Two Cities, One Writer

After several years of staying at home, Wordplay has started venturing out into the world again. Last year, I dipped my toes in the water at the PCA/ACA conference in San Antonio. On Sunday, I returned home after attending this year’s PCA in Chicago and then taking the train to Seattle for my first vacation in 12 years. I used to love traveling, but like so many other things, it got to the point where it was no longer fun, around the time I was working on my dissertation (that is to say, 2010-2012). After that, I could no longer afford to travel, even if I had wanted to, and then it was COVID, and then it was settling into a new apartment with other priorities than spending money on trips, and then it was, honestly, a bit of inertia.

Last year, though, I started to shake off my dormancy and felt the travel bug beginning to bite. The San Antonio conference was both something I wanted to do for professional reasons and also a travel experiment. I wanted to find out what it’s like to travel post-pandemic and post- so many other things that have left their mark on us as individuals and as a society. Six days away from home would surely be tolerable, even if the conference didn’t go well. The conference was an experiment in itself, since my previous PCA experience had been a mixed one. The San Antonio conference was a little surreal, but positive enough overall that I surprised myself by deciding to go back this year, to PCA Chicago.

I had a couple of things going for me this time, which is that my budget wasn’t as bare bones as it was when I was last in Chicago for the PCA and also that I had some previous knowledge of the place. I could afford a splurge here and there. I had some things in mind that I wanted to do, restaurants I wanted to try. I could do some “fun” things and explore a little bit. And that’s what I did. 

I hit the ground running and got some sightseeing in even before checking into my hotel. I found a coffee spot I liked. I got a general sense of direction. Over the next several days, when I wasn’t in sessions at the conference, I sampled Chicago food, went on a couple of organized tours, and without really trying, starting getting the pulse of the place. I have to say, I enjoyed myself. With one or two exceptions, I felt that I was treated well. Chicago is a tough city, no question. But I went with an open mind and genuine wish to get to know a little of the place, and I feel that I did, at least a little. For the Chicagoans I encountered in restaurants and coffee shops, at the hotel and the train station, in the stores and out on the streets, I have nothing but respect. If you’re keeping your head above water in Chicago, that’s definitely saying something about you.

On the train going west, I cured my curiosity about what the upper Midwest and Plains states look like west of Minneapolis, the former limit to my experience. It looked like a lot of rolling fields, with occasional towns, patches of snow, some cows, and horses, until the train reached Glacier National Park and all hell broke loose with snow-capped peaks and deep forests all around. The drama subsided until the train traversed the Cascade Mountains in Washington, an even bigger extravaganza of gorgeous views. And so, at the end, Seattle, where I learned a great lesson about thinking you know where you’re going by observing street signs from a moving train. (It ended with me getting completely turned around after leaving the station, which wouldn’t have been a problem if I’d been planning to walk to Portland.)

Seattle is one of the last places I remembered having fun, on the other occasion I’d been there, in 2011. I was coming down from some pretty dramatic effects of PTSD but still had kind of a fearless attitude toward most situations (which I found to be a very refreshing way to approach life, BTW). This time, I wanted to see if Seattle still struck me the way it did then. Back then, it had a wonderful spirit of dynamic creativity, evident in abundant public art, bold architecture, cool neighborhoods, quirky shops, and the general feeling of ease I had in walking around, not to mention all the natural beauty that surrounds and supports it. I had heard that it, like most other places across America, has seen an increase in crime over the last few years. Evidently, some people dispute whether cities are actually more dangerous now than they were, say, 10 years ago, but a quick read of the newspaper, even in my city of Lexington, certainly gives the impression of a rather sharp increase in violent crime over what would have been considered “normal” 5-10 years ago.

I did find Seattle changed. There is a meanness one encounters here and there, on the streets and elsewhere, that seemed to be almost completely absent on my last visit. It’s true that I stayed in an Airbnb on my first visit, with a charming hostess who lived in an edgy but cool sort of post-industrial neighborhood on the outskirts, the kind of place the average tourist would leave town without ever knowing about. Its drawback was its remoteness, so I wanted to stay closer to the center of things this time. Once I got to Pike Place Market, I was able to find a cafe in which to regroup. But I was rather discouraged with the changes I could already sense on the streets. There was no need to travel to the other side of the country to sample incivility as I can find that here if I want to. I went to Seattle for something different.

Once I got to my hotel and settled in, I started to feel a little better, though that changed when I went out to dinner my first night in town. Although there were plenty of places I could have been seated, I was shown to a table with a high stool, so that I felt I was towering over everyone else. (Come on y’all, you know that a solo diner doesn’t want to be that conspicuous, surely.) I asked to move to a regular table after noticing that the place was half empty, and while the food was delicious, my enjoyment of the evening was rather spoiled.

I’m not sure I ever quite got over the feeling that civility in Seattle is not what it once was. The physical reality of the streets has also changed: they were dirtier and rougher than my memory of them, not only in downtown proper, but in Belltown, South Lake Union, and Capitol Hill. Admittedly, I was only in Capitol Hill for the Elliott Bay Book Company last time, when I walked up from downtown. I didn’t ramble around the neighborhood, as I did this time. In my memory, though, it was a thriving area, not as trash-strewn as it is in 2024. I wouldn’t call the neighborhood blighted, as there are plenty of cafes, shops, and nightspots, and the neighborhood is considered a hip destination for nightlife, but it did appear somewhat the worse for wear.

I would have thought that this is simply the result of an imperfect memory, except that some of the other places I went to seemed just as I remembered them. I was dismayed to see that the area on lower 2nd Avenue, in Belltown, did appear blighted, once I made my way there to visit a restaurant where I had dined on my first night in town in 2011. I almost turned around and went back as the street became visibly grittier and only continued because I had good memories of the restaurant and knew it was still there. I had a lovely meal there this time, too, but was sure I remembered a more prosperous neighborhood in the past. Of course, this isn’t that surprising: places change. It was sad, though.

This isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy myself in Seattle. I didn’t have a bad meal the entire time I was there, and most of the food was phenomenal. Likewise, the coffee. I got lost walking around and had to remind myself that getting lost sometimes leads to finding things you wouldn’t see otherwise. I estimate that I walked 35-40 miles while there. I didn’t find Seattle-ites to be snobby, as they’re sometimes reputed to be. There were friendly people (more of these), and uncivil people, and a pervasive feeling of Whatever Has Happened to the Rest of Our Country has happened to Seattle, too.

My best moments were spent either enjoying great food or great coffee, sometimes gazing out a window at a great view. I didn’t find the coffeehouse atmosphere I was really looking for until my last full day, when I discovered a cafe with an industrial-punk vibe that broadcast KEXP live. I will say this: I forgot for entire swaths of time that I was carrying an AARP card in my wallet. No one called me “ma’am.” The discovery that I could still climb Queen Anne Hill with the same amount of energy I had 13 years ago (and not once but twice) was gratifying. I was cautious about going out at night, but I wasn’t on the retired nuns tour of Seattle and didn’t want to leave town without experiencing a little nightlife, so I went to a bar in Lower Queen Anne one evening that served food and had an awesome tostada. Also, a Negroni, which I would describe as both sweet and bitter and definitely something I would try again.

If I had to sum up my impression of Seattle in 2024, I would say that it almost appeared like a city under siege of some kind. Its essence still shines through, but like other places I’ve been, it shows evidence of beleuguerment. Every place has its source of strength, though. For Chicago, if I had to guess, I’d say it’s the day-to-day struggle of surviving in a tough environment, amid all those huge buildings. For Seattle, it might be the spirit of the Native Americans who lived in the area before the arrival of the pioneers. I noticed signs in different places stating that the lands on which various modern buildings are standing have never been ceded by the indigenous Salish people. I think their presence still permeates everything in Seattle. When I think of my visit, it’s the sound of the gulls’ cries that makes the soundtrack, and I don’t think it’s that far a step from there to the anarchic energy of the music scene, to Jimi Hendrix and Nirvana and all the rest.

Wordplay Goes to the Alamo

I’m back home after several days of pop culture immersion at the PCA/ACA conference in San Antonio. I hadn’t traveled anywhere since well before the pandemic, so this was a little bit of flexing my writing muscle, a little bit of pursuing various interests, and a little bit of finding my traveling legs once again. I loaded up with hand sanitizer, Clorox wipes, and face masks but discovered—to my surprise—that I seemed to be one of very few people bothering with extra precautions. I thought more people would use masks on the plane, to be honest, but I saw only one or two other people wearing one.

I had decided in advance that I preferred to divide my time between attending sessions and exploring San Antonio, a new city for me and one I was looking forward to seeing. The last time I attended PCA/ACA, I focused on fitting in as many sessions as I could (to get my money’s worth, I guess) but found that strategy to be pretty exhausting. It may be that when participants are representing an academic specialty, they simply go to the sessions related to their field, but my field is probably represented by at least half of all the topics offered, so I consider all of them before choosing. Sometimes I’ll attend a wild card session just to get out of my comfort zone, so the scheduling alone requires a lot of thought. The end result of all this was that attending fewer sessions this time made for a more enjoyable experience.

Unlike my last PCA/ACA experience (in Chicago), this event seemed friendlier and more relaxed. I don’t know whether to put this down to the conference itself being quite a bit smaller this time, to other people besides myself being overjoyed to get to travel again after several years of strictures, or to the location itself. I have always found Chicago to be somewhat chilly (literally and figuratively), though I know some people love it. I found that San Antonio both was and wasn’t what I expected before I arrived, and that I had to feel my way around a bit more thoughtfully than usual. My initial impression on arriving downtown was actually one of surprise that I felt such a sense of disorientation and a little bit of dismay. I wasn’t expecting San Antonio to be bland but the fact that it’s such a popular city for conferences and tourists hadn’t prepared me for an edginess I thought I perceived in my surroundings.

At the hotel, I asked if the surrounding area was safe at night and was told very definitely that it was. Because I was presenting on the first day, I spent my first night and most of the following day focused on getting ready and never really ventured outside the hotel again until after my presentation. I had a little bit of trepidation (that never fully dissipated) but found that, as is sometimes the case, things overall did look brighter with the sun shining and the wind in my sails as I went for a celebratory walk and discovered the Riverwalk, the Alamo, and other sights within walking distance. 

Personally, I found the physical environment to be an unusual mix of the graceful and historic along with the raucous and rough and thought it surprising that none of the guides I’d consulted ahead of time mentioned this dichotomy. In all my travels, I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced a place quite like San Antonio. My conclusions are based on the scant observations of a few days mostly spent downtown and don’t necessarily encompass the entire city, but I think at least a couple of factors account for the complex experience I had: there is a strong military presence because of both U.S. Army and Air Force bases in the area, and the Mexican culture is stronger in San Antonio than in any other place I’ve ever been.

I don’t think it’s inaccurate to say that both of these things lent a certain machismo to the atmosphere that I found daunting. I don’t take well to feeling that I have to curtail my activities or do things differently than I normally would to feel safe, but that’s what I did in San Antonio. One night only did I stay out after dark, and even though it wasn’t much past dusk when I got back to my hotel, some of the activity on the street had me feeling less than comfortable. On the one hand, I experienced an absolutely magical walk down Houston Street, with grackles clamoring overhead and colored lights in the trees lending an air of enchantment to the growing dusk. It was wonderful. On the other hand, there was crude shouting in the streets. I don’t think I’ve ever been so self-conscious about being a woman on my own as I was in those few days.

Most people I encountered were charming and friendly, and if any of them looked askance at this gray-haired lady in sneakers flitting around their city, few of them showed it, except for a surly bus driver or hotel clerk here and there. Some people object, I know, to applying archetypes like “masculine” and “feminine” to describe things, but that seems to me the best way to convey the city as I saw it. San Antonio itself, with its beautiful historical buildings and graceful winding river, seemed very feminine to me, but it has attracted a strong masculine presence. There are positives and negatives to both archetypal qualities, but the real crux is the way they interact. The feminine element certainly doesn’t have to be passive, but somehow it did seem to be in San Antonio, in deference to a sort of untamed, insistent masculinity. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that “boys will be boys” is the pervading but perhaps unspoken ethos in the city.

For a reintroduction to the world of travel, San Antonio was in some ways a bit of a challenge, and a bit of a contradiction. I had a better experience at the conference, where I felt an openness and friendliness that was lacking the last time I went. I enjoyed my explorations of the city, which boasts some pretty impressive efforts to revive and preserve its historical buildings and places. I also felt “out of my element” to a degree I wasn’t expecting. Of course, I wouldn’t say I felt “safe” in Chicago either, but it was in more of a “this-is-a-big-city-with-a-high-rate-of-gun-violence” way, not because I felt out of place. The dangers in Chicago wear a more impersonal face, perhaps, than they do in San Antonio.

Forgetting to Be Irish

I can never quite get off the ground with St. Patrick's Day. I know a lot of people love it, but for some reason I nearly always forget to wear green, and the holiday ends up as sort of a nonstarter for me. It happened again today: ahead of time I was thinking, "I'll bet I forget to wear green again." By the time I got dressed, I forgot I'd been thinking that, but I also forgot to wear anything green. Maybe it's just that I'm not overly fond of corned beef, cabbage, and green glitter, but for whatever reason, the day usually slips by me.

There have been a few St. Patrick's Days that were more memorable than others. For several years, I was in the habit of taking a vacation in March that often led me to NoCal so that I was in San Francisco for St. Paddy's. The first time it happened I actually went to a restaurant for an Irish meal; my friend Jot and I somehow ended up at this place in the Mission that was celebrating the day with traditional Irish food. I don't remember what I had, but considering my cooked cabbage phobia, I'm thinking it must have been something more like stew or potatoes. I do recall that we were regaled non-stop by a character seated near us who just could not stop talking. I've met some overly chatty strangers in my time, but this man was the very King of Chat, bar none.

You do meet some personalities in San Francisco, and sometimes you just have to roll with it, but I've never before or since met anyone so determined to insert himself into the conversation of complete strangers (and few people more immune to hints). As Jot and I were walking down the street afterward, I said to him, "I guess that's what you call the gift of the gab." And he said, "I think it's more like a curse."

I was in San Francisco for St. Patrick's Day the next year, too, though I had been in Sonoma most of the week and only drove into the City that day. I'd been intending to meet people, but they were called out of town, so I spent the afternoon and evening in North Beach. I had stopped by the Tosca Cafe, which didn't seem to have a lot going on, and then soaked up the street life on my way back to my hotel. My most vivid memory is of passing, on Columbus Avenue, a young, laughing man--definitely of Asian heritage--sporting the loudest Top-to-Toe All-Green leprechaun attire I have ever witnessed. I didn't even know they made outfits like that. He was well pleased with himself, and I don't blame him: the whole street was gaping at him. Well, there was no topping that in the Irish sweepstakes, and I finished the evening with pasta and panna cotta in the Italian restaurant next to my hotel. It was a very San Francisco St. Patrick's Day.

Then there was the time many years ago when I was passing through Chicago on the Saturday before St. Patrick's, and while walking by the river (in between trains), saw that it was dyed green. This is evidently a tradition in Chicago, as is their St. Patrick's Day parade, which had been held earlier in the day. I don't know if it was then that someone told me they'd been filming a movie or if I found out later, but it turns out that a scene in The Fugitive was filmed during Chicago's St. Patrick's Day parade (Harrison Ford, on the run, blending in with the marchers). I was never for sure if it was this film or another, but I always assumed The Fugitive because it came out the following year. So I count that as the time I just missed seeing a movie being made and Harrison Ford in a green hat but got to see what a river looks like with a bunch of green dye dropped in.

Today was nowhere near that exciting, but it was sunny, which makes a pleasant change in this place at this time of year. I didn't do anything in particular to celebrate St. Patrick, but I did have a hobbity sort of dinner that included potatoes and onions. Contrary to the pattern of the last several years, spring seems to be arriving early this year, with things already greening up outdoors and the trees beginning to blossom. That's celebration enough for me. And may the road rise to meet you.

Pre-Authorized But Unlocked

It's just my opinion, but I do think travel isn't what it used to be. As recently as three years ago, I still viewed travel as a great tonic, a way to not only clear the head and get a change of perspective but also to have fun. Now that I'm back from my trip to Chicago, I'll say this: I expect to one day start enjoying travel again, but that day has not yet arrived.

Actually, there was a little bit of silver lining to this trip. I was told at the airport security checkpoint in Louisville that the code on my boarding pass meant I had clearance and could go through a special line. In essence, this meant I didn't have to take off my shoes and hop around barefoot while pulling out items that need to go in bins by themselves. I had read about paying $100 or so to get this kind of treatment, but I certainly hadn't done that. It seemed such an anomaly that I asked the security officers how it happened. The answer seemed to be that sometimes you just get lucky. It reminded me of the feeling I used to have when I was a Silver Medallion flyer: the perks are modest, but any little bonus is enough to boost your spirits.

Once on the plane, I somehow managed to seat myself next to a UPS pilot, who was flying on business. Sitting next to a pilot will certainly make you feel safer, in case you happen to be having any jitters about the whole friendly sky experience. He told me about his career and all the places he'd been, and before I knew it, we were in Chicago. So far, so good. I had to get from Midway to the conference hotel via train, which isn't hard to do, except that the last bit involved finding my way from the Red Line station to the hotel on foot. I asked for directions, and I'm glad I got a second opinion, because following the first person's advice would probably have gotten me lost only two blocks from the hotel.

I didn't do any traveling within Chicago, except for walking to Millennium Park one afternoon and going to lunch at Downtown Dogs the next day; the conference kept me too busy. On Saturday, my last day, I decided to give myself more time than I thought I needed to get back to the airport. Despite having had a pretty easy time of it on the way up, I didn't want to be in a position of having to rush due to unexpected problems. It's good I took that attitude because the first thing that happened was that none of the machines in the Red Line station were making change, so I had to go back out, cross the street, and buy a bottle of water in a fast food store to get some dollar bills. One of the bills I was given felt a little strange, so to be on the safe side, I asked the cashier for another one. Sometimes those ticket machines are finicky.

Once I got my ticket and was on the train, someone told me that service on the Orange Line was out between Roosevelt and Halsted, which meant taking a bus between stations. That sounded like a headache. This person said he'd show me how it worked, but when we came out of the station, the bus he was getting on, which he said was going to Halsted, looked like an ordinary city bus. I could see Orange Line buses lined up behind it, so I walked over and got on one. Once I got to Midway, I printed my boarding pass and went through security, still under the magical protection of my pre-authorized status. I kept trying to find out more about why I had this status. I told one security officer that I'd had some strange experiences in past travels that made me question anything out of the ordinary; he just smiled. I told another officer that the ease of the whole thing was freaking me out; she said I should just be happy about it. She was probably right.

So, time to relax, get a sandwich, and read a little before the flight was called. Once on the plane, I rested all the way home, thankful when we arrived a few minutes early, since I still had to drive back to Lexington. I got to my car, unlocked the driver's side door, and uh, oh -- what's this? The rear door on the driver's side, which was definitely locked when I left it, was now most definitely unlocked. This is travel as I've come to know it; I suspected I wouldn't get home without at least one incident (not that it couldn't have been worse). I mentioned what happened to the person at the exit booth, who said she'd report it to the Louisville Police.

There's nothing about my modest little car that would suggest it has anything worth taking, and in case you were in doubt, a glance inside would show as much. Nothing was broken; the lock had not been forced. Once I got home, I was able to take a closer look and couldn't find anything else awry, but I followed up with airport security to let them know what happened. I had doubts that anything in the way of a police report would have been made on the basis of my mentioning it to the exit booth attendant, so I took it to a higher authority.

So, a trip, a return, a mystery, and thankfulness that I have nowhere else to go in the foreseeable future. This would seem a rather poor attitude if it didn't coincide with my budget, which makes it actually a convenient outlook to have at present. If you're wondering whether I, as a mythologist, make anything of the door incident, the answer is not really. I don't suspect Mercury in retrograde, or sunspots, or leprechauns but rather a more pedestrian explanation, which may even come to light via the airport's security cameras. You never know.

Looking for Wisdom, I Encounter Jimi

I arrived in Chicago yesterday for a conference and have spent the last day and a half going up and down stairs between rooms, consulting a schedule book the size of Great Expectations, figuring out where the free food is, and processing a variety of ideas. This is my first time at this conference, and though I thought I'd been to some large conventions, this one is the biggest by far, at least judging by the staggering number of sessions.

By its nature, it's also more protean than some of the more discipline-focused conferences I've attended before. Popular culture is a natural home for a mythologist, but due to the tremendous variety of subjects included, it's broadly based, making it difficult to get your bearings. This actually supports what I said in my presentation today about the maze of knowledge and competing truths in the modern world. Traveling the halls here is a little like negotiating a maze. In one room, they're talking Tolkien; in the next room, they're discussing the Affordable Health Care Act; down the hall, it's feminist readings of fairy tales, punk rock culture, and fan fiction.

Planning one's strategy in advance may not result in smooth sailing, since cancellations can produce dropped sessions or alterations in panels you were considering. Not only is the gathering a maze, but it's a moving maze, seeming to reform itself as it goes along, like a starfish constantly shedding and growing new arms. Not only that, but I'd argue that there actually is no center to it except the one you impose yourself.

I've been surprised a couple of times, though I shouldn't have been, at reactions I've seen to what seemed to me fairly sensible questions and positions. One understands that people have a lot invested personally and academically in their ideas -- but still. From someone who was rather vehemently opposed to the idea of teaching information literacy across the curriculum to people on a panel who seemed uncomfortable about delving into politics in a discussion of Hollywood and propaganda, I've encountered some attitudes that were the opposite of what I'd expect.

Still, there are small epiphanies. A couple of sessions I've walked into that were second choices turned out to be excellent: one on special collections and one on the goals that shape educational planning in the United States. Sometimes accidents lead you to the right place. I left one session yesterday in a bit of a daze, disoriented by the direction the discussion had taken, and wandered into the exhibit hall, where academic publishers have their best books on display. What do you suppose I saw there, first thing? Nothing but a life of Jimi Hendrix, written by the man himself, bearing a cover photo of its subject wearing a sweet, slightly bemused expression.

I know it was an accident, but it was one that happened at just the right time. Girl, his expression seemed to say, the only thing that's wrong with you is being shut up in those rooms too long with all those smart-acting people. Get yourself outside and breathe a while. And don't pay too much mind to what goes on; take what you can and don't bother about the rest. When it's your turn to talk, get up there and say your piece. Then see if there's a free buffet around.

OK, that was me channeling Jimi, but maybe he would have said something like that. At any rate, a sweetly tricksterish quality somehow communicated itself to me from the cover of that book and activated my own inner rebel. Would you want to let Jimi Hendrix down? Me neither. Jimi, I said in my mind, I think I see your point.

Good, I imagine him saying. And I'm serious about that buffet. Get out there now and find something that'll keep body and soul together.

I'm not sure they have that, Jimi. These are academics, so it's probably more like crudites and cheese. With a side of condescension.

No kidding? Well, whatever they've got, pile it high.

A Walk in Chicago

I was in Chicago for a few days last week. As often happens in an unfamiliar place, I was tired and a bit overwhelmed the first day. Downtown Chicago is an extremely energetic environment, and it took me a day to get in synch with it.

A lunchtime walk to the Newberry Library on the second day allowed me to get my feet under me. My natural love of walking kicked in, I enjoyed finding my way to the Library (and seeing the inside of it), and the skyscrapers and busy streets that had seemed daunting the night before started to seem exciting and intriguing instead. There was a lot to see.

My last night in town we had a conference dinner, which ended early. I started walking back toward my hotel, but it seemed too early to just go to my room and brush my teeth. I decided instead to walk toward Navy Pier. I was enjoying the views of the skyscrapers lit up against the dusk and the Friday night exuberance in the air. I knew if I kept walking I would come to the waterfront, so I tried to maintain a straight course while staying on well-populated streets.

I eventually came to Lakeshore Drive and was faced with an underpass I hesitated to use. While hesitating, I saw groups of people crossing it from the other side, so I made my way down to it from the street level and ventured forth. Navy Pier, on the other side, was awash with people as I strolled past. I wondered if I should try to get to Millennium Park or if I was going to get caught in the rain.

I asked two women emerging from the park near Navy Pier how close I was to Millennium Park. I walked along with them for a while as we discussed the best way to get there. As it turned out, it was a little late for Millennium Park by then, and I had conveniently but unintentionally (because of the lake shore) walked in a sort of circle so that I was not far from my hotel. By that time my feet were tired, and I had satisfied my impulse for a walk, so I called it a night.

Every place has its own presiding genius, its local gods. I don't know Chicago well enough to say what its gods are. I was downtown, and that's different from other parts of the city I've seen before. I saw glittering towers, groups of revelers out on the town, and beautiful window displays of artfully arranged housewares and home decor. I saw a man playing a saxophone in front of the AT&T store. I saw a homeless family huddled in a doorway. I saw many tourists in a crowded Navy Pier arcade, a glimpse of the lake at nightfall, a young man taking a break in the cavelike service area of a large hotel, a doctor leaning against the reception desk inside Northwestern Hospital, and a pair of young men posing proudly for a picture in front of an underpass mural.

I navigated by prior knowledge of the map, attention to the presence of others, the advice of guides, and my own intentions. I'm glad I followed my hunch that it was too early to go to bed. During the day, Chicago is busy, directed, and purposeful. It gave me a fuller sense of things to experience a more festive but still multi-faceted city as it wound down into evening.

Home Before Dark

I drove back from Chicago today, a trip of about six and half hours, not counting stops. I had never driven there before and wouldn't be anxious to do it again, since it involved a complex chain of interstates beginning with I-75 and ending with I-290, a black hole of a tollbooth line, numerous construction zones, people losing their luggage in and by the road, and a weird little maneuver through a rusty corner of Gary, Indiana, that probably saved time but was not at all scenic. Yes, it sure sounds like a labyrinth.

Chicago itself was nice. I spent the weekend seeing the sights of Oak Park, listening to bands at a music festival, and visiting a Pacifica friend who lives on the North Shore. All of the neighborhoods I saw in the suburbs were decked out in their finest red, white, and blue, and the atmosphere was very festive. Chicago is a very proud and patriotic town.

I spent most of the afternoon yesterday touring the neighborhood around Frank Lloyd Wright's house and studio in Oak Park. Since I was on vacation, I had decided not to worry about looking for labyrinths (ha, ha), but lo, I was walking back toward Chicago Street after seeing the Unity Temple when I ran smack into a labyrinth on the grounds of a church. I went back later to walk it, and it was different from most other labyrinths I've seen because the path was made of crushed gravel that made a nice crunch under your feet. You could hear the sound of your own progress.

I drove out to visit my friend last night, and we ended up on her back deck, talking, comparing notes on our research, and just laughing. It's good to stay connected with other people doing the dissertation because the process does get lonely sometimes. You can certainly get lost in it.

Driving back home this afternoon, I realized that MapQuest had become my Ariadne's thread. I also discovered that you can have a thread and still get lost, as I did, trying to get back on I-90 East. I never meant to see the South Side, but I did -- at least a little piece of it. Going back was supposed to be the same as going in, but parts of the route didn't look familiar at all, maybe because there weren't a lot of memorable landmarks. After all that flatness, it was a relief to get to the rolling hills of southern Indiana with its dips and valleys mellowed by the afternoon light. Once I got back on I-275, I was on familiar ground again. After that, I knew my way.

Next time I go to Chicago, I think I'll fly. Even Daedalus didn't mind using wings to escape the labyrinth he had built, and I think the pilots can usually be trusted not to fly too close to the sun.