Chicago, the Less Windy City


After traveling to Chicago in what the locals assured me was an unseasonably warm week (guess I brought New Mexico with me) I’ve decided we should petition Chicago to change it’s nickname to The-Not-Quite-as-windy-as-New-Mexico city. Seems fair enough.

All in all, I have to say I’m very proud of myself. Except for a teensy moment of panic on the plane when I really had to pee, and I was in the window seat, and I was reading a David Sedaris story about catheters designed to help one in that exact situation, and I started to wonder what the hell I was doing going to Chicago all alone, and I was freaked out by the way the man next to me kept sniffing my hair, I was a bad mamajama the entire way. I never even curled up in the fetal position.

In fact, within twenty-four hours I was back to my bossy ole know-it-all self, giving directions to my fellow English teachers as if I was a local. Within a few days, after realizing that the cabby that delivered me to the lovely and expensive Palmer House had taken me around in a few circles before stopping in the middle of the street to let me out, I ventured out sans cab all the way to Navy Pier, the Field Museum, and the Chicago Art Institute.

I was never freaked out except when the aforementioned cabby dove through honking oncoming traffic to cruise down a very creepy ally, a moment documented in my text messages to my very best friend. I wanted someone, at least, to know that I was possibly about to die. After texting her I leaned toward the smell of cigarettes and hair gel to say, “If you kill me, I’ll curse you.” When he laughed nervously I said, “No, I’m serious. I better get to my hotel alive or you will be sorry.”

After that, I was good to go.  And boy was I amazed. See, I’m a bit of a bumpkin. Betcha couldn’t tell, amiright? If you look up the word homebody in the dictionary, I’m convinced you’ll see my picture. I hardly ever go anywhere. It’s not that I don’t want to, but that I’ve always been a little afraid of going places. See, all places have lowlifes, but the problem with going to new places is that I don’t know who the lowlifes are. At home, I bloody well know and so does every other person in town. However, now that I’ve been one place on my own, there’s no stopping me.

Well, except the fact that I kind of need a new suitcase. Awesome job, Southwest.

P.S. I wanted to add outrageous pics from my trip, but WordPress said no. So if you want to see them and my witty captions, please find my facebook page, if you know who I really am. I’m still paranoid after all. And give it about a week… make that two… years.

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About charliegreenberry

I grew up in the wilds of New Mexico in a strange combination of free and restricted. Now, as I stumble unwillingly into adulthood, I find memories resurfacing. So I dust them off, sand them, slap on a coat of paint and display them with the hopes that at some point they'll make sense and pull the room together. The blog is a space for writing, for sharing, someday sharing without worrying about who is reading it, and a place to practice. Virginia Woolf said, "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." Well, here's to having a room at least.
This entry was posted in adulthood, Chicago, inspiration, love, small town, travel. Bookmark the permalink.

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