Great Big Chicago
Part I – Days 0 and 1
“Getting’ Up and Gettin’ There”
Holy fakashkapants, it feels like it’s been positively forever since I last found myself staring at a blank document earmarked for greatness in the form of a blog post. This one begs to be written, however, as it shall document several new experiences for me – the type of experience I have missed sorely since returning from Maryland over a year ago. Though clearly domestic in nature, it has a color similar to my semester in Scotland, what with the public transportation and the going to a large city I’ve never been to and feeling all touristy and getting “free wifi” that doesn’t actually let you connect. A 5 ½ hour bus ride gives one ample opportunity to fetch out one’s computer and attempt to record one’s goings-on, so I will stretch my blogging muscles and attempt to write something that is actually readable, being as out of practice as I am.

My birthday yesterday was one of my more unremarkable ones. Most of my friends who are even remotely local live an hour away, and my work schedule didn’t afford me a real opportunity to make plans at the Hooley House (ironically and unhappily, this coming week’s schedule gives me 6 straight days off, which is kind of nice but mostly sucky because if this continues I literally won’t be able to afford my job.) Therefore most of my rainy birthday was spent attempting to slay the headache that had overtaken me the previous day at work, cleaning my room a bit (which meant organizing the recycling that SotY can’t know I’ve been rescuing,) packing for my trip, and messing around on my laptop until I had to leave to work the closing shift.

Dana and Jackie were awesome to close with, being super-nice individuals.

After a half-night’s sleep I had surprisingly little trouble dragging myself out of bed half an hour after my first alarm went off. Bailey was there to get me at five minutes past seven, and the drive into Cleveland would have been more or less completely relaxing and uneventful if not for the twenty-seven million other people that felt like they also needed to get into Cleveland this morning via route 90. [Side note: It is now roughly 10:30 am and we are apparently in Toledo, stopping to load some more passengers.] We lost several minutes of talky time, which could have been filled productively with an animated discussion about Heroes, courtesy of my growing terror at the thought of not making it to the bus stop on time. It was about five minutes past 8 when we arrived. John carried my wee suitcase as we power-walked across the parking lot, and the nice bus driver (Raoul) checked my reservation number casually. I asked if I had an assigned seat or anything, and he told me that I could sit anywhere I wanted. “Except here,” he clarified, patting his seat behind the wheel of the bus. I gave him a crestfallen look and said, “But that was my first choice! You must have the best view on the bus!” I believe that as I made my way up the stairs (you can’t ride a double-decker bus and willingly sit on the bottom level) (Jennie) he said that I could try that seat if I wanted to, and I may have commented that that may not be the wisest choice for everyone involved.

The first small leg of the journey took us through streets in Cleveland that I have never known the pleasure of perusing, and reinforced my traveler’s mentality. I saw several small shops and restaurants I would otherwise have never known existed. Despite knowing nothing about any of them, I felt that the entrepreneurial spirit was strong on this side of town and that every one of them deserved my patronage. I wanted to name a few of them here, but because I didn’t have my notebook in front of me at the time and I have the short-term memory skills of a goldfish, they shall for now remain unnamed.

So I have now been on the bus for almost 2 ½ hours, and we are on our way back to I-80. Whatever you read next will be, from my perspective, written in the future.

Several hours later…

It suddenly feels like we’ve gotten off at an actual exit. An hour and a half ago we stopped at the Ernie Pyle rest stop near Howe, Indiana, where I got some chicken tenders and water at Hardee’s, some money at an ATM, and some Motrin from the gift shop, where I also happened to find a rooster downing a glass of wine and a key fob that declares colorfully that “I LOVE BOB.” I purchased neither, being a somewhat sensible woman.

The ride is becoming tedious. Headache is tenacious, RLS is trying to catch up, and my stomach has been thinking about waging a silent war with me. So far it seems undecided in the matter, but I can feel it weighing its options.

The Adventure of Black Peter, an attempt at resting, nine pages of John Green’s embarrassing “Zombiecorns” novella (which I started reading again last night and which interestingly takes place in Chicago,) an entire Adam Lambert album, and two Brigid’s Cross songs bring us to where we are now. I’m really super hoping that my travel discomforts will not infect this entire trip, or I will prove to be a sorry companion for Kim, and not at all fit to be in the front row of a Great Big Sea concert.

A few hours later…

The bus driver announced that we would be arriving at our destination in a few blocks, so I texted Kim to let her know I was preparing to de-bus soon. She let me know that she could come around and pick me up, unless I wanted to wander about in town first, but with my heavy backpack and the biting wind I decided that the former would be preferable. After being accosted by two church representatives asking for money and one supposedly downtrodden single mother asking for money, I wandered toward the nearest building accessible to the Nonlocal Public Fresh from Cleveland, the Amtrak Union Station, to hide from the cold. I checked out the lower level of the Amtrak station, finding its hub to be a disappointing parody of the train stations in the UK – there was a single ticket window and a tiny convenience store selling overpriced goods and sundries, not including maps of Chicago. Eventually I received a phone call from Kim. “Go down the street to Union Station so you can get out of the cold, and I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

I was on my way back out to the bus stop and in the middle of a fresh accosting by a homeless person asking for money in exchange for a Chicago Transit Authority periodical that I will never in my life need when I saw a green VW bug coming toward us, “Actually, it looks like my ride is here,” I said out loud with a substantial amount of relief. I’d been accosted by almost as many people in my half an hour in Chicago as I have in the many times I have been into Cleveland.

Little did I know that rescuing me from strangers was only the first awesome thing about Kim.

My immediate impression of Chicago is that it is freaking MASSIVE and everything is so close together that it practically sits on top of itself. There are a lot of stone buildings, which reminds me faintly of London and Glasgow, but probably more of Glasgow because there are actually streets you can cut across. In London I swear there are places where you can walk for 20 minutes before you find an intersection. Kim acted as my personal tour guide, pointing out the Trump Tower, the Marina Towers, the building she worked in at her second job, a Polish church that she is particularly fond of, the Museum of Art and Engineering, and Sears Tower (Chicago is big on towers, and its skyline makes Cleveland’s look positively dwarfish.)

The roads look at least as complicated as Cleveland’s but much narrower, with cars generally parked on either side. I mentioned that while the expense of tolls and gasoline (as opposed to the $10 I spent on my Megabus ticket) is what stopped me from driving to Chicago on my own, I am also grateful that taking a bus does not require me to actually drive in Chicago. Kim’s car (LuLu) is small like mine, but she’s also a little spitfire thanks to the brain controlling her, whereas Jasmine would be a terrified little mouse afraid to play with the other cars. Kim disagreed, insisting that it’s not as frightening as it seems and that she’s sure I would be able to drive just fine. “Look!” she said, pointing across the intersection at a man crawling through the crosswalk in a power wheelchair. “There’s a guy in a wheelchair! He’s fine, You’d be fine.” (However, I do feel compelled to point out that a moment later, she added, “Oh, look, he’s gonna cross in front of me. I’ll probably pick him off now.”)

Driving along the lake we saw several artisitical and musem-al buildings, as well as an odd little basketball court-sized collection of statues. At first I thought they were leg or pant statues, until I realized that their heads were gone and their arms were bound. “What’s with the headless people over there?” I asked. Kim looked out her window at the odd field of hollow, headless brown figures, and said, “It’s ART, Sarah. Obviously.” She had no idea what they were about either, but since her wealth of knowledge about the area extends so very far already I will not complain about not knowing the story behind the headless pant-statues.

We lunched at one of the three University of Chicago dining halls, and as good girls we both had salads. I was thrilled that they had Silk machines that dispensed both vanilla and chocolate soymilk, but disappointed that the chocolate was empty. We chatted about work and school and shoes and her expectations for the show tomorrow and her plans to make IRISH CAR BOMB CUPCAKES tonight. How epic do Irish Car Bomb cupcakes sound? It means there is Bailey’s in the vicinity. I know, I know. I can smell the jealousy from here.

I also started to appreciate the depth of Kim’s Great Big Sea fandom, as she spoke of the GBS road crew like they are old friends of hers and explained the particulars of the evening she has planned for us tomorrow. House of Blues Restaurant and Pass the Line were only the beginning of the dream as, in a business-like manner, she told me that she had also booked VIP access to the Foundation Room, where it is apparently common for a band to hang out before or after a show. This woman KNOWS how to go to a concert!

The aforementioned appreciation was amplified when we go to her lovely apartment and I marveled at the autographed promotional posters and album art that decorate her walls as well as many flattering photos of land and harbors and lighthouses that she has taken during her forays in Newfoundland.

Before getting the cupcakes started. Kim ordered dinner from a local Italian place called Fellini’s. The man who answered the phone was, according to Kim, roughly 107 years old, and she informed me that we might not actually get the salads that were supposed to come as part of our meal. After a somewhat discombobulated confusion as to which door the delivery was to come through, we settled down to watch the Great Big DVD that is included in the GBSXX box set, featuring interviews and hijinks and behind-the-scenes goodies from the band’s early years. Kim told of a few of her exploits as a Great Big Sea-head, the most memorable being the time she booked a block of hotel rooms and hosted a GBS-themed after party that featured several of my cohorts from gbs.com and was so utterly rocking that the band actually showed up to party in the wee hours of the morning (minus Séan, whose wife and brother were in town at the time.) “Bob Hallett was actually answering the door for me,” she fondly recalled. This event also spawned the famous “cupcake” in-joke that I will not go into right now as it is somewhat bawdy and would be tedious to fully explain. I will simply say that Kim’s Irish Car Bomb cupcakes were a monstrous success with everyone involved.

Shortly afterward I had to go to sleep, for I was exhausted.

I did NOT lick the leftover Bailey’s-and-cream-cheese frosting out of the frosting bowl, no matter what Kim tries to tell you.

It was delicious.
♥
SM