November 08, 2004
On we went, with perhaps an hour until our train was set to depart. We stood outside the station, puffing cigarettes and watching the varieties of human intrigue flow from the underground passageways. A young, slovenly sort of man stopped in front of me and apologetically inquired if I might have $.85 to spare for his bus ride."Sure," I said as I pulled out my little black wallet from my back pocket. I had completely forgotten that, along with a few one dollar bills, I also had my four hundred dollar bills in preparation for an exchange to Euros... Here I stood, meagerly attempting to hide the fortune I had been toting, fumbling for just one stupid dollar. Finally, I was able to hand over a dollar to the intense lad and go on being verbally lashed, and rightly so, by my dear companion. He insisted that we replay the scenario - I being me, the utterly naive (might I abandon all modesty and add 'cute?') and trusting tyro in the midst of a myriad of urban rogues, just waiting to be enriched by the innocent tendencies of a young, inexperienced country girl. John played the rogue, just waiting to be enriched by the innocent tendencies of a young, inexperienced country girl and portrayed how swiftly my small savings could be swept away.
"I do not reprimand you for giving a person in need a dollar, Laura, but might you see how easily you could have mindlessly relinquished all your earnings?"
I smiled and nodded in full acquiesensce.
I then began an idle search for our departing train on one of two blue screens outside the station. I wandered to my left, a few yards away from John, where a young man was perched, just behind me, on a marble wall and questioned what train I was looking for. Upon my answer, he leapt up, shaking his head and beseeched that I immediately follow. I looked back to John as the young man disappeared around the corner, as if to say, "I'm not going ALONE!" and soon he joined the party. The man pointed to the end of two blocks where a white lettered sign shone brightly against the dark night air. We were previously standing at the station's exit instead of the entryway.
"You might say I'm like a tour guide, man. I shows people the right way to go, ya know, man? I's homeless and this is how I makes my money - just enough to pay for my hotel, by showing people where's to go. Ya know, man?"
As he rambled on, John pulled out a couple bucks from his pocket and graciously handed it to our 'Tour Guide.' The man was extremely thankful and entirely correct with his directions. We entered Union Station and began a half hour's worth of sedentary conversation in a glass walled waiting room. We boarded the train just before 8:00 p.m. and said good bye to the population of 2,869,121 which, apparently, produced the world's first Hostess Twinkie in 1930.
A woman next to us immediately doffed her shoes, blanketed herself with her oversized Green Bay Packers jacket and went to sleep. John equaled her haste in repose as I watched a woman four seats ahead through the reflection of the train's window. I listened carefully as she dialed every single number stored in her pink and tan colored cell phone and recalled each highly 'invigorating' detail of her visit to Chicago to all of her acquaintances. It was one of those conversations where all an innocent bystander (me) can hear is the loud, torturous drone of short, single phrases which makes one wonder WHY in the world THIS had to be communicated at all...
"Hi Shirley! Just leaving Chicago. Yes, on the train. Uh huh. Oh, yes, I did! No, really, I did! I told you I would, Shirely and I did! Yes, uh huh. Sure did! Oh I will! Yes, it has now been five minutes, I am still on the train and this is REALLY all I have to say... And let's talk for another hour and 25 minutes so as to ensure the complete madness of this girl sitting a few rows behind me, shall we?"
I somehow managed to fall asleep despite the effusive woman servile to her cell phone. I awoke to the gentle pressing of John's hand upon my shoulder and peered out the window at the familiar surroundings of Milwaukee at 9:30 p.m.. On the street, we lit our cigarettes and strode with slightly encumbered steps to John's still, thankfully, parked car and I boldly announced that the perfect topping to the evening would be to pursue the perfect toppings of The Bluemound Inn's gourmet pizza. Our usual round of drinks were served and the tranquil delight we each encompassed could only be broken by the obnoxious ranting of a coupling of brothers, intent on soliciting captious remarks upon each other's pride. F*** this and F*** that echoed off the walls of our eloquent surroundings. John again displayed his chilverous nature by asking the bartender, Adam, to request that the pair keep their verbal vomit to a minimum. Adam kindly did as much and the brothers went as far to meagerly apologize to the young lady (no, really, that was me...).
Thus arrived our decadent pizza via 'the waitress with most beautiful eyes in the world (I had relayed to her as much on our last visit only to be bewildered that no one else had ever made such a comment).' And, oh! That zah! One did not have to have anything of an appetite to relish in its piquant perfection! I demonstrated my ability to dine as the Europeans do, never switching my fork from one hand to the next, John prided over my first ever train ride and I gleamed in the brilliance of it all. Such was the day of preparation for our trip to Europe...