Sweet Home Chicago

Last week, I was at a crossroads; I had a week in the Midwest and I could have bounced around from crazy family to crazy family with my own immediate crazy family or lone-wolf it to Chicago and meet up with friends—I chose the latter.

I hopped on a train with my guitar and a small bag of clothes and set off for the windy city. The train conductor and I built a rapport quickly; maybe it was my long and/or facial hair, but I gave him the sense that he could vent to me (in a heavy Midwestern accent):

‘You know, you try to help people and they just fuck you over.’

‘My boss is gonna ream my fucking ass.’

‘Amtrak doesn’t give a shit, and it worries me cuz its my fucking livelihood.’

‘yeah we got food… shitty overpriced hot dogs.’

These were just a few examples of the less-than-formal tone this uniformed man took with me in regards to a hippy woman that he was allowing on the train without a ticket, and the Amtrak system as we know it.

A few conversations and a nap later and I was in the birthplace of the (commercial) blues, The Crossroads of America, The Second City, and the setting for my favorite Chris Farley skit (Daaa Bears).

My (non-crazy) cousin works full time in Indiana, but was paid to move to Chicago for reasons unclear to me, him, and probably his employer, too. As a product of this, I had a free, nice apartment in Chicago to myself for the week. Thanks cuz.

The living situation for the typical middle class Chicagoan seems to be a few rooms or a floor of a retrofitted ‘greystone,’ or Sears-era brick house (catalogue homes that were popular amongst Midwesterners striving for conformity in the first half of the 20^th century). The areas I was in had the feel of a neighborhood, despite the likelihood that most people here were probably on year-by-year leases with sublets coming and going. This neighborhoodly feeling could be attributed mostly to vigilant landlords that oftentimes live in the same house that they rent out units from. My one friend received a 300 word e-mail from her landlord over 3 cigarette butts left on the stairs, for example (a staggering 100 WPCB average!).

In between heavy drinking sessions with old and new friends alike, I did see some of the many sites Chicago has to offer. As a plus, there was an upcoming airshow, so The Blue Angels were practicing fly-bys of downtown Chicago the whole week. I couldn’t help but imagine all out urban warfare in America; it was fun and disturbing, but I couldn’t make amends with the unlikelihood of being invaded via the great lakes so I stopped imagining.

On the second night in town, I was an extra in a music video at a warehouse. It was cool, but it was in a less-than-wholesome area of town, complete with people practicing their crack fueled schizophrenic monologues on the street and cars with aftermarket wheels that would slow down to a creep as they passed us walking to and fro our destination. We did meet a pretty awesome Dave Chappellesque guy who was avid about me going to Dave and Buster’s during my stay in Chicago—I never made it.

Other highlights included ‘The Bean’: a reflective bean shaped public work that produces the most visually disorienting affect I have ever felt whilst not on psychedelics or spinning around in flowery meadows.

The Art Institute was fun; I like to laugh with joy and irony at paintings and installments that I like. There was an exhibit on Roy Lichtenstein, who is a hilarious and extraordinary artist; I would strongly suggest Googling him if you have a few minutes (and since you’re reading this, I know you do!).

The Loop, Chicago’s downtown, had a bit of a manufactured feel to it, but it is full of stunning buildings. Apparently Chicago was a playing field for 20^th century architects to flex their egos by juxtaposing their ideal buildings next to their rival’s competing, giant, functional phallic symbols of glass and steel.

After lots of long walks, rides on the CTA (the public transit system), and a variety of activities I came to a few conclusions. First of all, they like to drink in Chicago (I try to fight the urge to generalize, but I don’t think Chicagoans will argue with this one, so why not stereotype for time’s sake?). Secondly, there is way too much cheese and processed meat in the culinary traditions of Chicago (I had to try all the different Chicago-styled junk foods, but I think I had more digestive problems in a week in Chicago than I did in 6 months in India #realtalk). And thirdly, I couldn’t see myself living in Chicago (If I am going to put my body and soul through the stresses of American urban living, I’m going to go all the way and do it big in LA, SF, or NYC… @Chicago: sorry for the comparison, but you beg it by having lots of tall buildings and being in America). 

      

Cartagena: a case study of capitalism

Jack getting sexy on the Old Town Wall...

Walking the Old Town of Cartagena conjures up visions of Grandma and Grandpa going down to Cuba for a long weekend before you had to go to Canada to get to Cuba; thick heat, a labyrinth of colorful colonial architecture surrounding you, night clubs (some even Cuban themed), and rampant capitalism. The difference is that, in Cartagena, in a country where 500 bucks can allegedly sustain a family of four for a month, a night of salsa dancing, casual drinking, and a creative and tasty dinner runs you about 150 bucks. This price tag would be so worth it if we had 401Ks, but unfortunately none of us did, so we had to make due with set meals, bottles of rum, and hanging out in front of clubs with the smokers and folks waiting in line. Luckily, guys hang out outside the clubs with coolers of beer for sale. The old town is romantically situated on the Caribbean ocean and surrounded by a wall 3 to 20 feet wide and 10 to 20 feet tall. Beyond the wall you can see the top of the main fortress, an unconquerable Spanish war castle of gargantuan proportions. We stayed in the neighborhood of Getsemini, which was the area right before the old town, at Hotel Marlin, where air conditioning was available from 9pm to 9am (AC was quite the commodity in town; we even had a night or two where fellow backpackers came over for a slumber party with no sexual connotation whatsoever).

An allegedly impenetrable fortress, even Sir Francis Drake
couldn't get in!

The 5 minute walk from our hotel to the clock tower, the grand entranceway through the old town’s wall, was a testament to the rampant capitalism of Cartagena, and the gears of this rampant capitalism machine were none other than the crackheads. I don’t know much about crack other than what I have seen in movies and on tv, but to my understanding it is really cheap in the States, where cocaine is extremely expensive. In Colombia, cocaine is cheaper than water, in that staying properly hydrated—especially in the sticky heat of Cartagena—costs you more than it would to stay jacked on marching powder all day. So, logically speaking, crack must be just about free in Colombia. This means that although crackheads are seemingly everywhere in Getsemani, they don’t have the soaring ambitions of their fellow crackhead counterparts in the states—no tv or car stereo stealing is necessary to fund their habits. They get by (read stay high) being the economic impetus of the area; hailing taxis, suggesting hotels, helping you find a juice bar; I even had one stand out in the street and stop traffic at rush hour so I could cross, for the equivalent of a few pennies; thanks senor crusty lips!

These aren’t the only folks offering services to you, no sir. The next up in line are the only slightly crack-addled coke dealers hanging out in front of every other store or so. They typically go with a modified broken record technique—first they establish eye contact, then friendship (hey friend! amigo!), then they build a rapport (where you from? welcome to Colombia!), and then go for the kill (I got anything you need. Want some coke? Need yayo? I got Colombia’s finest! Free sample! Oh, no coke… how about some weed? And so on and so forth). This goes on from about 10 am to 4 am, every day; Fatimah found it annoying, I thought it was rather endearing.

A view from the fortress, Old Cartagena is to the right on the
further island.

Then there are the whores, who offer everything from ‘massages’ to unspeakable sexual acts at 2 in the afternoon. I don’t feel too bad mentioning this, because they didn’t seem too beautiful on the inside either, but in a country with some of the most conventionally beautiful people in the world, these whores were some of the most heinous, atrociously hideous, and despicable whores in all God’s creation.

There's the clock tower, behind that Pegasus!

Then comes the legal side of the touts; cheese stuffed fried cornbread, sausages with a maize accompaniment, fruits of all shapes and colors, amazing limeade, slightly used kitchen appliances, heavily used sink strainers, remote controls, DVDs (this one’s not so legal I guess), watch repair, and so on and so forth. A notable part of this walk of free market action is the shrimp cocktail row, which consists of about 20 to 30 stalls, all directly adjacent to one another, that all sell the exact same thing: Shrimp mixed up with some ketchup, horseradish, lime, and red onion. They all seem to get their ingredients from the same source, so it comes down to whether you like the tart of the lime juice or the burn of the horseradish better in selecting and establishing your favorite shrimp cocktail stall; mine was the eighth one down called ‘Fruit of the Sea.’

Bocagrande, Cartagena's upscale South-Beachesque district.

My suggestion would be to go to Cartagena and buy a ticket out when you arrive. This will pressure you to do all the fun touristy things in a timely manner and get the hell out while the getting’s good. The heat, the beauty, the intrigue, and for some, the drugs might just well suck you in, wear you down, and leave you wondering where 10, 20, or even 100 percent of your trip went.