Traveling to a new town or city can be a bit clumsy. You’re drawn to the obvious, but down deep you want to see the underbelly. Someone needs to lend a hand.
It was a warm Sunday morning nearing 6:00 A.M. He must have gotten an early start because he had ridden his bike down the lakefront of the great city, watching the sun rise out of the great lake they called Michi Gami, and now he stood and stared out at the water.
Sensing something besides the backdrop of skyline and the solar awakening to the East, he turned slowly around as the taxi roared off. She was standing there on the curb, two large suitcases in tow, and was as awestruck as much by the natural light across the water, as by the architectural splendor behind.
“Yes, Absolutely, yes,” he countered. Within an hour or so he had helped her find her new apartment, carried the bags up three flights, and stumbled on to a cool café for coffee and breakfast. She was full of questions and he did his best and her her’s at working with the translation.
Then off to the city. Walking briskly through the quiet morning streets she pointed to her guide book and he proudly made the attraction appear. By cab, bus, and water taxi they traversed the windy city, relying on the universal smile and laughter in the absence of small talk. Few words, little voids, and much meaning.
But it was not till the end of the day in a crazy tavern on Lower Wacker that he really saw the great city reflected in her eyes. The joint conversation at the bar had turned to politics. The energy was engaging as the volume rose about the new president Bill Clinton. She had surprised him with her ability to swill down whiskey at ease. And then she surprised him again as she suddenly rose up standing on the stool rungs and shouted “Vous les Américains ont besoin de comprendre que vous êtes le pays est si jeune et vous avez autant d'apprendre. Vous pouvez l'apprendre du français.”
Chicago. What a great city. What a fine Sunday.
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