Must be a Good One

Yep. I've lived in Chicago 7 years. I have never done this before.

Last night, on the bus (of course), I was reading my new book. It isn't even that interesting, but still.

I looked up as we turned the corner at Belmont, and knew that I had about 5 more stops.

Turned the page. Kept reading.

Turned the page. Kept reading.

Turned the page. Kept reading.

Turned the page. Kept reading.

(I am a speed reader).

Looked up and I was 5 blocks (3 stops) past my stop.

Uhhh...yeah. Pulled the cord. Laughing, mad at myself, and making a ridiculous display of shoving offending book into my bag as I descended the steps, I sheepishly got off in unfamiliar territory. Walked the five blocks south back home. Embarrassed. (Though not sure exactly WHO I was embarrassed in front of).

At least I didn't snooze through my stop, as I know one fellow Chicago commuter (who shall remain nameless) does on a regular basis. I'm too afraid of what would happen to me in public if I slept on the bus.

I'd for sure be the one that would wake up, a la frat house, with magic marker on my face.

Overlap & Wafting

It's amazing how, in an urban environment, the lives of others seep quietly, quickly and forcefully into our own.

We overlap, we intermingle, we mix together, we stand too close, we say more than we should, we bump shoulders, we brush hands while reaching for bus pole/newspaper/creamer at Starbucks, we guide strangers with street directions, and we ultimately and utterly blend together.

Last night on the bus home, a regular guy gets on. By regular, I mean, he had no outstanding, ridiculous or hilarious characteristics for me to notice. I didn't even notice him, actually, until I smelled it.

The seeping, surging, overpowering smell of...

Toilet Paper.

Brand new, in the package, a Jumbo 12-pack of Charmin Ultra.

The smell is recognizable. You know it. You can recall it right now, probably. It took over the bus. (Remember the fried chicken? This was a close second to the way that tasty smell overtook).

He had to keep moving it around, settled in at his feet, to let people out, to move back, to stand closer to the pole, to finally land a seat nearby. The constant movement simply shook up the odor even more. Wafting was a word that came to mind.

Just got me thinking about how intimate, close and personal, and yet so distinctly cold and separate, living in the city can be.

Spiked

Construction on the Lake Shore on-ramp at Belmont. New "no turns except buses" signs. Diggers, pipes the size of my apartment and road workers milling about. CTA supervisors doing little supervising. Gravel on road, dust everywhere, noise like you can't believe.

All of this means that it now takes 40 minutes to go 4 blocks down Inner Lake Shore.

I should start spiking my coffee before boarding the bus.

My Guy Doesn't

I can't believe I forgot to post this story right after it happened.

Maybe I was still stunned.

Not that I should be shocked anymore by the actions of cab drivers here in the city, but somehow I still am. The decorum of normal, decent human behavior doesn't seem to apply to taxis, their owners, their insides, their smells, or much of anything that touches the entire experience.

On my way to a business trip to DC a few weeks ago, I took a cab to O'Hare like normal. Normal being defined as this:

• rough 'stop and go' driving all the way down Addison towards the expressway

• a really fuzzy radio playing almost too quietly to even make out anything, but not quietly enough to feel like a peaceful silence

• vicious bodily odor filling the 4 square feet that this stranger and I occupy

• awkward semi-English conversations had across a chest-high plastic partition covered in handprints, stickers, Braille and city maps labeled with Mayor Richard M. Dayley's name

• 45-minutes of traffic even at the painful hour of 6 am on a Sunday morning (following a day-drinking fest for college football the day/night before)

So...now that we've established normalcy, I arrive at the United terminal at O'Hare, weary and war-torn for a 8 am flight to Regan National airport. We sidle up to the Departures doors, I pull out my credit card, and hand it to the driver as he navigates the traffic cops, taxis, limo drivers and kiss-ride drivers bidding farewell to traveling family members.

My Guy (you do tend to form a sort of bond in 45 smelly, jerky, awkward minutes together) slows to a stop not quite 15 feet from the car in front of us. I would have pulled all the way up, but that's just me.

Apparently the traffic cop was more like me. He whistles (do they REALLY need those things?) and waves his arm wildly and indicates that My Guy should pull all the way up. Make room for one more obnoxious cab behind us.

My Guy doesn't.

The traffic cop (who isn't armed by the way, unless you count the neon yellow jacket and orange mesh reflective vest) isn't having any of this. He whistles, waves and yells "Pull all the way up!"

My Guy doesn't.

Again. The entire fiasco repeats itself, while my credit card is "authorizing..." and I just sit in the back, praying silently for My Guy to obey the innocent, yet slightly overbearing, traffic cop.

My Guy doesn't.

And, by now, he's not a silent objector. He's mad.

He starts to yell back. "NO! I'm fine right here! Shut up! No! I'm not moving! Don't you have more important things to do? Is your job even important? Who needs you?!"

I'm flushing with shame, and I'm totally innocent. Just too close for comfort, mind you.

The traffic cop whips out his trusty little notepad and starts to write My Guy a ticket. For sitting too far back in the lane of departure drop-offs. Okay, I'm sure the insults about job necessity didn't help.

My Guy starts yelling expletives, sprinkled with foreign phrases that I'm pretty sure didn't translate to "Your vest is becoming in this early dawn sunlight, sir."

The cop starts to hand him a ticket, and My Guy does the unthinkable.

He rolls up the window.

On the ticket, and partially on the cop's arm.

I'm gasping.

And, that is only partially to cover the embarrassed, shameful giggles that are threatening to erupt.

My Guy continues to yell (despite the semi-closed window) and now it is just me that is truly absorbing his over-inflated, multi-lingual rage.

My blasted credit card FINALLY authorizes and My Guy finishes the paperwork. Hands me the two tiny little child-size receipts to sign, and I pocket the credit card as fast as you can say "ticked off traffic cop."

I fling the door open, curb side of course, and begin my exit. My Guy is still yelling. Has rolled down and back up the window. The ticket fell in his lap, and he ripped it in thirds, threw it on the ground outside the car, and continues his crazy-talk tirade.

My bag was in the trunk.

I have to interrupt the lunatic driver now, and ask (politely, using my pleases and thank yous) to pop the trunk. He does.

Using a feat of super-human strength, in one swift motion I grab my suitcase, fling the trunk closed, and hip-check the back door closed, all while dodging the verbal attacks that are aimed at the traffic cop.

Now, admittedly, the traffic cop was on an ego trip. (Wouldn't you feel a bit sassy in not one, but TWO neon reflective articles of city-issued, Daley-stamped, official-looking clothing?!)

But still. Just give me the blasted receipt and let me be on my way.

The entire experience made TSA, the 3-1-1 rule, the weekend tourist crowds and the O'Hare security line seem like child's play. I think it was pretty normal.

My Guy doesn't.

Chicken Torture

No, this is not a post about the terrors of cock-fighting.

Last night, on the way home from a brief bout of shopping, I was feeling the stomach growling as I made my way home on Michigan Ave. The bus was fairly empty, and I had a seat, a new book and my iPod tunes. I was happy.

Then a woman boarded at the last stop before the Lake Shore Drive underpass with the worst thing to bring on a bus. Terrible. Cruel and unusual.

She was toting a large take-out bag of fried chicken.

You think it is safely sealed in those plastic containers? Yeah, no.

The smell of fresh, crispy, warm, seasoned fried chicken flooded the bus. People looked around, noses perked up, stomachs audibly responded.

As a girl from the south, I know some good fried chicken when I smell it. And that was finger lickin' good chicken.

I had to use everything in my power keep myself from getting off at her stop and following her home for dinner.

Transit Crisis

It seems odd not to mention this since the blog is basically about what it is like to get around in this city.

We have a problem. The CTA is an issue now, and will even be worse if this happens. If you're reading this blog, and you live and work in Chicago, please click here and send an auto-generated message to the politicians: www.savechicagolandtransit.com

Latest doomsday article:
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From chicagotribune.com, October 12, 2007
CTA, Metra unveil plans for fare hikes, service cuts
By Jon Hilkevitch and Rich Wronski

The Chicago Transit Authority plans to eliminate 43 more bus routes and hike fares to as high as $3.25 per ride in January under the 2008 "doomsday" budget announced today.

On the CTA, regular cash fares would increase from the current $2 rate to $2.50 on Nov. 4. As of Jan. 6, that would go up again to $2.75. The cash fare would top out at $3.25 on trains during peak travel periods.

The January round of proposed cuts, combined with those already announced for next month, would also mean the elimination of more than half the CTA's bus routes.

The elimination of 43 bus routes in January—announced today by CTA President Ron Huberman—would come on top of the 39 bus routes to be cut effective Nov. 4. If both those rounds of cuts took place, that would leave the CTA with only 72 bus routes. It currently has 154 bus routes.

In addition, Huberman said the CTA would lay off nearly 1,800 employees in January. That would be in addition to the approximately 620 CTA employees already notified of layoffs effective in November. Those combined layoffs represent about 22 percent of the CTA work force of about 11,000.

The likelihood of the CTA contingency plan actually having to being implemented has increased because of a lingering stalemate in the Illinois legislature over how to fund Chicago-area mass transit as well as road and bridge repairs statewide.

But the deadline clock is ticking, with CTA customers facing uncertainties about their travel options starting in about three weeks, if lawmakers fail to make progress on funding.
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Great. Just what we need. MORE PROBLEMS. LESS BUS ROUTES.

Total chaos.

Car Windows

I heard this on Good Morning America today and thought it was brilliant, and worth sharing:

The reason we have a big windshield and a small rearview mirror is on purpose. We’re supposed to spend more time looking forward, with hope and optimism, and less time looking behind us at what has caused us pain, our mistakes, unhealthy relationships, bad choices, etc.

I guess "The Power of Now" guy would say that we should use our side windows to enjoy today, where we are right this minute.

I'm gonna try just that. On the bus home, that is.

Sneeze Guard

We've all seen the clear acrylic sneeze guards at salad bars.

Turns out they come in all shapes and sizes.

I was in a cab with friends on Saturday night, and was seated on the left side, behind the driver. After climbing in, telling the driver our destination address, we settle back for a nice (herky jerky, death defying) ride.

The sun was trying its best to poke through the clouds on the very gray day we were having, and when it did, I caught a glimpse. The kind of glimpse that tickles your nose and makes you...

SNEEZE. Two times. Three. Four.

(I always sneeze in even numbers.)

The driver, without even hesitating, takes his right hand off the wheel, grips the plastic partition wall behind his head, and slides it closed.

Thhhhhhhhhhhumpt.

As if my sun-in-the-eyes-made-me-sneeze sneezes were firing germs off all over his head. I mean, I covered my mouth! Said excuse me! Didn't wipe my hands on his shoulders!

My friends and I died laughing. Apparently This Guy is sick of getting sick.

Varsity Club

Sometimes the posts just can't be about commuting. This one is no exception.

Friday night I was entertaining two freinds from Atlanta, and in an effort to keep up the facade that Chicago is hip, young and trendy, we decided to have afterdinner cocktails at the very swanky Japonais lounge. We arrive, stand outside the red velvet rope for all of 3 minutes while the refrigerator-sized bouncer (fully decked out in a velvet suit and a curly-cue plastic corded earpiece headset) assesses if we're cool enough to enter.

We made the cut.

Heading down the stairs to the lounge, I assuredly report that the "scene here" was worth seeing. Skinny gals, hot men, great outfits (and the premier of everyone's new fall hottest items) were abound. I didn't tell a lie.

Snaking a table despite the "reserved" sign, we take our seats for some primo people watching. It isn't long before we are highly intrigued by a man wearing an interesting jacket chioce.

It was a varsity letter jacket. You know the ones—in fact, you may have one hanging in the closet at your parents' house—navy felt flannel front and back with cream leather sleeves, and a huge orange "B" letter on the front breast panel. We look at each other, and quizzically raise our eyebrows. Mind you, he was easily in his 30s, making him long since a graduate of any place that hands out varsity letter jackets.

A group of 8 or so girls is seated behind us (they were apparently VIP as they, too, had a "reserved" sign on their table) and it is clear to all three of us that they are talking about this guy's choice of outerwear. My friend Walton, the husband of an old and dear friend Elizabeth, is seated closest to the gaggle of girls. He overhears them saying things like, "What is he wearing?" and "I don't get it. A letter jacket?"—very similar comments to what we're saying at our table, nestled below the uber-hip and hottie-filled bar.

Not to disappoint, the girls flag the guy down. Waving him over, you can hear one say, "We just have to know." That is girl code for "We've been talking about you for 30 minutes and it is just killing us to not understand the mindset of a grown man that would actively choose that jacket to go with his flat-front grey wool trousers."

He leans over, desperate for the attention of these fine ladies, and says, "yes?" with a smile and a twinkle of the eyes.

Walton was doing a great job very slyly leaning back, perking up the ears, intercepting the conversations and relaying them to me and to Elizabeth, only to be repeated over and over by our little corner of the bar...we couldn't help ourselves.

They say it again, "We just have to know—why the letter jacket?" He, unknowingly, thinks they are flirting. He throws his head back, laughs, shakes his cocktail in a vain way, and says, "It is simple. Three reasons: One, it is Fall. Two, it is football season. [insert painful, awkward long-pause.] And, Three: it just looks cool."

Confusion abounds. Girls recover their facial expressions and just nod and smile in that way where you're agreeing on the outside, and dying of laughter on the inside.

He backs aways, cocky and eager to rejoin his buddies to recount the story. Mind you, there was a very nice looking woman with their group, begging the question of his "status." Was he married? Single? Clueless?

The group of inquiring minds giggle, laugh, point. Elizabeth, at this point, is laughing so hard and grabs for her digital camera. Yes. He had become a tourist attraction for my visiting guests. She angles the camera so it looks as if she's snapping a quick shot of me, and captures the outfit in full glory. Leather arms and all.

At this point, in between repeating the One, Two and Three reasons he's wearing the letter jacket in a bar in Chicago, we're trying to determine if it is a Bears jacket (not the right logo, but the orange, blue and white, combined with the "B" made it a good guess), is he a high school football coach out with the varsity cheerleading coach and is just doing it to be funny? Other jokes we made at his expense are not acceptable to print here.

Note: there weren't even any "awards" or years or accolades on the jacket, making me wonder if he'd bought it at Abercrombie & Fitch in a teenage-focused effort to look vintage-high-school-suave.

Nope.

The girl in his group gets the urge to explain. Thank God for her!

She leans over the group of girls, who have just now let the laughter die down, and says "Come on, deep down he's a really good guy. He's almost 34, he graduated from high school in Montana, and sometimes I just let him do what he wants."

Yeah. Like wear black socks with navy shoes. NOT a varsity high school letter jacket to a restaurant/bar that is constently written up for its excellent food, notable atmosphere and high end clientele!

We laughed. We cried. We captured photos to remember him by.

And, we used the One, Two, Three reasons all weekend. Turns out it is an all-purpose explanation.

Q: Why did Elizabeth and Walton have fun in Chicago this weekend?

A: One, it is Fall. Two, it is football season. Three - it is just cool.

Door #2

After a relatively quiet commuting week, I figured it was time for something interesting to happen.

I board a double-length bus this morning, move to the back to stand near the door. I'm teetering on new stiletto heel red boots (yes, they are fabulous) and don't want to stand the entire way, but I must.

The back doors are hanging at a strange angle, and won't seem to close all the way. They are electronic or powered or whatever you'd say about doors that are connected to the bus' electrical system, so the bus driver can't really leave without them closing properly. Door AJAR. Door AJAR. Or something like that.

I doubt it was for fear that the commuters would slide out and become well-dressed road kill on Lake Shore Drive, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, the bus driver gets out, walks to the back (on the outside) and nudges, prods, slams, pushes, pulls, bangs and kicks (he literally kicked them shut, like a 12-year old boy would) and, dejected, goes back to his perch.

No go.

Repeat the steps above.

Door #2 won't close. Just won't do it. Stubborn little sucker.

Driver gets on the microphone and says the dreaded words, "Passengers, you're gonna have to get off this bus. The doors are broke (his words, not mine) and you can't stay on."

Seriously? This keeps happening to me. If I had this much bad luck in automobiles, I'd be banned from them altogether.

We get off, race to the bus behind us, and begin piling on. I'm still standing.

Oh, and did I mention, this all happened right in front of my building? Hadn't even made it one inch towards work.

I think it was a sign that I should have gone back inside, past the doorman, up the elevator, and not passing go, gone back to bed.

Door #2 should have had a sign like THAT.

PIVOT!

One gripe that always hits me when it happens, but that I seem to let go, is the Commuter Butt Pivot.

You know it. You've experienced it. You may even be guilty of it. You just hadn't thought about it.

You're seated in the inside, by the window, and need to get out. You say politely, "excuse me." to your neighbor on the aisle, and then gather your stuff to stand up.

The person doesn't stand.

They pivot.

I call it the Commuter Butt Pivot. They turn their knees to the side, into the aisle, without ever leaving their seat.

This assumes many things:

1) that my butt is small enough to slide by your pivoted body without slamming into you the entire way past
2) that my hands are empty, and I'm not dragging a purse, laptop bag or shopping bag, that will hinder my movement
3) that I want to be that close to you, and have you feeling the literal weight of my body in your face
4) that it won't annoy the crap out of me that you can't even bring yourself to stand up to let me by
5) that I am a sane passenger with extraordinary amounts of patience

All of which aren't true. You know what they say about assuming!?!

All I can hear in my head is Ross Gellar shouting "PIVOT! PIVOT!" as I squeeze my 6' body, my purse, bag, crapola, etc. past you only to rocket out into the aisle like a shotput from an Olympic arm.

(For you non-"Friends" fans, I'm sorry. Can't help you with the old pop-cultural reference. You should have watched more Must See TV in the 90s.)

Anyway. The butt pivoters have to go. I mean, really. Is it THAT hard to stand up to kindly let me out?

Yeah, didn't think so.

One more time for good measure. All together now.

PIVOT!

Sense of Humor

On the way home on Tuesday, the bus kept stalling. Right there on Michigan Avenue.

I know, I know - you faithful blog readers think this stalling busines is old news by now since I've already experienced it many times.

However, this time was unique in the "audience response."

And, yes, we are an audience. I have begun to think and react differently to the trials commuting, knowing that I can use it as blog material (can't you see me on there just scripting in my head?) Totally different mindset now.

Anyway, so the accordian-style bus keeps slowing to the bus stop, shuddering, and then everything goes quiet. The air goes off, the hush falls over the crowd. With anticipation (and prayers) we mentally cheer for the huge-bus-that-could as the driver patiently restarts it.

It goes! Yay. Only to dissapoint us at the next block. And the next one. And the next one. You see the pattern. Still, this dogged driver never gave up (better man than most).

The second to last block before the end of Michigan Avenue comes, and the bus stop approaches. We ease up, and the shuddering begins. It was almost like our poor bus was just sobbing, and couldn't help it. Just the mere weight of all of the Chicagoans and tourists was too much for it to bear. (Ok, that may be taking it a little too far. More likely the tax dollars just aren't there to properly maintain the beasts, but bear with me while I romanticize it a touch.)

Shuddering to a stop, it got quiet. Everyone (cynics, elderly, clueless, totally annoyed) just looked around. Making eye contact was almost more than we could handle. Then, out of the radio silence comes a stale, recored, distant male voice: "Thank you for riding the CTA. If you ever have comments or complaints about our service, please call XXX or email us at XXX@transitchicago.com."

The irony overtook us. Timing is a bitch, huh? The entire bus cracked up. Even the cynics. Possibly even the clueless. Some guy shouted, "Did anyone catch that number?" More laughs. Everyone's a comedian.

Not being able to see our bus driver's face at this moment, I'm left to the devices of my own imagination.

I can practically hear him talking to God. "God, please just let me get past Delaware. I just want to pass the Drake Hotel and accelerate onto the Lake Shore Drive underpass and then I'm golden. Come on God, help me out here, buddy!"

So we do. (Guess he and God are close.) As we make our way north, and the traffic builds, I know he must have been chanting that prayer over and over.

Maybe we should get that prayer on a recording, to kick in when it is most needed, and in the silence of the stalled bus?

Just a thought. I could suggest it.

Did anyone catch that email address?

Commuting Below the Mason-Dixon

As I mentioned, I was in Atlanta and Athens, Georgia this weekend. It was a quiet, calm, pleasurable weekend away from CTA buses, taxi cabs, tourists on Michigan Avenue, backups on Lake Shore Drive and other commuter nightmares.

You'd think, based on the speech patterns, affinity for bourbon and Scarlett O'Hara/Rhett Butler historical references, that the south would be slow. About everything.

Yeah. That person has never been on highway 75/85. We're talking the U.S. Autobahn.

My mom has always said that "people drive as fast as the conditions will allow in Atlanta." which must be true, since I'm telling you what. Those conditions clearly allow German-driving-machine-style maneuvers and cop-racing-past-you as you tailgate your fellow drivers speeds.

Maybe people drive faster because the roads are better? Maybe it is that the roads aren't as bad because they don't get snow? Maybe the politicians are actually spending the tax dollars on road construction instead of financing their North Shore mansion or their son's/nephew's/neighbor's college education?

Who knows. But they are smoother down there. I digress.

After sitting in traffic to get from place to place, watching the strip malls fly by between stop lights, entering/exiting the same 3 highways (and 55 minutes) just to get anywhere, and avoiding the highway patrol cars every 400 feet, I was almost ready to get back to Chicago and our gritty, tourist-filled commuter nightmare.

At least here the furthest away I ever am is about 3 miles. My entire commuting life is in a radius of about 5 miles.

And they're MY 5 miles and I love 'em.

I'm back. To stay?