Category: Uncategorized

Today’s post brought to you by: A 2-hour long $2.29 filter coffee

Grateful for: Chicago Grind letting me set up my office here

Trying hard to accept: I can’t come here every weekend

I gather ABBA wrote that song after a week in Andersonville, Chicago.

You know you’re not in Kansas anymore, Bjorn, when:

• The tres chic Swedish bakery charges $7.50 (or 11.20 NZ dollars or 69.40 Swedish krona) for a piece of banana bread
• Every other building is a Pilates studio with massive windows so you can feel stabs of envy looking at the lithe, blond, Lululemon-clad things inside
• The ATM foreign card withdraw fee is 17% higher than any other neighbourhood
• There are tubes of organic fair trade goat’s milk mint and rosemary hand cream in the Chicago Waldorf School bathrooms
• There’s also a hygge room at the said school’s Christmas fair
• You’re only allowed in the hygge room if you’re staff (nope), parent (nope), alumni (nope), Viking descendent (could be, if it helps), donated more than 89,999,999 krona to the school in the last tax year (cheque’s in the mail), or a shameless liar who will never be here again so who cares what they say (yes!!!). It wasn’t worth it. The only seating was school chairs or oversized Ikea floor cushions.

I’ve been to a few Rudolf Steiner school fairs in my time but this one took the pepparkakor.

There were 5 cafes and bakeries and 28 stalls selling exquisite but $$$$$$ Christmas wreaths, natural cosmetics, jewellery, preserves, and everything you can possibly make out of wool, felt, sticks and rye bread.

Only at a Steiner school

Having refused out of principle to contribute even more money to the school’s coffers I set up shop in the auditorium, whipped up a couple of tuna and avocado sandwiches and listened to the school orchestra play Christmas carols.

Didn’t the Swedes have something to do with the Cod Wars? Wasn’t that something to do with salted cod? The experience obviously put them off salt for life because as yummy as these rye and lots of seeds and other things rolls looked, they were as tasteless as Joan Rivers.

I only wished I could have guessed their wifi password.

I tried ‘$20,000’ but that didn’t work. However that’s what it costs to send Olaf Jnr there for a year. Excellent form of birth control.

Judging by the million dollar historic Chicago homes in the ‘hood, the Volvo SUVs lined up outside, the drop-dead gorgeous fathers (probably all architects, Ikea product designers or stay-at-home dads) and the angelic-looking children running round the hallways, I don’t imagine there are many applications for financial aid.

I don’t suppose many of Chicago’s gangs are full of Gretas and Emils

Erik thinks about how he’s going to ask St Nicholas for a 2020 Saab SUV for Christmas this year

Even I would put up with a couple of bratty kids to live that lifestyle. But having failed to snag me a solo dad Sven I went back into hand-numbingly-cold real life and took the train to meet Izabela.

It’s weird going to a cafe in super super hip Wicker Park, Chicago, to meet up with your friend from Toronto who you used to sit next to at IR in Wellington.

Just as well Izabela had done her Google-recommendations homework because we ended up walking in the fresh (so bloody freezing cold we spent an hour trawling the racks of $1.91 t-shirts in a Walmart-size thrift store just to warm up) to look at murals.

Local boy made good. Actually Quincy produced Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ which segue ways nicely to this guy at the train station who put them 45 years younger Swedish Pilates gals to shame.

The best mural was a 5-storey high Robin Williams, which you will just have to imagine because everything below his eyes was obscured by a parked bus.

Funnily it was just up the road from ‘Pork and Mindy’ BBQ restaurant.

Izabela used to live in Peru – just thought I’d throw that in – it’s not related to the next sentence. Particularly as Peru is not Costa Rica, whose cuisine we daintily ate (scoffed till we felt sick) at Izaru restaurant – cheap as corn chips, delicious and low-fat. One of those adjectives is incorrect.

Ceviche is very healthy. 54 corn chips, 3 avocados and 4 beef quesadillas are not.

It’s now early Sunday morning and I’m back in my Edgewater office, Chicago Grind cafe. Time to go on last drool around the houses before I cram everything into my pack for the 15th time and get 2 trains to my new digs in Oak Park.

My office is also the favourite of the gun-toting local cops and a meeting of some climate change action group who should’ve been arrested for: disturbing the peace, emitting roomful of sanctimonious hot air, hogging the big table with only one small Americano between the 9 of them, and wrongly thinking the rest of us care about their protest march next Tuesday evening.

Three words sum up Oak Park: Frank. Lloyd. Wright

Actually make that 10: One. Very. Happy. Girl. From. New. Zealand.

Actually make that 15: Who. Doesn’t. Want. To. Leave.

Wonder if Frank’s got any single great, great second cousins twice removed.

I want one of these. Till he starts costing me money, whining, getting older or stopping me doing things.

Today’s post brought to by: 4 trains, 6 hours , 3 heavy bags and lots of swearing, to end up back at square one

Grateful for: Terry, John and Erik

Trying hard to accept: how incredibly lucky I’ve been

To paraphrase Charles Dickens, it was the best of days, it was the worst of days.

After reluctantly saying goodbye this morning to John, Terry, their wonderful home and their gorgeous neighbourhood, all my stuff and I got the train downtown. So far, so good.

Then another train to Oak Park, way out west.

And I mean way out west. It’s the second to last stop to the end of the line at Harlem.

In terms of places you do not want to hang out in this city, way down south is number one. Way out west is number two.

A fact reinforced to me several times on the 45-minute ride past housing projects, lots and lots of abandoned lots and a guy who spent the whole time shouting “Fucking train. Why you goin’ so slow?”

Gotta say I agreed with him.

So why did you give up gorgeous Edgewater and monied Andersonville to go out there? I hear you ask.

Because every street is chocka block full of Frank Lloyd Wright prairie-style homes and I wanted to stroll round the streets and admire them all.

Oh and Ernest Hemmingway was born there but I didn’t know that till today. And frankly I don’t really care.

Oak Park is the weirdest place. You go through miles and miles of increasingly dodgy neighbourhoods till you get to this architectural oasis, before the train continues onto Murderville.

Well I got my chance to wander the streets of Oak Park alright after I took the wrong turn trying to get away from the train station pronto and ended up walking for 40 minutes away from my Airbnb.

My subconscious was obviously onto something.

Despite being beyond tired and hungry I did notice the enormous glorious prairie-style homes everywhere. They were super super gorgeous.

But once again you’ll just have to imagine/Google it because I was in no mood to start snapping shots. And my phone was almost dead.

In tiredness and hunger desperation I got lovely Marcus from Uber to take me to the right place.

Phew!! I thought as I finally got to Candy’s ‘home away from home’.

Yeah, if you consider home to be sharing a small dark basement, a bathroom the size of a pantry (and not the butler’s ones) and a living area with, it turned out, 6 international students going to the high school across the road.

Clearly Candy’s onto a homestay bonanza. Probably doesn’t pay tax on it. I should dob her in.

I rang the door bell. No answer. Walked round the back, tripping over broken TV aerials and ranch slider doors in bits all over the deck.

Emailed and rang Candy. No response. Sat on porch in cold for 20 minutes.

Finally a Japanese teenage boy opened the door and, in broken English, led me down the death-trap stairs to small basement bedroom.

Then he left. Good, I thought, as I quickly stuck in the wifi password, charged my phone and emailed John and Terry to see if there was any slim chance their place was available for 3 more nights.

Then a woman appeared. “Are you Candy?” No, she was Can’t Remember, Don’t Care, from Brazil.

Turns out there were 4 others from random countries all sharing the same space as me.

I went upstairs to find the kitchen and met Candy’s gold-necklaced, fat-faced, sneering son whose only comment to me was to ask me to take my shoes off. Oh and to show me the breakfast provisions – but hang on, opps we don’t have any cereal.

“Yeah I’m just going downstairs”, I said, “I’ll take my shoes off then”.

“We. Don’t. Allow. Shoes. Inside. Take. Them. Off”, he ordered (future career as prison warden, me thinks).

I said: “I will them off when I get downstairs in a minute”.

I thought: Words starting with f, ending with k.

There was crap everywhere. Making a meal in a caravan would’ve been easier than in that place.

Back into the dungeon (with shoes still on), I found out that alas, John and Terry had another guest. But they kindly invited me back for the afternoon till I found somewhere to stay. Nicest people ever.

Desperately searched for Airbnbs in Edgewater under $100/night and struck gold. Someone sure is looking after me. Big time.

Model-like Erik from Miami has an apartment a couple of blocks away from John and Terry’s for $60/night, and bonus, the other guests left today so I get the whole super stylish pad to myself.

The train ride back to downtown reinforced my decision to flee Oak Park. Two guys were having a screaming match with the word nigger used more times than I thought possible in one sentence.

On the train from downtown to Edgewater we were entertained to the most wonderful soul version of The Beatles’ ‘Come Together’ by a woman who sang like she was in the shower with no chance of anyone else hearing her.

Finally got to Erik’s at 5pm. Almost fell on him, poor bugger, I was so glad to see him. He’s so friendly and damn good looking and with exquisite taste. And unfortunately for my marriage prospects, gay.

Another stroke of luck. The laundromat is a 4 minute walk from Erik’s so here I am keeping one eye on my washing and one eye on the iPad.

Carted clothes down here in Aldi bags, of which there are 59 in the drawer.

The 102 year-old Chinese guy who runs this place has been so kind to me, patiently showing me how to work everything and fetching everything I need.

Have killed a bit of time chatting to Juan from Mexico, then LA, then Arizona, now Chicago who works in a car wash further north and travels to work for 2 hours a day on the bus and who thinks Italian and Chinese food is the bees’ knees and who told me I was “smart” when I told him I was a writer.

In Juan’s world anyone who does work that involves sitting down and typing is smart by default.

“You want me to take your photo? Here? Why?” asked one confused Juan. Poor guy’s probably never had such a strange evening down the laundromat.

Have booked myself on a tour of one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s houses tomorrow morning. It’s in south Chicago and not on an L line so it’s buses the whole way.

Least there’s no chance of screaming matches on buses. I hope.

La cocina. Say no more.

“Help yourself to whatever you want” said Erik. No chance of getting dehydrated here.

Check out the wet room (!!) and rainhead shower(!!). Check out that range of expensive body washes, each one more delicious than the last. I used all 4 in one shower. You know the guy’s got taste when you smell the towel as you’re drying your face and it smells like expensive perfume.

Stylish sofa or what?

Today’s post brought to you by: A snowflake. NO. I. AM. NOT. REFERRING. TO. ME.

Grateful for: ability to fit into $1.99 kids’ gloves from CVS

Trying hard to accept: the power of fate

Joy of joys. Stepped out of apartment this morning into zillions of snowflakes gently falling around me.

Actually reminded me of when you give the vacuum cleaner bag a good shake after you empty it. Yes, I know there are bag-less vacuum cleaners. No, I do not have one. They cost $30 more. Duh.

‘High’ of minus 4 today. But it’s all relative because next-stop-Minneapolis is going to reach the lofty heights of minus 15. I had to ask Google to tell me that 3 times before it sunk in.

Being the shallow and cheap thing that I am (Do. Not. Agree), at least wearing a hat all day means I don’t need to use any hair product.

Am now defrosting among all the other iPads at Metropolis Cafe.

Just told the server he’s the friendliest, happiest person I’ve ever met working in a cafe.

“Aw, shucks”, he grinned ear-to-ear, “That’s because ay-ame from Texas!”

Am guessing the other server hails from Noo York. I got 6 words and a snarl out of her. Just to piss her off I gave her 39c in nickels and pennies, all slowly counted out.

But in her defence she’s got her eye on the prize. And if there’s one thing I admire, it’s ambition.

Clearly she’s after one thing. And one thing only. A boyfriend.

The 30-something guy behind me got 7 minutes of loud gushy conversation, peppered with fake laughter. Probably got her phone number too, scrawled onto his receipt.

Cool t-shirt huh? Got it in the Wicker Park thrift store for $1.91. Got you a t-shirt too, Peter. Paid $2.92 for yours. Never say I don’t love you.

One of these statements is false:

• I read the NY Times cover to cover
• I did 97% of the crossword
• There’s a website called NY Times Crossword Answers
• I didn’t use it

Headline news:

• Law change on its way so police can no longer kill two birds with one stone in the ER. After interviewing sexual assault victims they can arrest them for things like unpaid fines. Arrest as in slap handcuffs on and haul them down to the station.
• Police found drugs and guns in rapper Juice Wrld’s airport luggage. I want to be cool like him so am now known as Drip Coffee Wrtr.

White Island eruption got 2 paragraphs on page 16.

Yesterday didn’t go as planned. The plan, Stan, was to tour a Frank Lloyd Wright house. Only snag: it was in South Chicago.

Spent ages on CTA website working out safest, fastest and cheapest way to get there.

Fastest option still took forever. Past endless tower block apartments, boarded up windows, rubbish-strewn lots and fast food chains.

Got off train and huddled in a corner out of the rain, next to 6-lane highway, to wait for the bus. Which took A.G.E.S to arrive.

Too scared to pull my phone out lest it got snatched out of my hand, or worse.

With 15 minutes till house tour started, the bus finally rolled up. Jumped on, went a few blocks, discreetly checked Google maps and guess what? On the wrong bus.

Three words that rarely escape my fingers: I gave up.

Worked out by the time I waited, got the right bus, then walked 10 minutes I’d only get the last 15 minutes of the tour.

So waited again in the rain while avoiding eye contact with group of guys trying to talk to me. Got back on urine-stenched train for the long ride home.

That’s it. No more trains, except to Amtrak.

Not only does it take longer to get anywhere on the train than it’d take me to spring clean my house with a toothbrush, it’s expensive. From now on am walking everywhere.

As I was waiting, discreetly watching people come and go and looking around, I thought how different peoples’ Chicagos are.

The people in the poorer areas probably never go down gold-plated Michigan Avenue. (Probably never want to, to be fair).

They probably rarely leave their neighbourhoods.

Their lives must be long hours spent waiting for and riding public transport, low-paid jobs, cold dangerous housing, lack of mobility and worst of all, lack of prospects.

It all boils down to the power of fate. Where you’re born, who you’re born to and your ability to change your situation. For the zillionth time I thanked my incredible good fortune to have been born into middle class comfort and security.

Three hours of riding trains and buses later I got home, having achieved very little except a tour of south Chicago.

Wanted to find out more about life there so watched ‘Friday Night in Chicago’s Most Dangerous Neighbourhoods’.

Blow me down (not with a bullet thankfully) that the streets I’d just been on are number 7 on the list.

The neighbourhoods I rode through on Sunday on my way to ill-fated Oak Park are numbers 4 and 6 on the list.

Energy restored I went for long walk round my neighbourhood just as school was getting out.

Past big historic homes with lit Christmas trees in the bay windows, cosy lighting and such a warm inviting look about them that I wanted to be one of the school kids going home to mom pulling freshly-baked cookies out of the oven and a roaring open fire.

In reality though it’s probably the nanny grabbing Wholefoods pastries out of the microwave and a central heating thermostat on the wall. While mom and dad work 70 hours a week, 51 weeks a year to stop the bank foreclosing.

Stumbled across an antique market so large you could’ve held 6 Moonie weddings and 3 bar mitzvahs in it and still had room for a Walmart.

Turn your neck 180 degrees. You can do it. Yes you can!

Put your money away Peter. I bought your first bike at the antique market. Never say I don’t love you.

And then to the library.

Einstein working on Theory of Relativity 2.0 in Edgewater branch of Chicago Public Library. I pretended to be reading ‘Martha Stewart Living’ while zooming in. Move over Agent 99.

This is how happy I am here. Everything about this neighbourhood is me. The architecture is just beautiful. There’s a real sense of community too. And even though there’s money here, there’s an understated style about the place. Well, except in Andersonville of course.

Every house has an entrance like this. Oak panelling, art nouveau lights, marble stairs. You can’t really get a sense of it by a photo. I just stop and gawp and imagine who’s lived there over the years.

Right, time to go home, make some kale chips for the long train trip tomorrow and work out where I can spend the day walking. The sun is shining. I’m in my beloved Chicago. I’m one happy and very grateful camper.

Today’s post brought to you by: the drifting snow

Grateful for: Google maps finding me magical free things to do downtown Chicago

Trying hard to accept: adios beloved city

It’s 7am. It’s snowing. I’m in a café watching the increasingly whitewashed world outside.

I’ve got half the Chicago Tribune (thankfully the crossword; thankfully not the sports section), a warm flaky lemon and blueberry scone, a hot coffee and a pair of jeans straining at the seams.

All, most, is right with the world.

Thanks to a kick-start from Laura am making a list of travel writing publishers.

Have made a momentous decision.

Momentous!

After 44 years – assuming I wrote my first sentence at 6 – I’m going to finally go all out to get paid to write things.

Not things that’ll linger in some government department’s archives till Y3K, but things that make people laugh.

Not blogging – that won’t pay the bills, and let’s face it, technology and I will never be having coffee dates and sleepovers – but something published.

In the meantime I need to get a job – any job – to pay for shoes to walk off 6kg that have mysteriously appeared on my thighs.

It’s time to finally do something that’ll make me happy. And not just make do.

As I sit here and read Radio NZ’s list of the people – just like me – who died on White Island – I know it’s time to [insert cliché] and do it.

Whack on 5 hours.

You’ll never guess where I am now. The magnificent ginormous Chicago Public Library listening to the Leo Catholic High School choir singing Christmas carols.

Oooohh they’re doing a 3-part harmony of O Come All Ye Faithful.

Flippin’ ‘eck, I’m holding back the tears. Failed.

Not bad. Not bad at all for somewhere downtown that is (in order of importance): warm, free, interesting, safe and free wifi-ed.

Soon it’ll be time to walk down the street to the equally magnificent ginormous Union Station and get the 8-hour train to Minneapolis.

Here’s what’s on the lunch and dinner menu. It’s amazing what you can whip up in your apartment with a trip to the supermarket and leftovers from previous guests:

• Tuna sandwiches on best 7-grain bread ever
• Apple
• Kale chips
• Chicken, mustard* and mayo*
• Balsamic* roasted veg
• Almonds and walnuts
• Sparkling water*

* Courtesy of Amtrak/Erik

Total cost: $3.87

Yesterday I consulted Google maps for somewhere new to explore and found 3 of my favourite things in one place a few blocks north: historic church, Salvation Army thrift store and supermarket.

It was a low-income Middle Eastern neighbourhood. The gigantic (is there any other sort?) Catholic church fought for space with mosques, African food stores and pawn brokers.

What? It’s free?

Fare impazzire! Wielki success! I’ve never seen anything like Cermak Fresh Market.

Opened 40 years ago by Dimitrious “Jimmy” Bousis and Pantelis “Pandelo” Tzotzolis, it stocks every imaginable fresh, packaged and frozen food item from Greece, Italy, Russia, Belarus (why not?), Turkey, Poland, Mexico, Puerto Rico and all other bordering nations.

Took 20 minutes just to walk round the fruit and veg bit. Mind you, half that was spent looking over my shoulder for men in blue aprons ready to pounce on my phone.

For the sake of Pulitzer-winning photography I ignored threats to set their Italian/Russian/Mexican/Chicago-an mafia mates on anyone who dared to take a shot. (Like the shot that’d go through your bedroom window if they caught you).

Vast is one word for the produce section. Cheap is another. (And if I keep eating like this I’ll be both).

39c/lb for sweet potatoes. It made Wellington’s fruit and veg markets look like Harrod’s food hall.

52 minutes later I made it to the deli. You know how Europeans like their cured meat and cheese? Well it just went on and on and on. Like moi.

There must’ve been at least 860 dead pigs there in one form or another.

Then there was the incredible bakery. Where a couple of syrupy Greek pastry samples might’ve slithered down my throat.

Apparently you cook these. Presumably in the old bathtub in the back yard. Not even 12,000 sq ft American homes have kitchens that big.

You also cook these. Peeling them would be the ideal job for that irritating in-law you’re forced to invite for dinner.

Home again to defrost then back out to explore more of my neighbourhood.

One of my favourite quotes – on one of the many neighbourhood book exchanges on these middle-class, educated streets.

It was so bitterly cold that my jeans froze and then pricked my legs. I have no idea how the homeless survive.

Despite wearing 6 layers and forcing my legs to move faster and faster I still had to duck inside every 10 minutes so I could move my hands and face again.

For someone who hates shopping, have never been so glad to wander the aisles.

Am now something of an expert on Christmas trees. I don’t know if the prices round there were inflated but I almost bought a chainsaw and went into business after seeing what they charge.

And they’re fir which means they don’t even smell like Christmas trees. Give me an uneven, needle-dropping pine any day.

Guess how much a 10ft tall fir costs?

• $29.99 (did you not read what I just said?)
• $1,400 (good guess but wrong)
• $1.99 (no, I was not in Dollar General)
• $699 (correct!)

And that’s only for the tree. Then you have to shell (or cone) out for the skirt thing, a bucket (now that you can get from Dollar General) and $1,764 worth of decorations.

Or, $5,742 in the shop I went into.

It was simply the most beautiful shop I’ve been into. Exquisitely tasteful decorations, scented candles, homewares and gifts from all over the world.

At those prices you’d want to hang the decorations on the tree all year, even after the tree had long died.

I slathered myself in French hand cream, including lining my $1.99 gloves with it. Every so often I get a whiff of it. Am never going to shower again.

Then at the other end of the expenditure scale, but equally as wonderful, I found an antique store in the uber-priced Andersonville.

Would’ve bought the whole store if Qantas wasn’t so stingy with baggage allowances because it was all so cool and so cheap.

Bought this 60x40cm photo for $3.50 simply because I liked it.

His sister was there too but she got left on the shelf. I know how she feels.

Today’s post brought to you by: some incredibly gifted people who are quite good with a paintbrush

Grateful for: being inside

Trying hard to accept: 17 hours on train coming up. And that’s not even my longest trip.

I’ve been here, done this, got the Pearson’s Salted Nut Roll before.

This ain’t my first rodeo. But my god has my memory been selective since I last braved a Minnesota winter.

It’s cold. Damn cold. Fr-fr-freezing cold. Whack you in the face cold.

But here’s the thing. It’s beautiful. Minneapolis and St Paul are old enough to have magnificent ornate stone buildings on every corner but young enough to have pockets of stunningly simple arts and crafts and mid-century architecture.

Cover it all in a blanket of white, add a bit of moody late afternoon fog, a few (squillion) Christmas lights and you’re in a winter wonderland.

Here’s the other thing. Minneapolis has Ben. Ben who saved my skin in Florida hospital.

Final bill arrived today. Multiply it by 1.7 and you get NZ dollars. I’m too scared to. Never been so glad to see those 8 words at the bottom.

Ben who is also the most welcoming, generous person you could ever stay with. Where you emerge from your long peaceful sleep under feather duvets to a cooked breakfast and gifts galore.

It’s out of the freezer and into the sauna going from the cold grey streets to Ben’s house.

Plus she has the nicest friends. Who we had lunch with at her telecommunications company’s annual Christmas lunch. I met so many interesting, accomplished and welcoming people. Some of who we then spent the evening with at Jim’s place.

Newsflash: am at Union Station (cripes Amtrak, think of a different name would ya?) in St Paul killing time at a bar (mainly to escape the thousands of over-excited kids going for rides on the Polar Express) and the server just came by to tell me my Earl Grey tea is complimentary. I’m guessing she feels sorry for me laden down with all my bags. Or maybe she thinks I’m a man and wants a date.

Now Jim is another story. I first met him on my last visit and was taken by him then. He hasn’t changed.

He went progressively blind in mid-adulthood but despite that has raised three kids, held down a managerial job in the telecommunications business, been to NZ (and not on the tourist express – he actually spent days on fishing boats and sheep farms), founded a charity to pay for aids for low-income blind people, and lives in a 6,000 sq ft 1960s masterpiece on the banks of the Mississippi and cooks all his meals and cleans the house and negotiates these stairs, which scared the crap out of me. They are very steep and there’s lots of them.

I got to Minneapolis at I’m-so-tired-I-don’t-care-anymore-o’clock two nights ago. For some reason only known to sadistic Amtrak it took them 1.5 extra hours to move the train from the Union Station (snap!) in Chicago to the platform so we could all get on it.

I know every inch of that station. Including the waiting room that you, your heavy bags and 659 other passengers are forced to queue in after you walk the 15 minutes to the gate.

Just as you’re about to collapse from boredom, broken shoulders, headache (would you tell your kids to shut up?!) and caffeine overload they finally let you board.

Except that the aptly-named Empire Builder train is so freakin’ enormous that it takes you, your heavy bags, your aching body and your expired patience another 15 minutes to walk along the platform to your allocated boarding door.

Then … yes there is more to this monologue. Suck it up.

The train seems to be the Amish Express because you cannot get anywhere near your seat to dump your bag because the aisles are blocked by blank-looking old men with long beards who just stand there and watch while Ma and Laura Ingalls haul all the bags and blankets and thermos flasks onto the luggage racks.

Those same men then queue up in the train café to demand – in English-when-it-suits-them – endless cups of hot water (free) and ice (also free) while paying customers are forced to wait and practise shooting filthy looks.

Finally managed to escape them and set myself up in the lounge car, where Amtrak had obviously decided we all needed the full winter experience and turned the heating down so low I looked like an Antarctic explorer lying in my tent as I sprawled across the banquette seat in a (rare act of) piss-off-and-leave-me-alone-Ms-Conductor defiance.

All whinging aside, there was a beautiful golden glow over the world as we left Chicago. The setting sun was casting its orange light out one window and the full moon was following suit out the other one.

All the way to Milwaukee we passed iced-over lakes, geese flying in formation and silhouetted sticky trees. Wish I’d had a half-decent camera to capture it all.

No wonder Richie and Joanie Cunningham were so pasty-looking, and Howard spent his life practising secret handshakes down at the Lodge. It gets dark in Milwaukee at 4.30. 4.30!!

All we could see as we rolled into town was the smoke billowing out of the massive Victorian brick chimneys. The place is one big brewery, and they eat lots of cheese, so probably best I didn’t get off the train.

The best thing about riding the train in winter in December in middle-of-nowhereville is that all the homeowners along the rail track make special efforts to put on elaborate displays of Christmas lights. You’re going along in pitch black when all of a sudden the whole nativity scene and more is lit up like a Christmas tree (ha ha).

Me, my backpack (x 2) and my breakfast, lunch and dinner are all now waiting to get on the 10.30pm train to one-horse-town Havre, Montana. Where it’s colder than Minneapolis. Hotel better have at least 56 cable TV channels, central heating controls, endless hot water and triple glazing.

You all appreciate art don’t you? Good, because I spent a wonderful and overwhelming 3 hours in the Minneapolis Institute of Art today.

For your viewing pleasure, here are some of the highlights.

Close-up of some 17th C floral thing to show you the detail. I could stare at oil paintings for hours taking in the thousands of minute brush strokes. These guys could clearly see things the rest of us can’t.

Believe it or not this is a portrait of a woman. Clearly that guy couldn’t see things the rest of us can.

Living room – as in the actual living room – from a posh house in Minneapolis, c 1904. Those are Tiffany fireplace tiles. Nice.

Frank Lloyd Wright weed vase. Even I’d stick a bit of my gardening arch-rival fennel in there if I had one of his vases. Those are his doors too.

And this is a dining room set he designed. And that’s a man in the background. Who is not Frank Lloyd Wright.

And this Ben, is evidence you can find beauty in South Dakota. My favourite piece of the 3,786 I looked at.

Through the glass at the art institute. With St Paul yonder. The city, not the person. Duh.

Rembrandt’s painting of a young woman who’s about to stab herself to save her husband’s honour after she was raped.

The saddest face I’ve ever seen on a gallery wall. What you can’t see is how Rembrandt painted pearly white spots on her lower eye so they look like glistening tears.

Probably what Ikea got its ideas from. This kitchen was so very cool. And not just the fridge. There was a bit of a housing crisis in Germany after WWI – probably the least of their worries – so the immer-efficient government knocked up 10,000 apartments and mass-produced these amazing kitchens. All designed down to the last Formica millimeter to maximise the Hausfrau’s efficiency: dish-drying racks that go left to right, fold-down ironing boards, stool to sit at while she worked, built-in compost bins in benches, rubbish shoots, labelled aluminium bins for food staples, drawers for pots and lids, movable lights, pass-through to dining room etc etc. Now remember this was 1926. They were better working and better looking that what you can get today. Mein Gott, that’s a long Kaption!

Tatra sedan, 1936. Made in the same country that brought us the Skoda. Clearly a mass exodus of half-decent car designers in the intervening 40 years.

Glass. Obvs.

This was one of my favourite photos of all. By a woman called Gail Wilson. Stunning huh?

Funnily enough all the cafe-goers give up smoking in St Paul in winter. First day of spring they’re all back again hogging the outside tables.