Chicago, Illinois: Chandeliers

In Dallas, Texas, in November 2009 I noted that Dean and I would continue to live the American dream, despite being at the end of our road trip.  Since that time we have independently returned to this vast land on numerous occasions, on trips to see friends, to visit family, to battle nostalgia.  Now, twenty-seven months later, we return as the dynamic duo, a brazen double-act of new media fame, blogging, tweeting, instagraming our way across cities and statelines, in search once again for the real America, the substance to these States, to form a closer opinion of an imperfect union, to strive to comprehend the notion that, out of many, there was, is and always will be one United States of America.

Where to begin a new odyssey?  How to strive on without repetition?  Fly to Chicago, Illinois, and take it from there.

Stakes on a plane

The story begins in London, England, and sub-zero temperatures as a middle-aged father of two’s Jaguar snakes its way around the capital’s arterial support road and in to the noise and confusion of London Heathrow International Airport.  Clutching suitcase, hold-alls, guitars and camera cases, Dean and I navigated our way through Terminal 5 – a rare success story of modern British civil engineering, architecture and planning policy – and sought out touch-screen comfort on a British Airways Boeing 777. 

Travellers are hardened souls, adaptable to changing circumstances, wary but not necessarily weary of the thickets and pitfalls of contemporary international tripping.  Embarrassingly such experience stood for little when a woman of what can legitimately, if not a little rudely, be called a rotund body mass decided to sit herself down in the aisle seat beside a laughing Dean and an incandescent me.  The woman, who would not have been made to pay an excess baggage fee despite her gargantuan size (an inconsistency that British Airways should address given my lean frame and now financially damaging suitcase weight), came complete with a one month old baby on her considerably sized lap.  This baby, this spawn of the underworld, this Caliban of economy class, emitted cries of hysteria and Satanism not heard of or seen since John Proctor took one for the team.  What started as a deep, rumbling, gurgling growl of desperation formed in to a piercing, shrieking, screaming, howling, yelping curse of evil.  It was going to be a long eight hours.

Except it was not.  Fortuitously, a clever Kosovan noticed, from a few rows back, that the Faustian-pacted mother and child were separated from other members of their cult (family).  With the quick-witted decision-making skills of the very best eastern European dictators, Kosovan Woman leapt forward, suggesting that her seat be taken by the terrible twosome.  It was a Deadline Day swap deal like manna from heaven and the rest of the flight passed without incident.

Come on feel the Illinoise

One never tires of arriving in a city like Chicago.  At its best, it is a bustling, bursting metropolis of hard-working, friendly people, enjoying the city’s vantage point at the near tip of the central United States.  Its architecture, all haphazard angles and gothic skyscrapers that genuinely rival Manhattan, and its history combine to great effect to make Chicago welcoming and heart-warming in equal measure.  It is also a cleverly designed metropolis, easy to navigate through wide boulevards and avenues, resplendent in bright lights and separated by the city’s famed architectural anomalies at every turn.  Nestling adjacent to modern glass towers are stone baroque-parody cathedrals and Greco-Roman inspired political buildings, all juxtaposing with randomly situated statues and sculptures that cut across the Loop and aptly named Magnificent Mile (Michigan Avenue), which in turn are surrounded south and north by Navy Pier and both Grant and Millennium parks.

After checking in to our hotel, then, it was helpful to re-familiarise ourselves with the pedestrian nirvana that is Chicago, Illinois, stepping out on to Michigan Avenue to find caffeinated refreshments and fight off any lasting remnants of navigational amnesia.

This was followed by a relaxing use of the Hilton Garden Inn’s spa facilities.  On our previous roadtrip our student selves cared little for such amenities.  Now, hardened and chiselled by the dual responsibilities of work and precariously placed feet on slippery property ladders, such pleasures as a swimming pool and jacuzzi are not to be remissed and much of the physiological affects of a long flight were dealt with by some quick lengths and a long soak respectively.

Deep Pan Deep Thoughts

Chicago, of-course, is famed for its deep pan pizza and Dean and I had been reliably informed that Giordano’s was a suitable joint to sample the city’s famed and acclaimed take on the Italian classic.  Giordano’s is as you would expect any regular American food bar to be: widescreen sport-fuelled neon-hazed temples of calorific foodstuffs and Americana guitars.  This particular version of the modern American outlet specialised in ‘stuffed pizza’, essentially a type of pie that takes the idea of a ‘stuffed crust’ and spreads it across the entire pizza base.  It is not for the faint-hearted and certainly not the sort of pizza you can eat easily with your hands.  No, this is a cutlery affair, necessitated all the more by the gargantuan size of the pizza itself.  My original order of two medium-sized dishes for three people was laughed at by the waiter.  In this city, in this country, small means large and medium means sickeningly big.

We were met in Giordano’s by Mike Ibrahim, a friend of both Dean and I from our previous travelling experiences in America.  A former student of the University of Illinois, in Urbana-Champagne (see previous roadtrip), Mike is now at law school in Chicago.  He is also a knowledgeable and passionate supporter of the correct form of football.  There are positive and negative conclusions to reach from the generally good news that sound decision-making in what sport to follow has not completely vanished from the soul of America.  Mike’s love of the beautiful game, and his in-depth understanding of its history, culture and values, are to be applauded.  A student of soccer, Mike enjoys playing and talking about the game he loves.  It was, and is, a real pleasure to go in to such footballing depth and debate with an American citizen.  The problem, then, the negative conceit of this otherwise positive situation, comes from Mike’s stubborn supporting of the wrong North London team.  To be fair, Mike’s is a genuine and affectionate relationship with the rabble from down the Seven Sisters Road, but one cannot help but imagine just how improved the situation would have been if Mike’s horizon was shaded in blue and white, and without any hint of red.

Premier League rivalries aside, it was good to catch up with such an engaging, intelligent and polite individual and we looked forward to the night ahead, even if the jet lag began stalking our collective levels of sentiency.

Chandeliers

From Giordano’s, Dean, Mike and I took a cab south of central Chicago to visit another mutual friend, Matt Smart, at his apartment.  When Dean and I visited Champaign, Illinois, in 2009 we stayed for one night at Matt and Mike’s apartment.  Now, in Chicago, Matt was as hospitable as ever, inviting us in to his home to enjoy some drinks and meet a few more of Matt and Mike’s social scene.  TJ, Ben, Kelsey and Ian were as courteous, friendly and welcoming as Matt and Mike and invited us to join them in a drinking game called ‘Chandeliers’ before we prepared to head to the Lincoln Park area of the city for a few more drinks.

Chandeliers takes some of the skills of Beer Pong and updates them in to a more collective setting, requiring genuine quarter-flicking skills and a decent dose of luck to avoid having to down reasonably significant quantities of beer or, worse still, a central cup of continually refilled liquid poison.  Warmed by the game and the increasing amount of alcohol in our blood, we prepared to move the party on to Lincoln Park and hopefully liaise with Emily Leary, another of Dean’s friends.  Before doing so, however, Matt kindly showed Dean and I the view from the roof of his apartment block.

What a wonderful moment this was, as we gazed out across the cityscape before us, under a cloudless starlit sky.  Stretching out for miles in to the distance were the concentric lines of roads and streetlights, criss-crossed with countryside and train tracks, each leading inexorably away in one direction to the horizon and the plains of America beyond, and in the other towards the heart of the city itself, its towering mass of teeming life, light and opportunity: the metropolis, the land, the great beyond; the mystique of America crystallised on one suburban rooftop.

Eight in a taxi

There was no real reason why it transpired, but it did.  It could have been avoided, but it was not.  It should have been prevented, but it continued unabashed, unprotected, underhand.  Eight adult human beings can not, should not, fit in to one standard sized taxi cab and yet somehow we found ourselves crammed, cramped and cajoled en mass in to a feat worthy of Houdini. 

While ostensibly meant to speed up our progress to the Lincoln Park district of Chicago, the ‘eight in a cab’ magic trick brought Dean and I far closer to our hosts than perhaps any of us had wilfully anticipated or desired.  It was not pretty, nor clever, and it did little to aid Dean’s ankle ligament injury, but there we were like sardines in a tin can as our oblivious taxi driver ignored his passengers’ collective deep vein thromboses and sped away in to the night.

Mad River

We fell out of the cab in Lincoln Park, a bohemian suburb of downtown Chi-town, famed for its bars and restaurants and ambient vibe.  Alighting at Mad River, a bar frequented by locals and college students, it was clear that a number of us, myself included, needed a few moments to realign our spines before gathering our thoughts and heading in to the sweaty, boozy mayhem of Mad River. 

The bar was like many Dean and I have witnessed in our travels across America, albeit this time more colossally packed with people than many other similar variants.  Mad River was the best and worst of American nightlife, with cheap drinks, talkative natives and a musical playlist that seemed to come straight from the disc-jockey booth at esteemed establishments such as Nottingham’s Ocean or Watford’s Destiny. 

We made our home at the bar, sinking shots and mixers, talking and occasionally moving to the beat, while Dean made a bee-line for his friend, Emily Leary, who herself was in Mad River for a friend’s birthday.  Dean and Emily chatted while the rest of us enjoyed the friendly atmosphere inside the bar.  By this point we were past 2.00am and, when adding in the time difference, had been awake for over twenty-four hours.  Dean, to his credit, was still going (reasonably) strong.  I, on the other hand, was struggling and the concoction of noise and alcohol became a noxious mix of lethargy and confusion.  Bed was calling at the end of a long, but enjoyable, day and night.

Breakfast in America

You can adopt a laissez-fait attitude to the United States.  If you are so inclined you can even detest its culture of excess.  Surely, however, we can at the least agree that, while it may struggle with its polarised electorate, its confused religiosity, its internal conflict on the merits of external intervention, America knows how to breakfast.  After the dual onslaughts of jet lag and severe alcohol consumption, Dean and I awoke on Super Bowl Sunday with headaches and appetites. 

Taking to the streets of Chicago, we walked off the worst affects of the previous evening’s excesses and headed for a Magnificent Mile diner for brunch.  The United States really came in to its own with the creation of the concept of brunch.  Many will point to America’s entertainment industry, its pioneering spirit, its trade and industry, its commerce and free market liberalism as its most important and iconic exports to the waiting world.  The reality is that, while such items and philosophies have seeped their way in to the popular and political consciousness of the West, few bonafide American inventions can rank so highly as the deliberate manipulation and combination of two popular mealtimes in to one new and almighty session of consumption.  Brunch is as American as cowboys, cheerleaders, red cups and big trouble in Dodge City.  The ensuing Eggs Benedict, Salt Beef sandwiches, Tater Tots, coffees, Texas toast and fried vegetables went down a treat.

Some Like it Hot

Armed with such sustenance, Dean and I enjoyed Chicago in the cold February wind and sun.  We ventured down Michigan Avenue towards Millennium Park, pausing for pictures of the sights, including a giant model of Marilyn Monroe in her infamous ‘breeze up the skirt’ pose.  This huge structure towered over the assembled tourists and locals alike, allowing two young gentlemen from Radlett, Hertfordshire, the closest look they will ever get of Marilyn Monroe’s inner thigh.  Less My Week With Marilyn and more a peak of Marilyn, the statue works well in downtown Chicago, which is famous for its zany approach to architecture and urban planning. 

It is also, of course, an iconic American image of the twentieth century, recognisable the world over, and serving as a reminder of this vast country’s ability to continually invent and reinvent, to amaze and surprise, and to consistently offer to the world at large such memorable icons and pursuits.  Lovers of brunch and Marilyn Monroe, not necessarily in that order or independent of each other, will doubtless agree.  I remain a supporter of both, but would be particularly interested in brunch with Marilyn Monroe.  If wishing made it so.

My Kind of Town

The day was rounded off with a fascinating visit to the Art Institute of Chicago, which reminded me of everything that is good about the American museum system.  Well supported and invested in by both organisations and private citizens alike, American museums and galleries are well funded, focussed, organised and informative.  Chicago is home to many excellent public arenas, and the Art Institute is perhaps its crowning achievement, featuring a stunning array of works from the likes of Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh, Turner and Wood.  Currently the Institute also includes an American Folk exhibit and a mesmeric photography and film feature, involving silent cinema, black and white stills, and stop-motion projections, to display images and movies of key areas and moments in American history and culture.  If you find yourself in the Windy City – and I hope this blog helps inspires you to go – do take the time to visit this excellent landmark.

Equally worthy of your time is Millennium Park itself.  The Art Institute is situated on the south end of the park, but the middle of the area involves a number of modern attractions, including the legendary Bean, a literally bean-shaped glass structure that reflects everything and everyone in its path and now something of a Chicago institution.  Down some steps and away from the Bean and the park’s other modern, atonal architectural feats brings you to Chicago’s winter ice-skating ring.  Dean and I, perhaps unfairly, provided a running commentary to accompany participating skaters’ seemingly inevitable falls from grace.  

Super Bowl Snooze

To describe Dean and I as being supporters of America would be somewhat of an understatement.  To be in this country during the Super Bowl, then, would no doubt strike many of you as a fantastic opportunity to sample this most quintessential of American traditions.  The Super Bowl is a bizarre and brilliant affair, as much about critiquing the accompanying television adverts as it is about the gridiron sport at hand.  The Super Bowl also involves the now legendary half-time entertainment section.  This is, of course, an understated affair, with little or no choreography, pyrotechnics, stage management or budget.  A-listers are usually left to brave the elements from a bare stage, armed and protected only with and by their own talent.  This was certainly the case for Madonna, who – and it was clear for all to see and hear – in no way mimed her way through a set that contained almost no backing dancers, support singers or costume changes.  At least the production did not end with a plea for ‘world peace’.  That would have stretched the credulity of the watching millions beyond repair.

The Super Bowl is, irony and sarcasm aside, both utterly ridiculous and completely wonderful in equal measure, arising as it does out of this nation and it’s peoples’ steadfast refusal to contemplate the fact that the rest of the world does not play American Football.  For all its stop-start nature, American Football is full of colour and pageantry and verve.  It encapsulates this nation and its spirit in one pursuit: vibrant, all or nothing hedonistic order amongst chaos.  Throw in some cheerleaders, a marching band and a profound sense of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness and you get some way to understanding these crazy United States.

Alas, with mounting jet lag and the ending of another busy day, we collectively snoozed through the Super Bowl and prepared for Monday and the start of a long journey that would meander through the Midwest and beyond to the magical South.

The Chevy

Finally getting the affects of our long-haul journey under control, Dean and I walked a few blocks to pick up our hire care that would take us through another exciting collection of states on our second American roadtrip.  We had ordered what we thought would be a Ford Escape, a reasonably-sized SUV that would fit our luggage and guitar.  Instead we were given what can only be described as the mother of all gas guzzlers, a towering bison of vehicular clout: the Chevrolet Tahoe. 

Resplendent in its white gloss, with tyres the size of broncos, this beast of a car was entrusted in to our care.  Forget our UK three-door town cars, or our Jeep Patriot of 2009 fame; no, this was an altogether different proposition.  This new colossus was (and remains as I type this) obscene and perfect.  A road trip in a Chevy.  All we need now is a dry levy and we have the makings of musical classic.

Teach First

Our final task before bidding farewell to the always welcoming and friendly Illinois was to pay a visit to the small town of Naperville.  Here, Dean’s friend Emily Eyers teaches Spanish at a local high school.  Luckily for us, Emily was on her day off and met us at a conveniently located Starbucks for a chat and a coffee.  Emily was passionate in her discussion about her work and the school where she teaches.  It occurred to me that the traditional American sentiment of respect, of geniality and cordiality is alive and well amidst the raucous modern age.  Emily is one of a number of bright, engaging and pro-social young Americans that I have met over the past few years and the United States school system must be all the better for individuals like her giving up their time to teach those who are the future of America, instilling in them the same values and considerations that their young and impressionable teachers so vibrantly illustrate today. 

With that in mind, we made our way across the great plains that divide Illinois with our next state, Iowa, with a renewed sense of optimism and inspiration.  Across and in front of us stretched out miles of interstate and corn fields, lines of lights and crops, hopes and dreams: enough room to plough, to sow, to reap.

 ~~~

“Trader Joe's”

Grey spires reflect rolling tyres,

A steely mire of old,

Shiny metal from a used kettle,

And hotel stories told. 

Welcome to this: the red, white and blue,

Welcome to the start of the trip, 

I'll search every face here in case it is you,

In case the distance is still just a blip. 

Robert 'Sammy' Samuelson

Chicago, Illinois - 4 February 2012.