeah, we love Nick," Lisa agreed.
Nick didn’t smile but bowed slightly, mumbling, "Thank you very much." Then he went to chum it up with a group of men that had come in, doing shots with them, carrying on in that way that guys do.
"Let me give you my cell, you’ll have to come visit," Lisa said. "And don’t worry, you won’t have to hang out with us the whole time you’re there. It’s just so you’ll have a place to stay, you know how it is." Turning to Dan, she added, "She’ll probably think Matt’s hot!" Matt is their older son, 17 or 18.
"Maybe, you never know," I teased.

They left after awhile, leaving me to fend off a trio of aging frat boys. You know the type: thirty-something guys with thinning hair who hang out together, no wives, drinking beer and doing shots of cheap whiskey trying to relive their glory days. On any given weekend, dive bars are full of them. This night was no exception.
"Hey, there!" one guy oozed. "Let me buy you a drink."
"No, thanks. I’m good."
"So you’re a writer, huh? That’s cool, that’s cool."

And so it continued for 20 god-awful minutes. I turned down their offers for drinks, phone numbers, and beds until they finally left. The bar was empty by that time, leaving only Nick and I to bask in the green glow of the neon. "How long have you worked here, Nick?"
"Never you mind how long I work here! Why you have so many questions?!" he snapped.
A young man in a red Billy Goat t-shirt stepped behind the bar. He looked Persian. "What kind of stuff are you writ–"
"Don’t talk to her!" Nick cut him off. "She is bullshit. Just bullshit whore. She sit down alone, order one drink, don’t pay. She just want everyone else pay for her. She is prostitute. Bullshit. She is bullshit person."

My jaw was on the bar. I kept looking back and forth between Nick and the Persian kid, not sure what to make of anything. "Nick, I was just about to ask you how much I owed for my first–"
"Shut up! You don’t pay nothing! Get out! I don’t want your dirty whore money."
The kid spoke up. "Nick, you’re being unfair!"
"You shut up!"
I put a ten-dollar bill on the bar, staring at the floor, my lip shaking. "Thanks for everything," I whispered, my eyes welling with tears.

I ran past the lunch counter and up the stairs to Lower Michigan Avenue. The Persian kid ran after me. "Miss, please don’t cry!" he called, rushing out onto the street.
"I don’t know what I did," I squeaked, full-on crying now. "I don’t know what I did wrong."
"Sssshhhhhhh, shhhh, honey, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. He’s drunk. He’s just drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry. Here, come here."
He tried to hug me, pulling my hands toward him.
"No, I’ll be fine," I sobbed, pulling away.
"Please, please, it’s just a hug." He held me close, rubbing my back. I sobbed into his shoulder. I don’t know why exactly I was so upset, but I have a feeling it’s because I was so excited to go to the Billy Goat, and the fact that it's such a landmark. And because I was so very lonely.

Loneliness has a tendency to amplify emotions.

I let myself cry, knowing I had no choice but to let it out or it would kill me. After awhile I pulled away, whispering, "Thank you", and turning to go.
"No, please, don’t leave!" he said. He put his hand on my cheek, leaning in and trying to kiss me.
"FUCK!" I exclaimed, jerking away and running to the stairs. I hated Chicago.

Luckily, I flagged a cab quickly without having to wait around on the street, crying. "Congress and Wabash," I croaked. The cabbie, a Turkish guy, asked what was wrong. "Thank you, but I don’t want to talk about it."
"Okay, miss, okay."

He dropped me in front of the hostel and I went up to my room, careful not to wake anyone. I was on the top bunk, so I felt bad for the sleeping girl below me. Falling asleep, a million thoughts ran through my head, mainly, "I hate this city".

The last thought was, "Tomorrow will be better."

Yes, I Would Like Fries With That. (Tell me if you like this new photo format)

That morning I woke up at 9, caked in dirt and sand, having fallen into my sleeping bag without bothering to change my clothes. I was filthy. My fingernails looked like I had dug a ditch by hand. I was hung-the-fuck-over. After throwing on a clean shirt and my baseball cap, I all but crawled down to the gas station for some cold water and aspirin, and waved to Frank, seated on the bench outside his front door. He was busy typing on a laptop, his cellphone next to him. He works at the Chicago Tribune as an IT specialist, and decided to work from home that day.

Aspirin in hand, I strolled over and sat down next to him. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Ugh. Don’t ask."
"Ha, ha, ha! That’s the sign of a good time, though. Did you have fun?"
"Yeah, pretty much, until Chris started getting creepy."
"Yeah, he came over this morning and mentioned that. I think he felt bad.
"Well, he shouldn’t. He was just drunk. It was cool. Still, I’m glad he realizes it wasn’t just me being a bitch."
"Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t think that. What are you doing today?"
"Dunno yet. Maybe go to the beach."
"Oh, Max and I were about to go to the beach as well."

Hearing his name, Little Max appeared in the doorway. It was the first real chance I’d had to talk to him. And I realized quickly that he is not a four-year-old. He is a thirty-year-old trapped in a four-year-old’s body. Seriously, this kid has more personality and a better handle on the English language than some adults I know. His manner of speaking belies his size - he has a huge vocabulary but a tiny, high-pitched voice. Couple that with his blonde hair and big green eyes and that makes him The Official Cutest Little Boy In The World.

"Oh, hello!" he said, coming around the corner.
I crouched down on the ground. "Hey, buddy! Whatcha doin’?"
"Well, my dad and I are about to go to the beach, but right now I’m just playing with my toys. I have something to show you," he said before scampering away. He came back with a Spiderman set of school supplies in a plastic case, explaining what each item did. "That’s for writing and that’s for erasing and that’s for sticking things and that’s for putting everything in."
"Wow, that’s awesome!" I said.
"And guess what else, my daddy was in jail."
"Guess what, so was I," I told him.

Our conversation continued for a good half an hour, each time Max said something cute me looking at Frank and the two of us laughing. Finally, I said, "I should be going."
"Well, why don’t you go get your stuff and come back and then we can all go to the beach together?" Frank said.
"Sounds like a plan."

Twenty minutes later I was back in their kitchen and Frank was showing me pictures. A lot were pictures of some Wiccan gatherings he and his friends put together. No sacrificing goats, no getting naked and drinking blood, just people gathered around in a circle, burning some sage leaves and one by one, saying what they were thankful for. Looking at all the images, the happy people, I wondered, "Why does this make so much more sense to me than getting on my knees in front of a lower-case T?"

Tyka came over, and after a few minutes of rough-housing and tickle-fighting with Max we were all ready to go to the beach. I followed Tyka and the guys in my car, and as she was pulling away I was still waiting for my breathalyzer to warm up. "Hey, wait, stop! I can’t go yet!" I jumped out and explained the situation through Tyka’s passenger side window.
Frank let out a belly laugh. "You have one of those, too? I have one of those!" It was kismet.
"Dude!" I shouted, giving him a high five. "You’re the only other person I’ve met that has one!" We laughed.
"We’ll wait for you to blow," he said with a grin. "I know how much it sucks."

A few minutes and two left turns later, we were at the beach. It was beautiful, just as it had been the night before. Frank and I went in the water immediately, walking out until the waves broke over our heads. It was perfect - warm, clean, and it didn’t leave that horrible saltwater sting in your nose and throat. We turned around to stare at the shore, crested by tall, grassy dunes about forty feet from the waterline.
"Yeah, this is heaven," Frank stated, surveying the scene.
"Agreed. I bet it makes the long commute to Chicago worth it," I said.
"Every day."
Max and I dug a deep hole in the sand and when it caved in we switched to sand castles. We went in the water to wash off the sand and he shot me with a water gun. I fell straight back into the water, pretending to die. It became our new game. Frank joined in, and between deaths he told me a story about Max having been in day care.

"When he was about three, there was an incident. The caretaker was so horrified, she had trouble even telling me about it. She could only read the incident report out loud."
"Oh, gosh! What happened?" I asked, glancing at Max playing in the water, looking for any scars.
"Well, two little girls ran up to the counselor and said that Max was ‘being bad’. Apparently, he was doing a pole dance on one of the jungle gyms and smacking himself on the butt."
"Oh my god." That lingered for a second. Then I asked, "Um, do you know where...he....?"
"No!" Frank laughed. "That’s the weirdest part about it, no one can figure out where he learned what pole dancing is!"

A few minutes later, Frank and I still shooting the breeze in the waist-high water, Max gave us a repeat performance, swaying his hips side to side and then lifting up the cuff on his bathing suit in a peek-a-boo style to show off his underoos. "That’s enough!" Frank said as I fell in the water, laughing hysterically.
"He’s got rhythm, though!" I argued. "Have you ever thought about putting him in dance lessons?"
Frank looked at me seriously, but with a mischevious twinkle in his eye. "I fear the outcome of that."
My giggle synced up with Max’s shoulder-shimmy perfectly.

Back on shore, drying off a little, Frank, Tyka, and I talked about my trip, how it separates me from other people my age in a lot of ways. This ultimately - of course - led to a discussion on marriage. "Never. Do. It. Never," Tyka said to me. "There’s a reason it’s called ‘an institution’." Frank agreed. "Yeah, my father always told me to stay single forever and raise my kids to do the same."
"I don’t know. I want to get married. I want that security. Right now more than ever, probably because I get so lonely. Maybe because right now I conceivably can’t settle down, I want it even more."
"Really?" Frank asked.
"Yeah, but I probably won’t ever do it," I said, poking the sand with my toe. "I’m going to die alone. I think I’ll be one of the Golden Girls. I’m going to live in a bungalow and drink martinis all day and hit on the pool boy."

Tyka left before we did, making it necessary to squeeze, Frank, Max, and myself into the front seat and all my crap in the back seat. It took some doing. Squeezing Frank’s tall frame into a Honda Civic was hard enough, but Max had to squeeze in between Frank’s legs and crouch down so his head wasn’t visible over the dashboard.
"I don’t want the cops to see me," he whispered thinly, as though he were trying to get away with the perfect crime.
"I love you, Max," Frank said, patting the boy’s head.

Frank needed to make a pit-stop on the way for some paperwork, leaving Max and I outside by ourselves. He was cold and I wrapped him in my towel, then picked him up. "I love you, too, you know that, right?"
"I know," he squeaked. "Everybodies love me."
Through my smile I asked, "Now why do you think that is?"
He shrugged. "I don’t know, everybodies just do’s."
"It’s a tough job being the cutest little boy in the world, isn’t it, Max?"
He looked me dead in the eye. "Yes, it is."

I left he and Frank at the house, hugging Frank goodbye. "Thank you so much! I had such a wonderful time!" I said.
He smiled. "I’m glad," he said. "Don’t worry, we’re not done."

I went up to the campsite for some lunch, shower, and writing, then made my way back around four o’clock. Max was napping, giving me time to ask Frank about Beverly Shores. "It was a booming resort town in the 1800's for all the big money tycoons from Chicago. They had a huge golf course here, and huge summer homes out by the water. A man designed it and owned the whole thing, until his daughter, Beverly, drowned in the lake. Then he wanted nothing to do with it, so it just became another sleepy little resort town. It’s the smallest one on Lake Michigan, though. We don’t even have mail delivered to our homes." Looking around, I noticed that there were no mail boxes, something I had missed earlier. "The stupid thing is, they make you pay to rent a P.O. box. It’s pretty unfair when you think about it."

I cracked a bottle of soda as Frank and I sat on the bench outside his door. "I like watching people watch me watching them," he said.
I agreed. "Dude, I feel so content, just so.....*sigh*.... yeah, like one of those guys on ‘King of the Hill’, who just stand around the alley and say, ‘Yup’. Y’know, I always used to look down on those people, but there’s something to be said for it."

Chris came by and there were no hard feelings at all. I hugged him goodbye before he left for Chicago to pick up some glass pieces. Max woke up from his nap and we played every game under the sun.
We colored with chalk, played hide-and-go-seek, made a clubhouse, played Pokemon charades (which was hilarious because I don’t know the names or what they do), pretended to play in the snow, caught fireflies, pretended to go to the pumpkin patch ("the punkin’ paytch!") and finally, we played McDonald’s. Seriously, this kid has a McDonald’s drive-thru playset.

I rode up to the window on his Big Wheel. "Can I have a number four please?"
"What?" he asked.
"A cheeseburger and some fries and a shake."
"Oh, okay," he said, handing me some plastic fries, a dried leaf, and a twig. (The fries were the only toy food that hadn’t been eaten by the backyard, so improvisation was key.)

Soon we were hungry for real food. I was going to go back to camp and make some mashed potatoes but ended up sharing pizza and onion rings with the boys. Max went to bed right after, and I went back to camp after making plans with Frank to get together in downtown Chicago the next day. I fell asleep thinking, for the 77th time in 77 days on the road, "I love my life."

Blame Canada!

Motor City, baby!

Could I have taken a worse picture of Detroit?



After leaving The Mecca O’ Ford, I made my way further into Detroit. I didn’t know what I’d find, and to tell the truth I was a little nervous given the city’s reputation, but I figured 3:00 in the afternoon was a safe enough time to visit. Actually, I really wanted to go to Ontario, just to say I’d been to Canada, and maybe get some pictures of Detroit from the Canadian side of the water. I figured the view would be nicer and the streets safer for walking, so I got in the lane to cross over into Canada, paid my $2.75, and off I went to another country. A country that has mandated health care. A country that has a lower crime rate. A country that wouldn’t let me in.

Seriously, they told me to "Get ooot, eh!"

The customs officer at the checkpoint asked me if I was carrying any mace or pepper spray. I didn’t want to lie. I said "Yeah, a little one." Bear in mind, she didn’t ask me if I was carrying a gun. Or a tazer. Or a bloody axe like that other guy they let cross the border. No, just pepper spray. So I said yes and she looked at me like a judge looks at a juvenile delinquent he’s seen for the tenth time, like, "Will you ever learn?", and sighed, "Okay, you’re going to have to abandon that."
That’s when I said, "Oh, hell no."
"You’re not going to give it up?"
"I can’t, ma’am. I’m traveling alone. It’s my only means of defending myself."
"What do you mean, defend yourself? You’re going to be in Canada!"
"Well, yeah, but I’m going back to Detroit in a couple hours!"
"Have you ever used it?" she asked, in a way that implied I was coming to Canada for the sole purpose of going on a reckless pepper spray shooting spree, just running up to people, unprovoked, and macing them with glee.
"No, ma’am, and hopefully I’ll never have to."
"Well, you can’t bring it into Canada. So I guess you can’t come into Canada."
"Fine! That’s fine," I said, then under my breath, "I didn’t want to come to your stupid country anyway."

She sent me over to a building that looked like a bus terminal, where I counted 22 armed customs agents lined up against a wall, sitting on benches and waiting, just waiting to get their hands on a rule-breaker. A young kid in a kevlar vest carrying a clipboard approached the car. I could smell the power trip the minute I opened the door. "Stay in the car, ma’am!" he shouted, reaching for the gun on his hip. Now it was getting ridiculous.
"Okaaaaaay," I sighed, in a tone that said, ‘You got me!’, putting my hands in the air. The 21 other agents were chomping at the bit to get in on the "action", probably hoping against hope that I was a terrorist. Or a pepper spray fiend.
"Why do you want to come to Canada?"
"I just wanted to take some pictures," I said.
He gave me a look usually reserved for child molesters. "Why do you need pepper spray to take pictures?" he sneered.

Oh. My. God.

"Just fill out the paperwork and get me out of here, okay? This is futile. This conversation is a waste of oxygen. I hate this country." Holding my camera to the open window I said, "Smile pretty!"
"NO PICTURES!" he screamed, again reaching for his gun holster.
"Fine. Fine," I said, as he placed a form of some sort under my windshield wiper.
"Now, you’re gonna show this to the agent over the bridge."
"Well, what if it blows away when I’m crossing?"
"It shouldn’t, ma’am."
"And if it does?" Of all the places I didn’t want to be, stuck in customs limbo between Detroit and this guy was at the top of the list
"It shouldn’t!" he shouted, exasperated at my logic.
"Fine!" I snapped back. Pulling away I shouted out the window, "And you guys wonder why you’re the red-headed stepchild of America!"
So I paid another $2.75 to cross a bridge back to the states. I never thought I’d say to myself, "Oh, thank god I’m back in Detroit!"

Driving the elevated highways of Motor City, I left Jen a voicemail. "Those god-forsaken, mullet-wearing, hockey-loving, meat-pie-munching, EH-saying Canucks wouldn't let me in, can you believe that?"

The rest of Michigan was nice, but uneventful. I stopped at a motel in a town called Coldwater and got some shitty, over-priced food at a diner, and two $3.00 bottles of wine at Rite-Aid, one of which I drank all of while writing on the porch. Two older British couples were in the rooms to the left of me, and they were sitting outside as well, drinking beer and chatting. I talked to them a little bit, just enough to know that they were from London and had been on a whirlwind tour of the northern states. I didn’t have the balls to ask them how they felt about the bombings. They seemed remarkably unfazed, totally unlike how I would have acted if a bomb had gone off in my city (again) and I wasn’t there.

I could tell they wanted to talk, and I wanted to talk to them, but I also knew I had to get a lot of work done, so I had to be anti-social. That’s completely unlike me, to shun making new friends, but the sheer volume of stuff that’s been happening warranted more attention than I’d been able to give to that point. Michigan was a welcome break from all the galavanting of Ohio, New York, and Pittsburgh. I made my way across the bottom of the mitten-shape, passing slowly through little towns and valleys.

The fun and frenzy started up again as soon as I got to Indiana. Okay, now try something for me: think of Indiana. What do you picture in your mind? Corn? Cows? Bob Knight? Well, whatever you picture, I bet you don’t imagine miles of beautiful beaches, warm blue water and lush, grassy dunes. I didn’t either, until I saw it. But I was driving into Indiana and saw signs for Indiana Dune National Park and just had to stop. There was a campground there, and I have a National Parks Pass, so I camped for the night. It was gorgeous.

There are a lot of entrances to the various areas of the dune park lined up along Rt. 12, which extends all the way into Illinois. I turned into one and climbed a set of stairs that led up into some thin woods. A path through the trees led to a cut between two huge sand dunes, each about the size of a two-story house, with marsh grasses and soft bushes growing up the sides. The sand was clean and white. Past the dunes, the path opened out onto a magnificent beach. The white sand met the pale blue of Lake Michigan in a smooth line that stretched miles in either direction. Small waves crested and broke, making the only sound besides the wind off the water and the shorebirds calling from the scruffy trees atop the dunes. "This is Indiana?" I kept
thinking.

There wasn’t the usual ocean debris clogging the shoreline, like driftwood or shells, or steep rift in sand that tide creates. There were no seagulls cawing, because there were no sandcrabs to chase into the soft, wet ground. It was so incredible, so unbelieveably pristine that I almost didn’t notice four teenagers in bathing suits, two boys and two girls, lined up behind me atop the tallest dune, about four stories high. The dune dropped off so sharply that walking down was impossible - one just had to step off and hope. Each of them lost their footing and slid down on their backs, one by one. They brushed the sand from their thighs and snapped their suits to empty what had collected as I climbed back up the smaller dune. It was difficult, the sand kept giving way under my sneakers and I’m out of shape, but I made it by singing the chorus of that rap song - "You can do it, put your back into it! You can do it, put your ass into it!" A little out of context but it worked.

The campgrounds themselves were fairly dialed-in. There were showers, electricity, dishsinks, and fire rings with grills on top. I was inspired by that and decided to grill some meat - I was splurging! I still had that cheap red wine that would go great with a tiny steak. Finding a grocery store was a little difficult - I had to drive all the way back to the Michigan border and swerve in and out of the one-way streets of Michigan City, but the prices were good and it was worth it. I got two nice cuts of steak for $2.00 - two dollars!!! When I saw that, I thought hell, I’m going all out, I’m getting a potato! Some tin foil and garlic salt later, I was singing happily, heading back to camp.

I had bought wood but had trouble getting a fire started, so I stopped for lighter fluid at the tiny gas station outside the campground entrance. There was an interesting array of buildings gathered at the intersection - a liquor store, the gas station, a train station with a pink neon sign that read, "Beverly Shores", an abandoned one-story, office-type building, and a two-story brick house with a small parking lot for a front yard. The house and lot bordered the gas station fairly closely. A bunch of grown-ups were scattered throughout the lot, drinking Coronas on their knees and coloring with chalk. A tiny boy of about 3 ran in between them, occasionally stopping to draw something himself. Strains of Rusted Root floated out the open front door. A big man with a bald head and bushy, salt-and-pepper beard saw me watching and smiled widely. "Come play with chalk with us," he said, smoothly. Another man in the lot, about 30 with long, light-brown hair and big blue eyes, waved to me as he was filling in a green balloon. "Come on over!"
"I would, but I left my fire going," I said, shyly. I wasn’t sure if I should just up and join the party, plus I had steak calling my name back at the site.

The lighter fluid helped immensely, and soon I was grilling my beautiful steaks and had stuck a potato in the coals, wrapped in foil. Everything was going great, until I went to flip one of the pieces and dropped it. In the sand. In the SAND! "Crap!" I said, as I reached for it and inspected the damage. Sand stuck to each side of it, but I hated to throw it away. I brushed it off and placed it back on the grill, thinking, "I bet the Indians dropped a piece of meat every now and then and didn’t throw a hissy fit."

But then - BUT THEN - just because I am so freakin’ smart, I thought, "Hey, I bet if I hold the steak in the flames, the sand will just burn off!"

And you’re thinking, "Yeah, Jessica, or just cover your meat in a thin sheet of glass, one or the other!"

So it was crunchy. Grainy, even. But damn, was it good.

Later on, recounting the story to my dad, he gave me a look that begged, "How did I manage to raise such an idiot?"
"If you put enough sand on one side, maybe you wouldn’t have even needed a plate," he said.
"Stop looking at me like that, Dad."

I polished off the steak and the entire bottle of wine while writing about Fredonia, then decided to take a walk and see if the chalk people were still at work. They were still hard at work partying, although the chalk drawing had ceased. "Hey, there you are!" the big guy waved, seeing me cross the street. "We were wondering when you were coming back!"

His name was Frank. The long-haired guy was inside, dancing alone to some jam-band music. His name was Chris, then there was a sweet, freckled lady named Tyka, a pretty brunette named Karen and a tall, dark-haired guy whose name escapes me. "Yeah, I couldn’t pass up a party," I said.
"Awesome," Frank said. "Would you like a beer?"
"Sure," I said, sending Frank into the house saying, "Chris, that girl is here."

We all sat outside and talked in that excited way that slightly buzzed people do, about work and traveling and love. After awhile, Frank and Tyka were dancing, Karen and Tall Guy went for a walk, and that left Chris and I to chat. He was a hippie if ever there was one. "Man, what you’re doing is right on! You can be as spontaneous as you want. Hey, I work in a glass shop down the street. Do you want to see it?"
"Right now? It’s, like, 1 in the morning."
"Yeah, but I have keys. Come on, it’s cool, let’s take a ride!"
"No, thanks," I said, Rule #4 from the How To Avoid Serial Killers book my mom made me read running through my head - "Never get in the car."
"What if we got everybody to come? Would you feel better then?"
"Maybe."

Karen and Tall Guy couldn’t come because they had "other plans", Tyka had to go home, and Frank had to stay home with little Max, the boy who had been running around the lot. He was asleep. That left just Chris and I again. Frank could see my apprehension, and when Chris went inside to use the bathroom, he came over and said, "Trust me. He’s harmless. You’re okay here."
For some reason, I believed this gentle giant, as though some good, peaceful, trustworthy vibe transcended the borders of being strangers.

When Chris came back outside, he asked, "You ready?" I looked at Frank. He nodded.
"Okay," I said, taking my pepper spray out of my purse and holding it strategically as usual.
Chris and I rode down to a large post-and-beam building by the water, going in the back door.
The smell of sage and dust hung in the air as he showed me around.

"This is what I do," he said, showing me a half-finished, gorgeous window hanging. It was a hummingbird; the beautiful colors were offset by the shiny silver rods in between the pieces. He showed me others - the one that struck me the most was a smaller hanging illustrating the caramel-colored head of a woman wrapped in a blue burka. Three thick black pieces of glass ran vertically through each third of the picture, giving the appearance of bars. The woman’s sad, dark eyes were the only feature visible, a giant black bar running in between.
"I like that one," I told him.
"Oh, man, you have no idea how many complaints we’ve gotten about it," he said. "One Arabian guy came up to us when we were selling this stuff at a festival kiosk and got in the owner’s face. He threatened to break it."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Eh, I guess people don’t want to be reminded of the faults of their own religions. Come on, let’s play some music!"

He skipped over to a giant CD rack and said, "Go ahead, pick whatever you want. It’s all good. Whatever you want. Actually, pick this one." He pulled out Bruce Hornsby’s latest album.
"Good choice!" I said, popping it in. The first piano melodies of "Changes Made" floated over the whole shop as Chris started dancing.
"Come on, dance!" he cried. "This is fun!"

Actually, it was. The great thing about hippie-dancing is that you never have to get it quite right, or impress anybody like at a club. You never have to be the sexiest girl on the floor, or have the hottest moves. You just move. It’s great. Who cares if you look like a drunken toddler, it’s all about having fun. I love it.

So here’s me and Chris, dancing like crazy hippies around a glass shop at 2 in the morning. Well, mostly we just jumped up and down, laughing at the crazy turns life can take. I mean, I certainly never thought I’d be dancing around a glass shop to Bruce Hornsby in Indiana in the middle of the night.

When we started to get muscle cramps from all that jumping, Chris showed me some more glasswork. I had lots of questions. When I asked one about how glass is beveled, he didn’t bother answering. He just said, "Screw it, I’m going to show you." He led me into a different room with four wheels. "These are grinding stones," he started, taking me step-by-step through the whole process. He beveled a small piece of glass to demonstrate, then put it in my hand. "That’s for you to remember me by."

Chris was very cool - we sat outside drinking beers, talking about families and our childhoods for awhile. He told me about his girlfriend in Chicago. I told him about my dad. The mosquitos feasted on my legs. I started to fall asleep and asked him to drive me back to Frank’s, so I could walk back to my campsite. That’s when things got a little weird.
"Why don’t I just come back to your campsite with you?" he said. "Y’know, we can just cuddle."

A whole bottle of wine and three beers hadn’t dulled me that much. "No, I’m fine by myself."
"No, really, please just let me go back with you! I don’t want to do anything, I just want to sleep next to you!"
My mind: "Yeah, right, ‘just sleep’. No fucking way."
My mouth: "No. No, no, no."
This went back and forth for awhile, and he admitted the reason he was so hell-bent on sleeping in my tent was because he was convinced he’d never see me again. I managed to reason that if he kept acting creepy and not taking me home, he could bet on never seeing me again. That worked, and I made it to my tent alone and unharmed.

The next day, I got a page from a number I didn’t recognize. It was Chris. "Hey, I really want to apologize if I acted out of line last night. I had a few too many. I’m so sorry if I was aggressive." Of course I forgave him. He really is a good person.

So, all in all, between The Henry Ford, the Rosa Parks bus, The Wienermobile, getting kicked out of Canada, eating glassy steak, joining a hippie party, and dancing around a glass shop to Bruce Hornsby at 2 in the morning, it was quite a couple of days!

I wouldn't put this pic of my friend Max's new haircut up were it not for the uncanny resemblance to Charlie Bucket. On acid. 

Ah, the Wienermobile, the most phallic of all autos..... 

This is for Jen, Manda, JK, and any other Dane Cook fans. Speak Like The Devil, the thing should have been called! 

Can you read this? If not, it says, "When tillage begins, other arts follow. The farmers, therefore, are the founders of human civilization." -- David Webster. Yeah, go 'head, farmers! 

This bull has brass balls - on the tips of his horns. 

I took this picture in the meadow of Greenfield Village. 

A rooster! 

I thought this was a great one - A slave woman re-enactor talking with a friend who had brought her children to the museum. The contrast was amazing. 

Orville and Wilbur Wright's house. 

Some of the re-enactors on the streets of Greenfield Village. 

Me cheesing it up, taking a picture of one of the model hotel rooms in the hotel room history exhibit. 

This one's for my Jessi. It's the wing of one of Henry Ford's experimental planes. Love you, girl! 

I would be smiling in this picture, but violence against crash dummies, or VACD, is no laughing matter.  

Abraham Lincoln's rocking chair. In the top right corner, you'll see me taking the picture. 

The cabin of one of the first airplanes. Or, in other words, "Oh, HELL no!" 

The Rosa Parks bus.