Chicago Week 4: Never such devoted sisters

I've got some good friends. In high school it was these two. We were ridiculously studious, but we still found time (usually at 6 a.m.) to watch Jane Austin movies and talk and read books together.

In college there was a whole crew. We ate every meal together and studied for finals together and went on kayaking trips and hiked West Texas mountains. Some of them still know me better than I know myself.

Then a few years later, when I thought good friends couldn't exist after college, I moved to Mexico and met this group of women. Even though we only spent one year together we grew close and I still miss them.

And now here I am in grad school, and every semester I meet more lovely people who help me become a better person and provide plenty of opportunities for parties and mud races and all sorts of great times.

I couldn't be more grateful for all the friends I've accumulated, and I try to hold onto them as best as I can, but the thing I'm realizing more and more is that my three sisters are the people who will be there, no matter what, all the time, forever. They make me who I am. Without any one of them, I would be a different person. They're the best part of my life, the part that makes me absolutely certain that life is worth living.

This week I got to see two of them. #s 2 and 4 were just north of Chicago with the camp they work for, so I visited them as often as I could.

We went to coffee shops and caught up on each other's lives.

We toured my mother's hometown and ate macaroons.

We ate pizza in downtown Chicago.

We talked about August, when we'll all four be together for a whole month. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am. I have three people who grew up with me. They know where I come from and they share so many of my experiences even though we're all four so different. We're spread across the country now, and maybe we will be forever, but when I need someone who instantly understands, I have three numbers I can call. That's pretty incredible.

Chicago Week 3: Saving the world at Trader Joe's

First of all: I get to shop at Trader Joe's this summer! This is dangerous. I like their gingersnaps and peanut butter cups and maple cookies far too much.

I go to Trader Joe's once a week, and I've been reusing my brown paper bag from my first visit. It makes me feel hip and responsible and conscientious. Sometimes before a trip to the store I get this proud feeling. "I'm saving the world," I think. "Not one more tree is being cut down because of my bagging needs."

But last night as I was falling asleep to these self-congratulatory thoughts, a bit of honest realism slipped in. Really, how much good am I doing? One paper bag? Yeah, world saved.

Don't get me wrong, I love this earth. I've traveled across four continents. I've climbed volcanoes and backpacked over mountains. I've swum in remote coastal towns and rafted down rivers. I want many, many generations to be able to do those things. But I'm afraid that this push towards organic living and environmentalism soothes us into thinking we've done enough.

I saved one paper bag at the store today. That's good and all, but it doesn't help that kid who has lived in so many homes that the word "forever" means "until I'm tired of you." It doesn't help the three-month-old with the broken legs, and it doesn't help her teenage father who can't get clean enough to stop hurting her. It doesn't help the high schooler who commits suicide because of bullying, and it doesn't help the pregnant kid who's getting an abortion because she's afraid of the judgement she'll receive. We like things to be pretty these days. We call children "wards of the state" because "orphan" is too ugly a word. We convince ourselves that if we eat organic food and use colorful cloth bags we've done our part. But I guess what I'm saying is I want my part to be more than that.

I'll keep reusing my old Trader Joe's bag, and I'll buy grass-fed beef and eggs from cage-free chickens while I'm at it. But I hope it doesn't lull me into forgetting all those people who so desperately need someone to do more than drink organic milk.

Chicago Week 2b: Sunday afternoon hitchhiking

The morning after my terribly unlucky Saturday I had only one mission: retrieve my car from the tow company. The woman at the company had given me directions the night before, and I still had her number in my phone, so I laced on my running shoes (the feet were too blistered from the day before to wear flip flops again) and hit the door. She'd said it was just a mile or two, and while I was pretty sore from the previous day's 15ish miles, I figured I could handle a little walk.

It was another warm day, and I was walking on a highway without a sidewalk. After a mile or so, I began to doubt my directions, so I called the tow company to verify. "You've got a ways to go on Gary," they said. I asked how far. "Quite a while." I started to run through my options:
a) I could keep walking. Except that I was hot and didn't know how far I still had to go.
b) I could get a friend to drive me. Except that I don't know anyone in this town well enough to ask for a favor.
c) I could call a cab. Except that cabs don't just roam the streets in the suburbs and I don't have internet on my phone.
d) I could stick my thumb out and see what happened.

I went with option d. Time to see how friendly these Illinoisians are, I thought. (Note to any concerned readers: I'm not usually a hitch-hiker, but this was in a quiet suburban town right as church was getting out on Sunday afternoon. Pretty safe.) I waited through a few cycles of lights, and I felt pretty silly standing on the corner with my thumb out. Finally, though, a window rolled down and an sweet-looking elderly couple asked where I was going.

I climbed in the back seat. The old man driving the car told me to move his oxygen tank so that I'd have enough leg room. His wife offered me cotton candy and said she'd gotten it at church. They'd just gotten out of the Presbyterian service and we talked about that for a few minutes. I asked them if they could just take me as far as they were going, but they said they were in no rush and they'd take me as far as I needed to go. I said I thought it was just a few miles down Gary Ave.

We drove a few miles but we couldn't find the street. "We need to call for directions," said the woman, and her husband said just wait a little longer. Eventually he gave in and we called; they said we still had a ways to go. "You couldn't have walked all this way!" said the lady. And we kept driving.

We talked about how awful it is to have your car towed and where they were from and what a hot day it was. After six or seven miles we finally found our turn. I told them to drop me off there and they wouldn't hear of it. "There are dangerous people out," said the woman. A few more miles and we finally made it to the tow lot. The drive was nine miles in all, NOT one or two like the lady on the phone had said the night before. They wouldn't let me pay them for gas, so I just thanked them and said I didn't know how I would have made it walking on my own, and they said they were glad they'd seen me.

I'd called for directions so many times that they knew me at the tow lot. "Are you the Gary lady?" they asked when I walked in. I paid my bill and we joked around a little bit and told each other to have a good day. Because after you've accepted a nine-mile ride from kindhearted strangers it's pretty easy to be nice to even tow-company employees.

Chicago Week 2a: Sore feet, drunk trains, and towed cars

I've got pretty good luck when it comes to traveling. I'm laid back and I don't worry about leaving on time, and I pretty much just try to have fun and things mostly work out. Every now and then I've gotta pay the ferryman, though.

I started my Saturday with an eight-mile run in the mid-morning sun, which left me sore and headachy. But I wasn't going to let that ruin the weekend, because I had good plans downtown: Printers Row Lit Fest and Chicago Blues Fest. It was gonna be a bang-up time.

I live in a suburb, and the trains into the city come and go every two hours. I was running late for the two pm train, so I decided to drive to the station, even though it's just a mile away. Then I was still running late, so I had to find a place to park fast. The website said there was free parking, so I found a place and ran to the station and got there right as the train was pulling up.

My day in the city was fantastic. Lit Fest was an outdoor book fair with stand after stand of used books in a street lined with old bookshops and wine stores.



And Blues Fest was probably the biggest free festival I've ever seen, with several stages and crowds of people dancing and enjoying Chicago blues.



I walked around the city a bunch too. This is my first time in Chicago in the summer, and I kind of love it.



It was a tiring day, though. The temperatures were in the 90s, and I was walking a lot, so I planned on making the 8:40 train and being in bed by 10. It was a long walk, and I got a bit turned around. I ran some of it and got distracted for some of it. I thought I'd make it just in time, like I usually do, but I got to the station just as my train was pulling out. The next train wasn't till 10:40. My feet were sore and blistery and I was ready to be done for the day, so I stayed near the station and read.

The station was empty when I got there, but by the time the train left, it was full of drunk people. I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep. My head was hurting, my feet were sore. But country music was blaring from someone's rinky-dink little stereo, a crowd of college-age boys was parading through the cars cheering, and someone in the car over was playing a kazoo. The ride was long; we kept stopping so that security could kick people off. A guard would run through the train chasing someone, and the man behind me would slur out to the whole car, "That's why they don't let alcohol on the train!" or "Enjoy your handcuffs!" and then at the next stop we'd do the whole thing again.

I finally got to my stop sometime after midnight. I was so tired I couldn't think, and the fun of the day was pretty much forgotten in my desire to sleep. But when I walked to my car it wasn't there, and my trip to the city suddenly became very expensive. I called the tow company and they said that the lot I'd thought was train station parking was a restaurant's private lot and I'd have to come get my car where it was being held two miles away.

Two miles isn't that far, I guess, but I was tired and limping and I'd already run/walked about 14 miles since that morning run, and I just wanted to sleep. So I told them I'd get it in the morning, and I limped the mile back to my house.

Except my night still wasn't over, because once I got there the house was all locked up, and I don't have a spare key. This happened to me once before and I just slept in my car, but this time I didn't have a car. I banged on the door for a while until someone finally answered, and then I apologized for waking her up and went to sleep, quite relieved that the day was over.