THE PRACTICE

Today’s post brought to you by: Maryland Transportation Authority, American Airlines, Chicago Transportation Authority.

Grateful for: my big feet – which I seem to land on time and time again.

Trying hard to accept: they call this winter.

I’m here:

In Chicago Grind in the Edgewater neighbourhood where I’m staying.

Not the best photo but that guy behind me is about to walk over and shove my phone down my neck.

It’s only 2pm but I’m ready for sleep, having fallen out of bed (easiest way when unable to sit up … try it some time) at 4am, flown here and lost an hour along the way.

And miracles of all Christmas miracles I think my nerve has finally realised it’s not going to get any attention and is slinking back into place.

Although I think they heard me yelp all the way up in business class when the plane landed with a massive spine-dislocating jolt this morning.

Which brings me nicely onto getting here.

I’m so proud of myself. For a total of $6.90 for two trains and two buses (oh yeah and the small matter of $100 seat + $30 baggage + $1.25 yoghurt chucked in airport security bin) I got myself, 40lb of bags and moaning body from Baltimore Airbnb to Chicago Airbnb.

AND survived a long and lonely walk down Baltimore’s mean streets at 5.30am without being mugged or shot. Obviously, because I am writing this now.

Steak knives time … but wait, there’s more!

Am also proud of ability to choose best Airbnbs. Well that’s not so much an ability as perseverance.

I know some (99.97% of you) secretly (tell me) that my over-planning takes all the fun out of travel but I politely beg to disagree (I’m right, you’re wrong, get over it) because without my hours and hours of research I never would have landed on my feet like I have.

I’m staying with John and Terry in an 1890s Craftsman (do you realise how long I’ve drooled over Craftsman houses and now I’m staying in one!!!!) in the tree-lined neighbourhood of Edgewater with its endless streets of houses that look like these:

I’ve been thinking which style of house I’d like to live in WHEN I move here. As much as I love these ones you see in Chicago, Baltimore etc they have no yards. So winner winner chicken dinner is something just like Laura and Kevin’s in Wilmington, North Carolina. You cannot beat that setting.

I’m on the third floor in an attic room with little windows like you see in fairy stories.

It’s an acorn’s throw from the train station, Wholefoods Market, quirky shops and cafes, the Waldorf School (whose Christmas fair I’m going to on Saturday morning) and Andersonville.

I bought a few of these for my front yard Christmas display. Can’t fit them in my bag so they’re sitting next to me on the flight home. At least they won’t hog the arm rest, fall asleep on my shoulder or drool on me.

When in Sweden … eat at Isabella’s Guatemalan cafe. Cheesy Central American grits wrapped up in corn husk. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.

No prizes for guessing (the answer’s above!) where every shop, cafe and person in Andersonville hales from. Clue: if I looked up and saw an Ikea with a car park full of Volvos and ABBA flash mobs inside I wouldn’t die of shock.

I’d probably die of glee though. But only after I’d bought everything I could possible cram in my backpack.

Not only are John and Terry incredibly kind and generous but this is their kitchen. I almost fainted for a fifth time when I saw it.

John has more Kitchenaid – or should I say Kok*aid – appliances than I’ve ever seen on one bench. That red one on the left (hey, get it? red; left) is actually a coffee maker. * Swedish for kitchen.

And a sixth time when I opened the fridge and took so long gawping at the range of food in there that in my imagination John suddenly morphed into Dad and started shouting “Shut the bloody fridge door!!”

To say John likes cooking is to say I like eating.

I also lucked out – but can’t take credit for this one – to be squished this morning between two of the nicest people I’ve ever shared a US domestic flight with (and I told them so).

Deano en route to Maui to hang out with his buddy (an unspecified “contractor” — read as: anything with 3 letters: CIA, DEA, FBI, IRS, LOL — for US government who gets posted all over the world. (Ha ha, ‘posted’ — no he doesn’t work for UPS).

And Pam from rural Maryland en route with 5 others to Reba McIntyre concert in Las Vegas. She was the sweetest country music fan in the world — next to Dolly Parton — and didn’t even get mad with me when I spilt a cup of ice all over her.

In between talking, spilling and yelping on the flight here I was building up my armour ready to deal with the harsh rudeness of Chicago.

Needn’t have bothered because everyone I’ve dealt with has been as helpful and friendly as you can imagine.

I even got personally escorted to the L train station at O’Hare by a Chicago Transportation Authority guy who took one look at me and decided I didn’t understand English.

Nice guy but not the sharpest knife in the deli because he kept talking to me very s…l…o…w…l…y even after I talked his ear off in faultless English.

At least he didn’t think I was a man.

Recognise this Martha? And guess what? It’s for rent. You can go back in time!

So remember I bought that Old Bay crab cake seasoning for $1.99 and said I was going to use $1.29 tuna to make them? Well feast your eyes on this little culinary feat. If you didn’t know any better you’d think they were the real McCoy. Guess what I’m cooking again for dinner tonight? Even John’s gonna be blown away. ‘Tis the Windy City after all.

Today’s post brought to you by: The Red Line to Chicago and State station

Grateful for: Bockwinkels grocery store

Trying hard to accept: I used to think Martha Stewart was the best thing since sliced challah

After another insomniac night of watching:

• Leave it to Beaver (that’s actually a great show)
• Martha Stewart showing me how to make choux pastry (that’s not)
• Escape to the Country (the UK one unfortunately; was hoping for an American version where they set up a bootleg moonshine operation in the back blocks of Tennessee
• Yet another doco on the marriage of Queenie and that ratbag Phil (with all the usual royal commentators telling us stuff we already knew)

I finally fell asleep at 4.30am.

Well I presume it was 4.30 because of course I was asleep.

News headlines upon waking: teacher stabbed in Chicago neighbourhood, sub-zero windchill on its way, Uber passengers getting sexually assaulted.

If it wasn’t so painful to move after lying down I would have stayed in bed all morning.

However, being the brave soldier that I am (read as: couldn’t work out how to use the coffee machine) I caught the L downtown.

Before the train gets to the underground downtown stations it passes through neighbourhoods of rows and rows of decrepit brick apartment buildings.

Not high-rises, but what would be called ‘townhouses’ if they were in neighbourhoods where people don’t tend to get shot.

My god, they were so depressing. And they weren’t even anywhere near the worst of Chicago’s housing.

Tiny dirty apartments with back balconies that looked like they’d collapse under a dumping of snow, and dodgy-looking staircases so steep and narrow I couldn’t imagine how anyone gets a sofa up them.

I imagined how residents probably catch the 5am train to some below-minimum-wage job for 12 hours a day just to afford to live there. It made me sad. And incredibly grateful I wasn’t born into that.

Emerged onto the main drag, Michigan Avenue, and was once again left cold.

It could be Park Avenue, NY. Looks exactly the same with all the same gold-plated, massive and massively overpriced stores. And sticky trees draped in Christmas lights.

And gawping tourists everywhere.

I tried to join in the spirit of things. Ducked into the three-storey gold and marble Banana Republic store because it’s my favourite brand. And because it had 40% off storewide.

The ear-pieced, mouth-pieced, tablet-toting sales associate was so bored she probably would have thrown herself down the fancy staircase if I hadn’t walked in.

She followed me everywhere – in that discreet Banana Republic way – and told me over and over again that she was there to help me when I was ready.

I almost pushed her over and over the bannister myself. Wonder if I would’ve gotten 60% off if I’d done that.

Ironically homeless people live on this patch of faux grass outside Neiman Marcus

Then joined the 47 other people in the airport-like queue to get into the brand spanking new, four-storied, biggest in the whole wide world (!!) Starbucks Reserve Roastery.

Not just Starbucks. Starbucks Reserve Roastery.

Outside. Did you guess that?

After 16 minutes out in the cold, I then queued for another 23 minutes in the café to order from a menu that naturally didn’t include prices.

Inside. Did you guess that?

After getting to the front of the queue and seeing how much stuff actually cost I fled back onto Michigan Avenue and Google mapped somewhere I could go that wasn’t going to cost me a week’s groceries just to buy the cheapest thing on the menu.

Went down a side street and sat in Bockwinkel’s grocery store salad bar café, charged my phone, ate lots of raw veg and sneakily made my tuna and pumpernickel sandwiches.

I had planned to go to carol singing in Millennium Park tonight but it’s not worth getting hypothermia for.

I could have killed time in one of the many art museums. But add 25 to the $0 Baltimore museums entrance fee and you can see why that idea lasted all of 0.000657 seconds.

I’ve always loved Chicago, still do. But if I lived here I’d never go downtown. There’s so much to see and do and eat and drink in the eclectic neighbourhoods. Seen one Saks 5th Avenue, seen them all. Know what I mean?

There’s no warmth downtown and I ain’t referring to the weather.

A long trudge away from downtown later my spirit was restored.

Get away from the main drag and you find the architecture that made Chicago great.

Bloomingdale’s. Doesn’t show you how magnificent the building was. I love those window panes.

You also find the gorgeous late afternoon sunlit paths of Millennium Park and the path along the magnificent Lake Michigan, except you only get 16 metres along it ‘cause it’s so bitterly cold out of the sun you start walking like a Thunderbird.

Chicago Public Library in all its Christmas glory

The buildings, the park and the lake, and another walk around my neighbourhood later, were all I needed to remember what it is I love about Chicago.

Look! I’m skating! Look again! I’m lying!

Off to the Rudolf Steiner school fair tomorrow morning, just round the corner from home. A Steiner school fair is worth going to any time of the year but you can just imagine how wonderful a Christmas one is going to be.

I’d better chop down a pine to hang all the felt Christmas decorations there’ll be. And skip breakfast to eat all the wholesome German baking there’ll be.

Her damit, meine Freunde!!!

Every tourist in town was taking a selfie here. Except sophisticated moi of course.

Then they all went in here. Can’t think of anything worse. Yes I can. The previous photo.

Just for you Miranda. A NZ girl outside a British chain in an American city.

You’d live in fear of fire drills if you worked here

See that W behind me? That’s the Wilson station on the Red Line. According to Google you’re gonna get mugged or worse the minute you step on the platform. Looked the same as any other station to my untrained eye.

More of my beautiful Edgewater neighbourhood

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.