Back from my four-day weekend in Chicago. Had a great time and was encouraged by The Breakfast Lesbians (less Judd Nelson, more Sappho) to move to their windy city. Am considering it, as I have been since I was 16 and King V and I drove to the city for a day.
There were high and low points to this past weekend's trip. I'd love to write about all of them in magical, drawn-out detail, but need to catch up on two days' worth of work. King V and Queen S fled in their Prius about six hours ago, headed for a Tina Turner concert in Kansas City, and in the wake of their oddly soundless car, King V left 90+ emails that I have been sorting through. Here are some glances at the weekend:
Our train was due to leave River City at 6:30 a.m. I got up at 4:15 a.m. and was downtown with my travel companions at 5:30 a.m., per Amtrak's guidelines. The first delay was until 7:30 a.m. Then it was 8:30 a.m. Finally, it was 9:00 a.m. I groused only once that I could've stayed in bed until 8:00 a.m. (well, not quite, given our departure time). All in all it wasn't bad. I had a copy of David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed in Flames to read (pretty decent but nothing tops Naked and Me Talk Pretty One Day) and people to talk to, sleepy or jacked-on-caffeine as they were.
We boarded the train shortly after 9:00 a.m. and finally left at 9:30 a.m. After inexplicably sitting on the tracks for more than 30 minutes (turns out we were waiting on a track switch change or something) and then passing Union Station by a good 15 minutes so another train could come through, we disembarked some 6.5 hours after we boarded.
We arrived at our hotel in the late afternoon. Note to the wise: Don't stay at the Ramada on South Lake Shore Drive. Tis scummy and featured scuffed doors, an inconveniently unidentifiable odor in the hallway, and beds so hard my shoulders ached every morning after spending the night sleeping on my side. Also, they didn't honor my friend's work discount that would've saved her $100. Read: Not so much for Maxine's next visit. Plus, being 20-plus minutes from downtown meant each cab ride cost at least $20, not including tip, which bit into our spending money greatly. (The fact that I'd paid almost $50 to spring my car from the pokey a few days earlier didn't help either.) I've decided that I'm staying downtown next time I venture to the city. What I spend on the hotel room will hopefully equate what we spent in cab fare.
On Thursday evening, I taught/reminded one of my travel companions how to play Rummy 500 while everyone else was off at the wedding rehearsal dinner. Engrossed in our game, we forgot to watch the debate until the last 30 minutes, during which time I talked back to Sarah Palin and her too-big-for-her-head eyes. My companion referred to her as a MILF to which I simply say, "Eeeucuvvchcgh." And also, thanks to the Pundit Kitchen LOL Builder, I offer you:
::pointing to head:: Kidneys. I got 'em.
On Friday, I nearly got into a fight with one of the people in our group because he said he wasn't going to vote because the politicians were going to do whatever they wanted anyway. While that's quite possible, I argued, why surrender your right to vote? You're not bucking the system on Election Day. You're making it that much easier for them to say, "See? The American people don't care." I began to get red-in-the-face angry, stopped speaking, and avoided eye contact. Luckily, an older and wiser member of the group spoke up and was the calm voice of reason who began to steer the person in question towards the voting booth. That evening, however, his 'logic' had become "I'm not going to vote for Obama because if he gets elected and then gets assassinated, I'll feel bad for having helped put him in the White House." I wish I could say that wasn't a direct quote. At that point, upset because I was single and surrounded by happy, heterosexual people in love, and upset because gays aren't afforded the same marriage rights as hets across the nation, I left the table, mildly drunk on a combination of tequila and red wine, and told the sisters of the speaker in question that their brother was a Neanderthal. They didn't disagree.
The wedding itself was a beautiful affair. The bride's colors were claret, ebony, and mercury. (C'mon, I'm a poet; "red, black, and silver" sounds dull.) The vows were so beautiful that several people cried, myself included. Perhaps the most noticeable of the weeping attendees was one of the groomsmen who let out a choked sob that reverberated off the room's walls. No matter; it was truly a celebration of two people's love. After the ceremony, we retreated to a statesroom in the hotel (no, not the Ramada) and descended upon the open bar. (See also: Where Max Found Tequila.) While we were gone, the room was reset and prepped for a sit-down dinner. I was happy I knew what all the silverware was for and that the raspberry sorbet that arrived in long-stemmed martini glasses between the salad and main course was to cleanse the palate.
On Saturday, my companions and I headed to breakfast and the Shedd Aquarium. Not, um, simultaneously. (Mmm, seafood!) I saw king crabs, an octopus, and fish with blood-red tips to their fins. In the gift shop, we were treated to all manner of souvenirs, including tiny plush sharks wearing hoodies. Seeing as I was running low on money and still had cab fare to contribute to and Sunday brunch to buy, I opted for a 76-cent postcard with a picture of a beluga whale (one of my favorite animals) on it. Had there been belugas in hoodies, well... all hope would've been lost for future financial contribution.
In the afternoon, more than half of our group left for River City. The rest of us had opted to stay until Sunday but were too tired after Friday's festivities and Saturday's outing to do much. While the others slept or went out for food, I watched a Jodie Foster flick called The Brave One, which I enjoyed about 100% more than I thought I was going to. It was easily one of the best movies I've seen. Give it a rental if you haven't already.
In the morning, a Michfest friend picked me up and we met about 20 other festies for brunch. After good conversation and Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon (NOM NOM NOM), I got a ride to Union Station and waited for my cohorts to join me. I got two burritos from a Chipotle-like restaurant in the food court and started reading I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley. (I enjoyed and will likely buy a copy.) I hadn't expected to finish Sedaris' book, but nearly 12 hours of non-driving travel time will help a gal in that regard.
While reading, an allegedly homeless man approached me and asked for money. I'd truthfully paid for lunch with my credit card, saving my remaining $20 for the cab ride home that night, and told him so. He semi-harumphed and wandered off. Some time later, a second man approached me and asked if I was going to eat the second burrito I ended up being too full to eat. I nodded but said I had some change. While digging for quarters, I suddenly said, "You know what, you can have the burrito" and handed it to him, warning him it was messy and he would want to get some napkins. I found two quarters and turned to give them to him. His palm was rough, dirty, and sticky. He reminded me of Mack Daddy Smooth; perhaps that's why I was more willing to help him out than the previous man. Perhaps it was simply because he didn't smell so good and I believed he was actually homeless and hungry instead of out for a quick buck; whatever. I've landed at every point on the altruism scale: I've lied to homeless people and said I had no money. I've given change and dollar bills and said 'you're welcome' when the inevitable 'God bless' sailed through my car window. I've told the truth and said I had no money only to be irritated and angered by the response I received (once, the angrily delivered "But I'm HUNGRY!" from a man who came up to my car in my bank's drive-through line). Yesterday, however, something in the man's eyes and energy told me he actually needed help. Case in point, he was already unwrapping the burrito while I looked for change. After I gave him the quarters, he wandered off and tears instantly began to roll down my cheeks. Why does the world have to be this way? I texted to a friend. I hate the world sometimes, I texted to another. I suppose, now that I've had some time to reflect on the incident, that my heightened emotional state after the long weekend had something to do with my unexpected tears. Maybe I cried simply because I knew how other people were going to treat that man later in the day. Maybe I just miss my brother.
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