Chicago, Chicago, that Toddling Town
Chicago, Chicago that toddling town
Chicago, Chicago I will show you around
Bet your bottom dollar you have some fun in Chicago, Chicago
The town that Billy Sunday couldn’t shut down.
First of all, as former English teacher and one who loves words, I can’t help myself:
- Toddling: To walk or go somewhere in a casual or leisurely way.
- Billy Sunday: American evangelist (1862-1935) prominent in the movement to prohibit liquor sales in the United States. (Also, humorously, an upscale Chicago bar.)
Now on with it:
Picture this: Rural middle Tennessee. A shiny, royal-blue Mustang convertible, top down. Laughing, two close friends take off for four days in Chicago. Mona with beautiful long silver hair and the fairest skin this side of the Mississippi, protected with a tilly hat. Susan, the bohemian of the two, dangling silver earrings, soft floral neck gaiter worn in pirate-mode to keep her hair from blowing in the wind.
Damn, the last time they travelled together was Maine, 15 years before. Now their children are grown and in their 30’s. Still, they have the thrill of adventure and love for the backroads, which lead to some hilarious wrong turns and “extended travel time.”
Can you say corn boys and girls?
Switch to first person:
I love Chicago. Had the opportunity to visit often when my daughter went to school there. One of my favorite things to do? Toddling! I am familiar with Lakeview and Wrigleyville but this is a new neighborhood for me, Old Town.
Chicago architecture is delicious.
Arriving Thursday night, we parked the car until we left Chicago on Sunday.
Between our twilight first walk Thursday night to Hotel Lincoln’s The Kennison for Prosecco and Sweet Pea Risotto on the sidewalk patio, to our final walk home the train after a thrilling adventure back from the White Sox/Indians game on the south side, we clocked about 15 miles of walking—I mean toddling.
Our initial reason for the trip was to experience the Immersive Van Gogh Exhibit. I don’t want to say anything to keep it a surprise other than it was splendid.
The early evening of our 1st full day, we took an exceptional Architectural River cruise.
Afterwards, thanks to an older, balding man with a thick middle eastern accent— Chicagoans we had asked were not so inclined to stop and help—we were guided from Navy Pier to a complicated cement maze under Lake Shore Drive. Proceeding along the River Esplanade we joined the Riverwalk at the Columbus Drive access and strolled for 2 miles. At the Vietnams Veterans fountain, and rejuvenated after gyros sliders and an Arnold Palmer, we left the Riverwalk and climbed the stairway up to State Street. We didn’t really know where we were but we knew we were heading north and decided to adventure home on foot as far as we could. (I gave silent thanks to all my hill walking back home!) We ‘toggled’ on for one mile. Dark now, when it got just a tad seedy on State, we hung a right and somehow ended up walking by the side of Waldorf-Astoria on Walton and found ourselves on fashionable, legendary Rush Street. Here we passed Armani, Prada, Dior, Hermes Vera Wang Bridal. Yikes. Steps on, we found ourselves in a magical fairylight-lit promenade of restaurants, whose patio seatings overflowed into the closed-off street.
Mona stopped for pistachio gelato while I people watched, comfortable sitting on the cement-bordered edge of the Mariano Park greenspace. Perfect. Isn’t it the unexpected that means the most? I didn’t take photos, wanting to preserve the diners’ privacy. It was a magical bit of time before nabbing a taxi for the second mile back to our Old Town B&B: We are women of a certain age, after all: Bad knees for Mona, bad lower- back for me.
Speaking of unexpected delights:
Saturday, after our momentous visit to the Art Institute of Chicago, (which I will write about in my NEXT BLOG), we lunched outdoors at Park Grill in full view of Cloud Gate dubbed ‘the bean’ by Chicagoans. But first we stopped to rest. Before long, a group of 7 or 8 young fresh-faced lovely women stopped in front of us. We couldn’t help but ask about their matching light-coral t-shirts. A bridal party. Haha, just like Nashville.
“Who is the bride?” I asked
“Me!” replied the young woman in a white tee.
Duh.
“Would you like me to take a photo of all of you?” I inquired.
What ensued was a community of celebration among strangers. I took pics of them in many positions and moods. Between each shot, they arranged and rearranged their bodies, their hair . . . People stopped to laugh and enjoy. Even a group of handsome young men came by and joined in. The alpha of the group asked me to look into his camera and say, “Fuck you, Robert.” So I did. Loud and Clear. It was hilarious and so nice to feel camaraderie among strangers in this day and age.
Participating in the laughter was an African-American couple from Milwaukee sitting next to us. I don’t remember their names, dammit, and I’ve wished dozens of times already that I had gotten her email address. Our conversation with her after the silliness died down keeps coming back. Between her optimism and Michelle Obama’s portrait eyes, I have moments I want to keep with me, moments that resonate still. She spoke:
We are blessed, I am grateful there is hope.
I will try.
That night meant a train-trek on the Brown line to the Red line to White Sox stadium for my beloved Indians game against the White Sox. We won 12-11. What a hoot. I found tribe fans sprinkled throughout my section and we thumbs-upped regularly. Even had a heartening conversation pre-game about Cleveland with ‘James and Val.’ Got some scoop.
But coming back by train was intense. Mona and I walked with the immense crowd the short walk to the station. Every car in the first train was crammed to the gills with fans, so we walked to the very end of the platform and waited for the next to arrive. When it did, fairly empty, we hurried on and grabbed seats.
Thank you, NYC, for teaching me how to be ‘subway assertive.’
Soon, it too filled to the gills, fans standing, no room to step to the left or right, up or down.
We started rolling, normal stops at Chinatown and Roosevelt. But in the Loop, things got wild. Just so happened that Lollapalooza was the same weekend and letting out for the evening. Platforms were jam-packed with stoned, drunk, unmasked and very angry young people clamoring to get on cars that were already standing room and filled with drunk, older White Sox fans—no slouches—I might add.
Fights broke out at the train doors each time we came to a stop and Looza attendees tried to burst their way into cars that clearly had no room. It was the theatre of the absurd: Honestly, it reminded me of the January 6th storming of the Capitol doors and I wondered if shots would fire into the car through the windows. The female train engineer blared out in a very nasal, little-girl voice, belying the seriousness of the situation. “Stand back behind the blue line. I promise other cars will be coming soon,” to no avail. This repeated for at least 4 stops, to our southern incredulity. People inside the car had trouble exiting, though passengers tried to accommodate. The train finally passed the onslaught and eventually we exited our Sedgewick stop and giggled nervously for the one mile walk to our
B & B, where corner pubs were still open and dog walkers were calmly toddling. Phew!
I have to say that despite my love for Chicago, and my distaste for the backwards political and covid views in Tennessee, never had Mona and I appreciated more the friendly southern accent that greeted us at a pit stop in Kentucky!
Catch ya later, y’all.
