Chicago

12 A.D.

I sorted myself out with hairspray at the local ‘Dollerama’ store. Not sure how strong it is though. Is it wise to use a product like this from Canada’s equivalent of Poundland when I’m heading for The Windy City??? As for my ulcers, Tim suggested swilling my mouth with a mixture of warm water and salt, which I gave my best shot. Such witchcraft apparently does not work immediately, so I hoped for some respite the next morning. Sound like a bit of a wimp, don’t I?

For our last night in Niagara Falls, Tim wanted to do a Man-Versus-Food visit. If you haven’t seen the show, there’s a charismatic guy who goes to lots of ker-azy restaurants, orders the largest thing on the menu and attempts to eat it within a certain amount of time. No really, that’s it. Tim is keen to imitate these amazing feats of appetite, but unfortunately the place in question (‘The Silo’) was six miles north across the border. Instead we had a quick walk north to a big whirlpool resulting from The Falls and ate at a local diner, me ordering a Caesar salad to curb the pain of the ulcers [note to self – stop talking about your bloody ulcers!]

As it was Saturday night, we decided to finish the pack of (small) beers we’d got in. I could really get used to sitting out on the veranda on a pleasant sunny evening watching the world go by. Once the sun went down and I got sick of listening to my chilled-out Ipod playlist, we ignored Canadian TV and tried to invent a new game of cards that combines the best elements of the games we grew up playing. It’s very much a work-in-progress at this point.

Next morning we wandered around the deserted streets until it was time for the quarter final kick off. Even the free refills on the root beers couldn’t ease the drawn-out agony of England going out on penalties yet again. It was definitely time to leave town, to leave the country even. I realised then that we were as far north as we would ever go on our trip.

Getting off the bus at the border and going through customs was straightforward enough, but why is it that, even though you know that you’ve done nothing wrong and got nothing dodgy in your luggage, you still feel a tad nervous? Buffalo bus terminal looked a lot worse by night than it did by day. As I sat down I simply said, “Ta,” to a young Jack Osborne lookalike who moved his bag for me and he took this as his cue to chat. And this was where my education about who to talk to in late night bus terminals began; although he looked pretty normal, his every word reeked of B.S. – something about him not being given a passport when he entered Canada and subsequently not being able to get out of the country again. So how was he sitting there in the USA and talking to me? He said that on his last trip on the Greyhound he’d had to stand for five and a half hours (curious, because Greyhound do not let passengers stand on long distance buses) and he claimed that because he was late again his parents would have to spend hours waiting to pick him up (wherever the mythical place he was heading for happened to be). I suggested he call them, he said he couldn’t. I asked why not and he’d said spent his last few dollars on [something mumbled and unintelligible]. I suggested he reverse the charges, he said he couldn’t. I asked why and he gave me a blank look, knowing he was beaten and I’d seen though his cock-and-bull story. At this point I rolled my eyes and went back to my book, which I finally got around to starting. It’s called Adventures in the screen trade by William Goldman, if you're interested.

You should never judge a city by its bus station, but after rolling in through the darkness at 3.10 a.m., the fair city of Cleveland will only be remembered in my mind for low level prison-style lighting and aircon needlessly pumped out to make me feel cold for the first time in a week and a half. It’s that chilly that for extra warmth I put the hood up on my fleece, the first time I’ve done that since I was a nipper. Tim spots a guy dressed as a pirate in the queue for the bus to Columbus and I have to do a double take to check he’s not an illusion. He’s not, but it’s too late at night / early in the morning to ask why. Just as 4.50 a.m. approaches (blast off time), a crowd of people from a Washington D.C. bus invade our line and are given priority boarding, making it look as though we won’t get on. I remember Giselle’s words in which she said she’d only ever not been able to get on one bus in all her years of travelling – would we face such a scenario already? Fortunately good old Greyhound brought out a second bus for us, but it wasn’t one of the newer express versions and that meant no wi-fi (but still plenty of freezing aircon!)

Again we slept well and I woke up as we arrived at a truckstop deep in the heart of Indiana. The female bus driver was an absolute hoot and she gave us 20 minutes to get off, do what we had to, and get back on. When she counted us back, we were a couple short. “Anyone seen those two Indian women?” she called out, but no one answered. “Oh well,” she shrugged, “guess they’ll just have to take the next bus!” And off we went, with all of their luggage still on board! Mental note – if she says 20 minutes, DO NOT be longer than 20 minutes!

After falling asleep again and waking up to see a goods train (some people will understand why this is important), we arrived in Chicago. It was an easy walk from the bus station to The Parthenon Hostel in Greektown. Once she’d checked us in, the receptionist said in her sultriest tones, “Enjoy your stay, British boys!” That got me thinking...up until now we had always introduced ourselves as English, never British. Hmmm. Maybe it was because of the football? No, don’t want to think about that shattered dream anymore!    

We spent the afternoon walking round the south and east sides of the city. Chicago has a skyline that would seem very impressive had we not seen that of New York ten days ago. But sitting beside Lake Michigan was great (no pun intended!) and by mid-afternoon I had seen enough goods trains to last me a lifetime – the thrill (if there ever was one) had gone. The afternoon ended on what could be a good or a bad note – I got ID’d trying to buy a six pack of beer! It was the first time it had happened in the USA and I’d been starting to believe I was immune. Was all this healthy sunlight starting to make me look younger? No matter, upon returning to The Parthenon we were hit by a conundrum as we re-read the rules and saw that no alcoholic beverages were allowed inside the entire building...what to do, British boys, what to do?