I am currently working for half the week at the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago, as a research intern with their education department. (Today was data day, I was super excited this morning.) Equally interesting for me, though, is that I now commute to Chicago three times a week.
Which. Is. Awesome.
The first day was a bit weird. I love the train, I always have, but I've never used the bus system in Chicago before. I assumed that I could figure it out of course, but I was surprised to find that it's actually pretty well set up, at least for where I want to go. It has nothing on the Champaign system, of course, but in fairness Champaign has somewhere around 150,000 people while Chicago has 3 million. The morning bus goes from Union Station to 11th and Columbus, where I get out and am privileged to take a nice little stroll on the museum campus on my way to the loading dock/staff entrance of the Shedd, which for some reason smells like chocolate chip cookies.
Sorry, getting off track. On my way back to Western Springs one day last week, I saw a man who knows how to commute like a boss. He was heading for the same train as me--hurrying, but clearly he knew exactly how much time he had. Then he kicked back on the top deck, proceeded to take a newspaper and a beer out of his briefcase, flicked the cap off the beer in a perfect parabolic arc into said briefcase, and kicked the case shut, all in one practiced motion. Also, he had a gigantic white walrus moustache. I do not know who he is, but I salute him. Two people I met on the bus: Week before last was Fiddling Dream Woman--she asked for directions, I had a map, we got to talking. She had a violin case with her, so I asked if she played with an orchestra, thinking maybe I was about to get some magical connection to the CSO. Turns out that she had just retired and was fulfilling her life-long dream of taking fiddle lessons at the Old Town School of Folk Music. She was tiny and adorable. Yesterday was African-American Kirsten Chenowith. Same cut of dress that Glinda wears in the Evita scene in Wicked, but more importantly the same voice. Exactly the same. Same pitch range, same tonal quality, identical inflection. I love those little one-off things you see. Maybe it's my inner sociologist, maybe it's the inner musician, but it's the fact that one doesn't have to be concerned with a distinct lack of social skills--after all, you meet someone and it turns out really well and you get a friend for life or a great thing for your career, or it goes really badly and you never have to see them again. Maybe a little of all three. My grandmother was asking me last year if I've lost my wonder. Don't be ridiculous, I'm full of wonder, but most of it is tied up in what other people would categorize as Not Interesting. Or, equally likely, Completely Opaque.
ALSO: a public service announcement to rush hour drivers in the city. 1. There are lane lines for a reason. Use them. 2. Idiots, do not go up against the bus. The bus will pick its teeth with your little sedan.
That is all.
--C.
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