Southbound

14 A.D.

[Apologies for the delay in uploading this – blame it on crappy wi-fi connection!]

Old Navy was the priciest place I’d been to so far! No deal to be had there. Thankfully there was a T. J. Maxx around the corner (that’s definitely a ‘J’, not a ‘K’). Here the prices looked even better than in the UK, until one remembers that there’s the hefty old sales tax to be added to the tag price. This was the last chance saloon for a pair of shorts and by hook or by crook I was exiting that store with a fresh new purchase under my arm. After trying on three pairs that were too short, I settled on the fourth. I didn’t get the great clothing bargain as planned – should have bought the damn things back in Blighty! Anyway, that’s another chapter in this great saga closed.

So, Tim did his thing up on the Sears Tower and stepped out onto the great glass ledges at the top of the building to see what he could see. I, on the other hand, went across the street to do the laundry, which didn’t take too long in the washer, but was in the dryer for an aeon. It was one of those strange moments in life when you realise you’re alone in the dingy basement of a Greek restaurant in central Chicago and you’re passing the time doing yoga. Badly. And because I was down there for so long, I didn’t get to have the powernap I had planned. To make matters worse, Tim came back to the hostel to tell me that he’d been waiting for the elevator at the Sears Tower and when it opened a number of Pennsylvania Dutch people piled out (if you’ve only just started reading this blog that will make absolutely no sense, but that’s what you get for joining late!)

Chicago is known as the home of the blues. Did we get to hear any? No! It was enough to give us the blues. We made every attempt to hit the hallowed clubs on North Halstead Street after dinner, but after 45 minutes walking through an industrial graveyard we’d only reached number 1000, and we had to get to 2559. It just wasn’t going to happen, so we trooped back towards Greektown as the sun went down, half-heartedly humming Muddy Waters and Howlin` Wolf songs. Feeling thirsty at the end of the hike, I stopped at a seven-eleven to purchase a can of Blue Ribbon lager...a 710 millilitre can! It took me over an hour to finish it. And it was difficult stuffing it down my jeans and smuggling it past the hostel desk clerk without giving him the impression I was pleased to see him!

We woke up on Wednesday morning and trooped downstairs for My Big Fat Greek Breakfast - part 2. Although we were checking out at 11, we were able to leave our luggage behind the front desk and could spend a few more hours looking round the city, even though there wasn’t much left that we had a burning desire to see. One interesting place was the Chicago Tribune building which had stones from all sorts of exotic buildings around the world attached to its wall, such as a lump of rock from the great pyramid of Egypt. Technically I touched a piece of Antarctica, which was never a scheduled stop on this trip.

After visiting the pier (not sure why, having lived in Southport for 18 years) and sitting through the yawnorama that was Spain versus Portugal, we collected our luggage and headed over to the Greyhound terminal. To be fair, Chicago’s is one of the better ones we’ve come across - plenty of space, power points, TV screens, etc. However, when we approached the front desk to get our bags tagged we were asked to fill in forms, which is something we’ve never done before. Why has the procedure been different at every single leg of the journey??? One routine that we’re getting into is rolling up at the terminal in our dealing-with-the-hot-weather day gear (typically shorts) and changing into our travel gear (trousers, boots, fleece). There’s plenty of space to manoeuvre in the disabled cubicle in the Gents, but under no circumstances should any part of you touch the floor. On this occasion the cleaner had just finished up in the lavatories, but he still had his yellow barrier across the entrance, so I waited patiently beside it. Then this happened:

Some young lad: Excuse me, Sir?

Me: Hello?

SYL: Is it alright to leave my stuff there? (Points to the floor.)

Me: Uh, yeah. Go for it.

Other young lad: Can I put my stuff down there too please?

Me: Sure, but why are you asking me?

OYL: Ain’t you one of the policemen?

Me: Nope.

OYL: Oh...

How bizarre that I should be mistaken for an officer of the law as I stand there in my new shorts! Did it have anything to do with me holding a rolled-up pair of jeans, T-shirt and socks under my arm? Does that make you look officious in this country? Who knew. When I returned from successfully changing outfits and returning to civilian status, Tim pointed out an old man who was queuing up behind us to get on our bus. The funny thing was that we’d seen the very same guy get on the bus that we rode from Cleveland to Chicago! Was he following us? Who is he? Surely he can’t ride these buses for fun as some kind of warped hobby? I’m sure that if he’s a government agent with a secret mission for us then all will be revealed in good time. Right now I’m writing this having just passed through Gary, Indiana – famous for Michael Jackson being born there and absolutely nothing else.

Next stop Nashville!