There you go…
Oversharing on the road.
p.s. Will continue until I get home and start the long winding road of unpacking and adjusting to time zone and crying myself to sleep because I don’t want to go back to work…
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A couple of weeks ago, I was in downtown Chicago with my family. We do that from time to time: using the hotel points we racked up from business trips for a weekend in downtown Chicago. A Staycation. (Sorry for using the stupid buzz word) After a most satisfying lunch at Berghoff where I was surprised by one two of the best Tom Collins I’ve ever had.
Berghoff is billed as a historic restaurant in Chicago. A classic. A landmark. A local gem. You know what that means. That (usually) means it is a tourist trap and therefore I was not expecting much. Following the theme of Lowered Expectations, I was absolutely blown away when I took a sip of the Tim Collins. I have been looking for a good, old, solid Tom Collins for a while now, and I have been to quite a few places where the bar tenders actually asked me, “What is a Tom Collin?” Not making this up. Little did I know that I would have found The Perfect Tom Collins that one afternoon when we sort of gave up and walked into Berghoff because it was still open for lunch at 3 pm and was not crowded.
After lunch, The Husband announced that he needed a nap. (Don’t say anything. I know. Ugh) I looked at the boys, “Well, mommy is going shopping. Whom do you want to go with?” “Dad!”
*Cue evil genius laughter on my part*
That’s how I got two hours of Alone Time wandering around the Chicago loop area by myself.
The streets were mostly empty. I took my time, walking slowly, deliberately, yet aimlessly. Occasionally I would stop, whip out my phone to take a picture of something that struck my fancy. Lamp post. Intricate carvings on a building. Wrought iron works. Brass decor on top of an elevator door. Of course, my idea of me being a great street photographer trumps my actual photographic skills and that is why none of those photos are featured here. Believe me when I say that the images are whimsical and beautiful and fascinating when I have them framed like this with my mind:
Click. Click. Click.
Of course, while I was taking my leisurely stroll, I had no idea that the pictures were coughcoughcough so I was walking around with the aura and euphoria of a street photographer exploring the beauties around me.
At one point when I stopped to take pictures of a wall scone outside one of those gorgeous Chicago buildings, a guy doubled back to ask me whether I would like a picture with the wall scone. I laughed and explained that I was simply taking random pictures of random objects. “Because I am crazy like this.”
Oh, yeah. I do say things like that to random strangers. I am indeed crazy like this.
“If you like Chicago architectural details, you really should go into this building over there,” he pointed at a building not far from the crosswalk where we both stopped at the light. “It has an amazing lobby with all the original details intact.”
Alas. (See above).
But all was not lost because when I came out from the building, I spotted a bride and a groom being led by a real photographer towards a deserted intersection. I ran. I was shameless. By god I was going to get that shot of the photographer taking a picture of this couple standing in the middle of a Chicago intersection.
I had just watched the trailer to the documentary Bill Cunningham New York and I might have been mistakenly inspired…
How ironic would that photo be. How awesome!
But when I got to within the optimal (photo) shooting range, I could not raise my phone. I was shy. It felt awkward even though there were others taking pictures of them.
I couldn’t help but smile because it was a lovely sight and walked across the street away from the trio, trying to look as if I meant to cross the street all along. As soon as I turned my back toward then, the little voice piped up,
“God damn it! You need to get over this! Chicken!” I thought to myself. “They won’t mind. People gawk and take pictures of brides all the time.”
“FINE!” I turned around to snap a picture and then quickly walked away, as if I had done something wrong.
I am at the train station again. The one with the Starbucks.
I come here almost every Saturday morning when the kids are in Religious Ed. Free babysitting provided by the Catholic Church. That’s the least they could do for me really.
When I was waiting for my non-fat Venti latte, I heard “Hi, Mrs. Absence!” and barely recognized A, a boy who lives in the house across the street from us. I was pleasantly surprised for surely most kids his age (13, the same as my oldest) would have preferred to slip by without having to say hello to a neighbor lady whom his family does not socialize with other than “Hello!” when we chance to see each other outside. When I walked into the train station with my coffee, my oatmeal, my laptop and my iPhod, I realized that he was with a group of a good size, comprised of fathers and children. One of the fathers whom I have never met before explained that A’s grandfather organizes such a group outing for the dads every year around Valentine’s Day so their wives could have a grand day off.
[A’s mother does not work outside of the house. Both kids are old enough to take care of themselves and are away from school between 8:30 am and 3 pm. They have house cleaners that come every other week. What will she be doing today that is going to be different from her Monday through Friday? I cannot help but be curious…]
The stranger dad asked, “So are you going downtown today?”
I wondered what he made of me: me in my Aerosmith t-shirt, jeans, black boots, thick black eyeliners, and a choker necklace at 9 o’clock on a Saturday morning, oh, and I just noticed now, no wedding ring. (I often leave my ring at home together with my bracelet and watch. I get allergic reactions from metal easily…)
“To the Auto Show?” He added. Perhaps that’s somewhere he would rather go instead of the show they are taking the kids to?
“No.” I had not realized yet that it might have sounded odd to people that I come and hang out at the train station. I joked, “I am not going downtown. I am trying to get away from the kids,” taking for granted that he would know what it was like, what I meant.
Of course he did not. He looked downright uncomfortable, not knowing how to respond to my impromptu confession. Laughing awkwardly, he said, making a sweeping gesture towards the kids in his group, “Getting away from the kids? Sorry about that then.”
I laughed. “No, no. I am not getting on the train. I am not going anywhere. I am just here.”
He looked puzzled. “Here? The train station?” His eyebrows arched. Was that a cloud of horror passing through his eyes?
“Yes, I am here for the Starbucks. You know.”
Judging from his quizzical eyebrows, I doubted that he did.
I was baffled. What’s wrong with being at the train station? I thought.
At this moment A’s dad made his way across the train station and spotted me. “Hey! What are you doing here?” I gave him a hug and told him in mid-hug, “Well, I am coming with you guys!” Feeling sorry for the confusion visible in his face when I released him, I quickly added, “Just kidding. I am just here at the train station.”
“The… the train station?” He looked so confounded as if I had told him that I had been there for, oh I don’t know, a rally for the democratic party. Actually, he would probably have been able to understand that. It is this “hanging out at a train station with no specific purpose by myself” that caught him off guard I suspect.
“You know. They have a Starbucks here,” I added with an emphasis, “The ONLY Starbucks in town.”
“Surely there is a Starbucks closer to our houses, no?” He insisted, unconsciously attempting to steer me away from the train station perhaps.
After I rattled off the alternative locations, he concurred that this is indeed the closest Starbucks we’ve got.
“But…” He still could not let it go, “The train station?”
“Well, you see, when the train leaves, there will be nobody here. It is quiet and very nice. The Starbucks is here. And there is free Wi-Fi.” I could tell that he was not convinced that this was the most logical choice, or a logical choice at all, so I shrugged, “Well, I am strange this way in case you haven’t figured that out after more than 10 years…”
Now it’s his turn to reassure me my normal-ness. “Nah. Nah. You are fine. You are fine.” We both chuckled.
Fortunately the bell started ringing to announce the arrival of the commuter train.
“Have a nice day downtown!”
“Enjoy the train station!” He said, and I thought I detected a tinge of the kind of tone that people use to someone who insists on, say, rummaging through a junk yard. “Have fun at the junk yard even though I cannot for the life of me understand WHY but hey this is a free country so go for it!”
I did. For another hour until I had to pick the kids up. But I could not shake my own puzzlement over how they were so befuddled and possibly, amused.
So my dear Soren Lorensens, do you know, what is so strange about hanging out at a Starbucks inside an empty train station?
(Actually these pictures were taken this past Friday…)
This post should be titled:
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Whenever I manage to get my acts together or am not too embarrassed to backdate my post or decide to overlook my poor photographic skills, I participate in Unknown Mami’s…
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It is obvious I have been having too much fun with this Welcome-to-the-21st-century COOL photo editing website picnik.com. Because they have been acquired by google, I know they will not be doing evil with my photos…
Like on any public transportation, an empty space on the seat next to where you are sitting is highly coveted – this has been proven with money (after all it talks) when airlines started offering “an empty seat next to you as long as it is not a full flight” as one of the benefits for being a super premier member, the elite amongst all the elites (e.g. United Airlines’ 1K members).
I take the commuter train to and fro work every day and have been intrigued by the phenomenon surrounding the “The Empty Seat” (“TES” henceforth) Syndrome; in my perverted easily-amused mind, this is an anthropological subject waiting to happen: talk about cultural and social boundaries and unwritten rules being played out here, much like what one can observe inside an elevator. Only, on the train, I have an entire hour to watch the dance between two strangers forced to sit side by side for an extended period of time, sometimes, egads, with arms and/or legs touching!
It is curious even though there is no rule on this, it does seem that people always sit by the window if they are the first to occupy a seat. This is after all good civil etiquette. However, immediately following Rule #1, Rule #2 commands, “Unless there is NO MORE empty seat on this train cart, do NOT come sit by me! Consider TES next to me only as a last resort!” Whoever breaks Rule #2 is immediately looked upon with suspicion and even alarm.
TES is subtly guarded with vehemence – just look at the purse, the briefcase, the newspaper, the magazine, the book, the shopping bag, and the McDonald’s paper bag placed on where there another person could have been sitting. This gesture murmurs loudly, “Yes, you are of course welcome to sit here, but I’d prefer if you don’t!” Some people seem to have taken TES as their god-given right: instead of the subtle act of leaving object on TES, they simply plot themselves down PAST the invisible dividing line on the two-person seat. Men tend to do this a lot, and oftentimes I am tempted to ask whether they are ready to have the conductor punch two holes on their tickets. (And I am more than ready to punch two holes on somewhere else other than their tickets… I am passionate about things that don’t matter like this…)
The most intriguing is the act of “choosing a seat” on a train that no longer has any TES left. Every single chair is occupied, with someone sitting by the window. And here you can tell roughly what kind of person each one of us is:
Health warning: Since we are NOT in B-school and I don’t work for any of the management consulting firms, the following attempt at metaphorically grouping passengers on MY train is by no means MECE. Anybody that complains, “But it’s not MECE!” will die a horrible death…
The forever conscientious: these people, mostly women (and not young), move their belongings onto their lap as soon as they see new passengers coming. But very seldom do I see people ready to 1. move their bag all the way to the floor, 2. move themselves closer to the window so as to make more space. “Please, please, please. I want to do the right thing but please don’t pick me…”
The “I have done my share so what do you want from me”: these people will continue to do whatever they are doing. They have kept their belongs relatively close to themselves so there is still reasonable space for a relatively normal-sized person to sit in TES. Maybe they really are so engrossed in the book or the scenery outside. They will simply ignore you, and not budge while you sit down.
The “Yeah I see you but I am not happy about moving my stuff”: maybe they are simply pretending that they don’t see you coming. You need to actually ask these people, “eh, excuse me…” The nicer ones would quickly move their stuff, some even apologetically. The not so nice ones will furrow their brows as if you are asking them to give you their first born. When you sit down, you are made to feel ashamed for encroaching on their carefully constructed personal space.
The “I am sitting here and you’d better not try and squeeze in beside me”: These are the aforementioned (mostly male) passengers. Their body takes up so much space, mind you, not because they are overweight, but because they do not make the attempt to “be one with the window”. They leave so little space that only a waif could possible sit by them – perhaps that is the intention… I am not sure. Though I often, as I mentioned above, wanted to confront them, I have never actually tried to sit down, afraid that they may turn out to be truly jerk-offs – They may NOT budge an inch, and I will have to suffer either the shame of getting up from a seat and moving to another seat (a questionable act on the train unless you have an excuse that EVERYBODY else could see and could easily understand…) or the agony of being squeezed into a space fit only for a waif, for an entire hour!
Tomorrow, I will blog about the agonizing thought process of when I choose a seat on the train back: So many choices, so little time…
Who says that size does not matter? When I first started following Rainn Wilson (of The Office Dwight the Beet Farmer & B&B Operator fame) on Twitter, he only had a meagerly 60,000+ followers. And that was like, last week. Here is a Tweet that he just sent out, in celebration of the 100K threshold which his Twitter account just crossed.
A job well done. Now he is in the big league, playing with the big players, the likes of Mr. and Mrs. Kutcher.
Mr. Wilson actually often has witty and wise things to part with his followers. Like a prophet to his disciples. Well, most of the popular Tweeple have taken on that quality. And I am looking forward to the day when Mr. Wilson’s followers reach 200,000 plus. Then I think he will start growing horns with all that power going to his head…