Saturday, September 15, 2012
In Which I Fear For My Life
Last night I got lost on my way back from visiting a friend in Oak Park. This was not good. As it turns out, you can very quickly drive out of Frank Lloyd Wright land and straight into an episode of The Wire. I swear to God I saw a car in front of me pull over and get a re-up. There were all kinds of people just wandering around in the streets at midnight with no apparent plan other than to give me the evil eye. I kept telling myself everything was fine, only to come across an even more ominous sight like a freshly burned-out building or a an assemblage of police tape. I did make it home safely, obviously, but I have learned an important lesson about trying to avoid traffic. The trip doesn't seem to go a whole lot faster when it's filled with mortal peril.
The rest of the day, by contrast, was quiet. A man in the elevator tried to engage me in conversation about "the game" and I did not have the heart to tell him I had no idea what game he was talking about. It turns out it didn't really matter, because he just wanted to talk and have me add short interjections showing that I agreed with him. I went to the Art Institute at lunch, where I was approached by no fewer than three tourists who somehow thought I worked there, despite the fact that I was wearing jeans and the many, many people who actually work there have uniforms. And I was screamed at by a man trying to shove a bike onto the red line during rush hour. Who says it's hard to meet new people in the city?
Last night I got lost on my way back from visiting a friend in Oak Park. This was not good. As it turns out, you can very quickly drive out of Frank Lloyd Wright land and straight into an episode of The Wire. I swear to God I saw a car in front of me pull over and get a re-up. There were all kinds of people just wandering around in the streets at midnight with no apparent plan other than to give me the evil eye. I kept telling myself everything was fine, only to come across an even more ominous sight like a freshly burned-out building or a an assemblage of police tape. I did make it home safely, obviously, but I have learned an important lesson about trying to avoid traffic. The trip doesn't seem to go a whole lot faster when it's filled with mortal peril.
The rest of the day, by contrast, was quiet. A man in the elevator tried to engage me in conversation about "the game" and I did not have the heart to tell him I had no idea what game he was talking about. It turns out it didn't really matter, because he just wanted to talk and have me add short interjections showing that I agreed with him. I went to the Art Institute at lunch, where I was approached by no fewer than three tourists who somehow thought I worked there, despite the fact that I was wearing jeans and the many, many people who actually work there have uniforms. And I was screamed at by a man trying to shove a bike onto the red line during rush hour. Who says it's hard to meet new people in the city?
