Chicago, Chicago

April 9-10, 2009

A long flight takes me from the somewhat familiar to the familiar. After an extraordinarily long wait at Customs, I am allowed back into my native country and make my way to the Chicago Transit Authority's Blue Line that conveys me into The City of the Broad Shoulders, where my feet take over and propel me to the Palmer House Hilton. I have stayed here twice before, and I am enamored of the old-style hotel, the gilded ceilings in the large lobby. In my room I make myself as home as a person can be in a hotel, laying out these essentials.

After a walk of several miles, I find a perch in Miller's Pub, where food is always good, and order a domestic meal and a domestic beer (Honker's Ale). My waiter, Matt, sees me writing in my Moleskine. "What are you writing there, a book?" Matt says. I tell him of where I have just returned from and he says he wishes he had written down notes of all his experiences when he played professional soccer in South America. I ask him how he went from professional soccer to waiting tables; he points to his head and says, "brain tumor."

Of course.

I learn that he is from San Diego and wants to each English overseas, that he loves to travel and decided when he "was sick" not to spend his life not doing what he doesn't like. It is a good conversation, and it fits in well with conversations I had with both Sharon and two elderly women at the Windsor Hotel--a good cast of characters.

The remainder of my stay in Chicago itself is somewhat lazy, and I find that while wondering without a plan in London and Brussels was fine, I want a plan here. Perhaps it is fatigue, both physical and mental; perhaps my familiarity with the city edges out any strong excitement. When I leave, I am pleased to be headed home, and in my long layover in Dallas-Forth Worth airport I think back to the last 2 weeks, to what I have seen and the people I have met. And when I remember the people, I see a connection of theme: the elderly women who had breakfast with me at the Windsor House are probably still planning further travels in their carefree style. Sharon, so energetic and seemingly positive, must be performing somewhere; and Matt, the soccer player turned waiter and planning to teach, is still saving his money so that he can afford to live overseas.

I do not associate well with many people, but I found these 4 and thoroughly enjoyed hearing their stories. Then, just days after getting home, I ride my bike through wind and rain and am overtaken by a man about my age, a man who pulls alongside and starts talking. We speak of our occupations, and he tells me about his brain tumor, about still recovering from his treatments. He says his goal is to work at finding ways to connect people--not connect with them, rally, but to somehow attach them to other people. The rain and wind bother him less than they do me, and when I turn back toward home, now riding into the wind and rain, he smiles happily and tells me he has many miles to go.

The Easy Hotel

Back in London: April 7-8 2009.

The Easy Hotel near Paddington Station is clean and spartan, and I pay a bit of extra money for a remote control so I can watch a bit of TV during my stay. Though I will sleep no better for my 2 nights here than I have in any other bed during this trip, the bed itself is large and comfortable as I lie on it for a few minutes before heading outside again. I walk around and find my way to Hyde Park where I walk some more before, near dark, returning to my room.

Early the next morning I ride the Tube to Leicester Square, then walk aimlessly while trying to conserve what remains of my cash. At Covent Garden again I consume a finaly pasty for lunch, then watch the street performers, two of whom look like this:

Deciding I've had enough of the area on this, my final full day in London, I head back to the underground and come face to face with Sharon, who greets me with a friendly "Hi, Bob!" Of all the people on all the streets in London, and we meet again. I now know why she had been schlepping all of those suitcases from Brussels to London: they contain her outfits and props. She says that she will be performing in 45 minutes, and how can I not stick around to watch?

Her show is entertaining enough if not especially inspired or unique, and the audience seems reluctant to feed her anything in the way of energy. It's interesting to watch these barkers work the crowd: prodding them, teasing them, getting them to move closer "or there can't be a show." She juggles, she teases the men who have "volunteered" to help, and she looks like this:


She is confident and strong and enthusiastic--quite the busker.

At the end, I give her all of the coins I have left; we say our goodbyes and I walk to Trafalgar Square, through Soho, around Piccadilly Circus, around Parliament, then toward and across the Thames until, among thousands of tourists, then back toward the Hyde Park underground station where my legs seem to give out. I catch a train back toward Paddington and my friendly Easy Hotel. The next day I awake too early. I had packed the night before, so after a quick shower I check out of the hotel and step outside into a nice mist. At the Paddington Station I catch an express train to Heathrow Airport where I sit and wait to board the plane to Chicago.

Next time: Chicago, Chicago

Mussels in Brussels, Pt. 2

After a quick buffet breakfast on the morning of my first full day in Brussels, I headed out to see what more I could see. I wandered to the Parc Brussels, a small version of Hyde Park, then through the park to the Palais Royale. No royalty actually live in the palace, but its girth is impressive. This is the palace from the opposite end of the park.

And the palace itself looks like this:

Walking more, I come upon the Palace of Fine Arts, and after some internal debate, pay the five Euros and head inside. There I find many paintings by both Bruegel and Brueghal, and I tell myself to find out the difference between the two. One painting, by Pieter Bruegel, is De val van Icarus, which I am familiar with and think translates to The Fall of Icarus. I also find paintings by Peter Paul Rubens and Georges Seurat, some of whose works I have seen before. Still, I find myself saddened by my lack of familiarity with so much fine art. I finally find something I can relate to--in an antique shop.


Again returning to the Grande Place, I buy assorted gifts to take home, then find an outdoor café where dining would seem to be pleasant. But, when I order a sandwich off the menu, the waiter tells me simply, “No sandwiches today.” So, I settle for a beer, a Stella Artois, and wonder where sandwiches are served. When the beer is gone, I head to an area I walked through yesterday—a couple of streets lined with hundreds of different restaurants. It is an amazingly touristy place where waiters stand outside and, in assorted languages, try to get people to stop and eat. My feet are tired and my stomach is empty, so I let myself be seated at one of the tables just inside a restaurant, and I order shrimp, a glass of wine, and a bucket of mussels. Below are photographs of one of the streets, and from my table just inside the restaurant.

Afterward, I of course get lost again as I navigate my way back to my hotel, arriving just after dark.

My final, partial day in Brussels involves little more than getting back to the train station for to catch the Eurostar back to London. And though I succeed in getting on the correct subway train and get off at what I think is the correct train station, I actually get lost in the station itself, end up at street level, and walk fairly aimlessly for half a mile before admitting I am lost. Retracing my steps, I find the station again, get lost inside of it again, and finally find the Eurostar terminal which is little more than a large waiting room. I buy a baguette and a chocolate bar, then eat them both as I wait for my train.

Then, as I read my book, I am approached by a tall, blonde woman who has stacked behind her several large suitcases. She asks if I will watch her bags while she finds the restroom, and though I have been trained not to do such things, I quickly say that I would be happy to. She disappears, and only minutes later two young men in black pants and white shirts appear, and they ask me if the suitcases are mine. I tell them that, no, they most certainly are not, but that their owner should be back soon. They talk among themselves as though trying to figure out what to do, and then they leave a card on the suitcases, a card that warns people to be aware of pickpockets.

When the woman returns, I tell her what happened, and we both laugh. Okay, I probably giggle since I’m not used to strange women talking to me. She tells me her name is Sharon, and she sits a couple of seats down. She says that she is a performer, that she travels much in Europe and makes a good living. She is also Canadian. We talk about many things: our respective occupations, our love of travel, where we grew up and went to school. We say our goodbyes when our train arrives, and as I watch her, I wonder how one person can require so much luggage.

I find my seat on the train, and I wonder what to make of Brussels. I am glad that I visited, but I am not sure I would visit again. My lack of knowledge of the city is certainly a detriment, as is my inability to speak the native languages. I would like to see more of Belgium, for I have heard many good things about the country. Now, though, I am returning to London, and I am glad to be going back to someplace familiar.

Next time: The Easy Hotel in the Small Town of London