Walking the Windy City - Part 8

This week marks the second-to-last installment about my one-day trip to Chicago; if you want to read the previous seven entries, click here!  [1][2][3][4][5][6][7]

Part 8

Today had already surpassed every expectation I’d had for a successful walk: lots of great pictures, an invigorating physical journey, and plenty of interesting and unique experiences.  Now, though, it was time for the crème de la crème: Chicago O’Hare International Airport.  It might seem silly to look forward to an extended stint at an airport, but I want to share why airports can be secretly awesome parts of any trip you take.

Airports are, in no small terms, doorways to the world.  Never in human history have we been able to say that we can travel from one side of a country to the other later in the same day.  In fact, we can be in any part of the world in twenty-four hours.  The places that take us there are airports, huge museums dedicated to this amazing scientific, economic, and engineering accomplishment.

Every airport in the world has just a short window of time to impress you while you’re there; you can see all kinds of people doing all kinds of things in all sorts of places at all different times in their lives.  Airports offer an opportunity to see other people in their most momentous times.  These people are off to make big sales, big memories, or big changes.  You get the chance to see that, see the miracle of flight, and everything that the world offers all for the price of a plane ticket.

Can’t wait, right?  Thought so!  While planning this trip, I made detailed plans to make sure I could see all of O’Hare, and after trying to hammer out the logistics of transit and flight times, one thing quickly became clear.

O’Hare is really big.

O’Hare has continuously ranked among the largest and busiest airports in the world, claiming the top spot during the 1990s, and it currently has more takeoffs and landings than any other airport on Earth.  With a whopping eight runways, you’re looking at a takeoff or landing every thirty-five seconds.  Over the past twelve hours, I’d seen a small airport, my own in Louisville, and a medium airport when I flew into Midway.  O’Hare, however, was a whole different animal; instead of the typical one or two concourses to explore, Chicago O’Hare has nine. 

Whenever I’m going to any large airport, particularly one I hadn’t been to before, I like to allow a minimum three hours to explore it, and in order for me to do that here, when my city walk was already so ambitious, I had to carefully and minutely orchestrate the entire trip to allow enough time to see everything both within the city and within each airport.  Midway was a breeze at thirty minutes, but even that was plotted out to the minute, and I still missed a little bit.  A lot of things had to go right, but here I was, walking up the escalator at four o’clock sharp, the exact moment I was supposed to arrive.  My flight departs at 7:15, and I’ve got to be there at least fifteen minutes before that to get on.  I was flying back on American this time, so I wouldn’t need to be there early enough to ensure a good seat. 

With nine concourses and only three hours to see it all, I was on the clock. 

Let’s plot it out.

O’Hare’s nine concourses are sorted into four large terminals, and both the terminal and concourse sequencing is suspect at best.  Terminals 1, 2, and 3 mark the left, bottom, and right part of that hexagonal semi-circle, respectively.  Terminal 5, which apparently ate Terminal 4 during a land dispute, is the stand-alone terminal at the top right of the picture.  The thick gray block marks a parking garage, and the thicker gray band representes the large landside terminal building.  The thin gray band marks the airport’s people mover, strangely on the landside of things as well.  This was my first stop, as Terminal 5 would be where I’d start my last walk.

Terminal 5 is O’Hare’s international terminal or, rather, it’s where international carriers fly into, and that distinction will come up later.  It’s completely separated from the rest of the airport, so I figured I’d start at the outskirts and work my way in. 

The fact that it’s separated provides a challenge.  Before 9/11, you could go all the way to the gate without a boarding pass; if you weren’t flying, you could go through security and wander back to the gate to see your loved one disembark.  I remember doing this countless times when Mom would fly home.  You can’t do that anymore, and because the international terminal is separated, I would likely need an international airline’s boarding pass to actually explore that terminal to any length.  “Likely” being the operative word.  I’d brought my money belt, which contained my passport, wondering if I presented it to a TSA agent with a valid boarding pass, even a non-international one, I could get into the terminal long enough to walk it.  Then I’d head back to the main airport and clear security again.  Well, that was the plan.

I rode the people mover from Terminals 1, then 2, then 3.  Then there was a long expanse as it wiggled above the track to the next one.  A family was riding in the same car as me; a mother, a father, two daughters and a teenage son off somewhere fun, I’m sure. 

We got to the large, new terminal and disembarked.  I walked into the landside terminal and tried to get my bearings.

Plain, but big.  The flags, potentially of all the nations represented by their national carriers, flew on the walls behind hundreds of passengers in line to check their bags.  There were many more counters than there were flights today, but the big destinations today seemed to be Dublin on Aer Lingus and, as you see here, Dubai on Emirates.  If you’ve never flown Emirates, you’ve gotta do it.  Took a flight onboard one of their 777s last year from Colombo, Sri Lanka to Dubai and it was the nicest flight in coach I think I’ve ever had.  Dubai is another behemoth of an airport, but when I was there, I only saw a small piece of one part of it.  Maybe one day I’ll get back there and walk the whole thing, too. 

The Dublin flight’s passenger had a younger median age.  Lots of kids flying to visit, and even a few flying home, as revealed by the lilt of their Irish brogue.  Never been to Ireland but, as with most places, I’d love to go someday.

I went to the middle of the terminal and peered towards the security line where two no-nonsense guards stood.  Suddenly, standing here with my passport pressed up against my stomach next to an incompatible boarding pass, I chickened out.  Eh, it’d be OK.  I had lots of O’Hare to see.

I made my way back to the people mover, which’d take me back to terminal 1, where I’d continue my walk.  Best guess put my flight in Terminal 3, so I’d slowly wiggle my way there from the first terminal.

I looked at the provided terminal map on the people mover, clutching a pole as the train started to move.  Uh oh; maybe none of the terminals were connected and I’d be consigned to just one for the entire two hours and forty minutes I had left.  Oh boy, I hope not.  I got a sinking feeling in my stomach; had I made a critical error? 

I turned to an airport employee and asked if the terminals were connected airside.

“Which airline you flyin’?”

“Well, American, but I like to –“

“American is terminal three, you’ll get off right here.”  She gestured with her hand as the train braked, and I followed her off.  Didn’t really matter where I went through security if the terminals were connected, right?

At this point, I had to assume that they were.  The biggest airport in the world wouldn’t make you clear security just to change airlines, would they?

…Would they?

I jumped in line, stowed my camera, and went through security.  They caught something on the body scanner, but it turned out to be my money belt, which held my idle passport and some extra cash.  I got scolded for forgetting to take it off.

I slid my sneakers back onto my sore feet and put in my headphones, hoping I would round the corner and find a path that would lead to Terminal 1, where I’d planned to start my walk.

Thank goodness, I get to walk after all!  Said no one else ever.

First things first; I was thirsty, and with another two-ish hour walk ahead of me, I’d need a beverage.  Looks like it’d be a three-dollar blue Powerade at one of the newsstand outlets.  I guzzled that down and started making my way to the first terminal.

Unlike somewhere like Atlanta where most of the terminals look the same, O’Hare’s terminals and concourses all look a bit different, being built at different times for different purposes.  I entered a hallway and emerged in this rotunda.  Down the hall behind me lay a concourse I’d get to eventually, but for now, I had to keep walking to my start point.

Another small hallway and this great long terminal stretched before me.  The map did not prepare me for this kind of distance.  This square building had huge windows on the left for watching planes across the expansive airfield.  With as frequent as delays seemed to be, that might afford an unwilling passenger a bit of respite.

Ehh, I guess I can take a look.

As indicated by the liveries and variety of planes present, O’Hare is the primary hub for United Airlines.  I’ve flown on United maybe twice in my life, always preferring American, Delta, or Southwest.  Before it merged with Continental, I flew them on occasion, including across the pond to the UK once. 

This wasn’t our stop at the moment, though.  One more terminal to hop, skip, and jump to.

A hooked hallway led us in a roundabout way to the first terminal.  The corridor was lined with artistic renditions of Chicago, some by professional artists and some by the city’s youth.  At the end of the corridor, our path chicaned by an exit to baggage claim and a security lane.  I walked under a sign pointing to B and C gates and I was in my first stop.

Yep, B was my first concourse.  Where is Concourse A, you might ask?  If I had my guess, it was probably torn down to make way for the current terminal, and the subsequent concourses B and C followed that same ordinal sequence. 

Concourse B was buzzing with people.  As a dedicated United terminal, this made a lot of sense.  O’Hare is known for its tight connections, and I bet most people here were trying to make those connections.  Airports catch people in a variety of states: some are running headlong down the terminal to make a connection that was much slimmer than they anticipated, and others are casually relaxing, waiting in line for a latté or reclining at their gate, covering several chairs.  Unlike at, say, a sports game, everyone’s not going the same place at the same speed, so you see this dichotomy in a way most other forms of transport don’t allow.

Concourse B is a straight rod of a concourse, so I walked to one end to start my walk past every gate in the airport.

The combination of perforated metal supports and glass panes made this concourse feel like a futuristic, but somehow still oppressive warehouse.  The dome shapes at each end made it all the more fantastical.

I wasn’t more than five gates into my walk that I really realized how fiercely my feet hurt.  I was unconsciously favoring my left leg with nearly every step and my calves ached.  Still, I wasn’t going to be here again any time soon, most likely, so I really wanted to push through it.

This gaggle of Germans and Americans was headed off to Frankfurt.  It was about five, meaning they’d take off around six, putting them in Germany shortly after sunrise.  Redeyes are always nice because you basically just get a rough night’s sleep and you wake up in another country.  Flying west long-distance is much weirder.  On a flight to Tokyo last year, I flew out from Atlanta at around 2:00 PM and landed around 4:00 PM the next day, roughly following the sun the whole time.  Flying east is easy.

Concourse B was over in ten minutes, so at that pace, I’d be able to keep up with my schedule.  To get to Concourse C, I had to go underground.

Concourse C was separated from the rest of the terminal by an underground walkway.  They didn’t want the transit to be boring, though; a stretch of oscillating neon lights coursed above the moving walkways.  Instead of walking on them, I stood, giving my knees and feet a break.  I removed my headphones and listened to the reverberation of sound repeating off the mirror-like walls.  At the other side, an escalator lifted passengers to the middle of Concourse C.

Concourse C was like a mirrored version of Concourse B, with gates on both sides, wider walkways and a larger glass ceiling.  Like before, I hooked a left and made my way to the end.  The concourse was lined with food outlets and gates; nothing particularly unique about them, really, but the ceiling was pretty to look at.  It was such a clear day out, I felt like I was seeing O’Hare at its best.  Without much pause, I made my way to the southern end of the concourse, where I found myself in a stuffy, cramped seating area that served the five or six gates the capped the concourse. 

I sat, slinging my camera bag out front onto my lap.  I sat listening for a moment as a United clerk called out for someone that was about to miss their flight to Munich, first in English, then in German.  Once I felt I couldn’t dally anymore, I stood back up and marched towards the north end. 

Pretty sure this was a B777, and it was also making its way to a German city later that evening, Dusseldorf as I recall.  B777s have some of the longest ranges of any two-engine plane, but for a widebody, they’re still smaller than a 747, an A340 or the mammoth A380.  These things can fly a long way, though; longest flight I’ve ever been on was a 777.  Was in the air for fourteen hours.

At C11, a flight was getting ready to depart for Charles de Gaulle, Paris’s main airport.  I lingered for the moment as the clerks made sure the passengers were correctly lined up to board the plane.  I listened to see if I heard any French and, moreover, if I could understand any that I heard.  I was a French minor in undergrad, and I like to see if I can still remember any of it when I get the chance.  After straining to hear over the commotion for a few minutes, I didn’t here a bit of français, so I returned to my walk.  I rounded the quiet northern corner, with large planes stationed at their gates without an indication of their destination and wheeled around.

Two concourses down.  While riding the walkway back to Concourse B, I checked FlightAware on my phone (which had five bars despite being thirty feet underground thanks to the replete cellphone mini-towers stashed around the airport, no doubt.)  It appears that my flight was indeed slated to take off from Concourse L on the other side of the airport, so my strategy was good so far.

Back to Terminal 2.

In case you’re not like the rest of the world that has a cellphone that can tell them every city in the world’s time, you’ve got this!  It still gives that old feeling of air travel, and how jetsetting is still a fun life to imagine.

I turned down the narrow hall of Terminal 2 and walked down it a short ways.

Now, while I don’t really have pictures of Terminal 2, I assure you that you aren’t missing much.  This is the armpit of Chicago; tight corridors, old ceilings and tiles, outdated fixtures and a bizarre layout make it fairly forgettable.  Concourse E (again, skipping D), houses Delta’s flights, while the adjacent Concourse F handles United Express, their regional affiliate that would fly you, say, to Louisville. 

The terminal was shaped like a Y, with each concourse branching off about halfway down with a common food area at the junction.  Behind the food area, an empty hallway connected the two concourses, I guess for those unusual times where someone’s connecting from a flight from Grand Rapids via United to a Delta flight to Atlanta.  I measured it, and it saves you about a hundred steps.

While the concourse was unexciting, some nifty planes sat just outside the dark windows.

No chance I’d seen any of these bad boys at home, so I gotta get my fill now.

Terminal 3 was all that was left, but it still represented four more concourses.  My feet were back to hurting, but I had to finish.

I made my way out of the drab second terminal, hooked a right and proceeded back along the hub corridor. 

Before walking into the third terminal, I spotted the control tower reaching up overhead.

I came to the entrance to Concourse G and turned right.  There was a circular food hub, and the concourse itself jutted out from there.

This was the first truly quiet terminal I’d found.  The tall ceilings and low traffic levels let me hear my music, and it felt potentially the most airport-like of the concourses.  It felt more open and inviting than any of the others, too.  This one was a pleasure to traverse.

I stopped about halfway down at a newsstand outlet and decided to get a souvenir for my wife: a mug with a vague, artsy likeness of the Chicago skyline painted on.  It could be a sipping mug or a mug for paint, brushes, or makeup.  She’s always got a use for little cups.  The cashier tightly wrapped it in brown paper, wrapped another plastic bag around it and handed it to me.  I slipped it into my camera case where my camera usually sat.

Concourse G was mostly small American flights, much like the United Express concourse I just left.  Today, though, only a handful of flights were arriving or departing from this concourse.  Most people were off to the side in their seating areas, quietly reading or talking with a neighbor.  It was nice.

Three more…

Back to the rotunda I’d walked through over an hour ago and right into the heart of Terminal 3.

This – this is what I picture when I think of O’Hare.  If you think about a movie shot in O’Hare, chances are this is the shot they’ll use.  In my mind, this is a generic American airport.  It was funny to see it in person again, as this is the only concourse I recall from the only visit to O’Hare I remember. 

Cutting through a busy crowd again, I found Concourse H.

Concourse H was dark, overhung by slowly changing colored ceiling lights.  It was pretty cramped, too, but not unpleasant.  My foot pain had abated, perhaps on the prospect of almost being finished, but I’ll take it.

Looks like the fellow on the backpack was late for something.  He galloped past me and everyone else trying to be the last person on his flight, most likely.

Old American Airlines planes look so old compared to their new livery, the fresh, hip looking design you see on the A319 on the left.  And look!  You can see the city from here, right in the center of the photo.  We’re about fifteen miles from downtown here, but on a clear day, you can just make out the skyline’s most prominent players.

At the end of the concourse, I wheeled around in a small, open rotunda with several gates adjacent to it, and I made my way for the connector hallway that joined Concourses H and K.

This was a much brighter and friendlier version of what I saw between D and E.  At the end of the corridor, I hooked a left to traverse my second-to-last concourse.

This concourse was built much like H, with the dim, colored tiles across the ceiling.  This was also an American Airlines concourse, so destinations included their own hubs: Dallas/Fort Worth, Charlotte, and Miami were all accounted for. 

Behind this 737, an unknown, large jet sat across the taxiway near the final concourse, L, where I’d be shortly.  Hopefully it’d still be there shortly so I could see where that bird was flying.

The end of this concourse also sported a rotunda and, tagging a pillar beside the open space, I turned around and returned to the junction.

Back through the generic Chicago establishing shot, a quick right, and down to Concourse L.  I walked past the security line I’d passed through earlier that afternoon and with about fifteen minutes before boarding, I hooked one last right to enter the concourse.

This concourse had a unique combination of stylings, but the chromed metal was likely intended to match the old American Eagle livery, which flaunted the shiny aluminum exterior of their planes.  Instead of regular gates, this concourse had subgates, where there’d be little alcoves and a couple gates in each alcove.  I followed the straight concourse down to the end, where I’d seen the massive plan from the other side.

Oh, Iberia!  The plane was mainly off to Spain. 

The plane’s captain was prepping his flight paperwork, it looked like; with such a large plane and the fact that it sat so high, I was pretty much at eye level with him. 

Terminal 5 was within sight again; from here, you could see all the international flights lined up to go.  The green one was Aer Lingus, potentially the same flight I saw others preparing for when I was still landside.  The white cross is Swiss International, likely flying to Zurich, and the red tail with a circle in the middle of the frame is Turkish Air, almost certainly on its way to Istanbul, a ten-hour flight.

Unlike the other concourses, this one was stunted, with just eleven gates along its length.  With a few minutes remaining, I tarried at L10 as the Madrid passengers boarded, letting the last one get on before proceeding four gates to my own, L6B.

There’s my city!  They hadn’t started boarding yet and wouldn’t for at least twelve minutes.  With my phone indicating a low battery again, I unplugged and stowed my headphones, retrieved my charger, and found an isolated seat at deserted L5. 

My feet still hurt, but the pain had moved up past my calves to my lower thighs.  I guess that the longer you walk, the more the rest of your body unconsciously carries as you shift weight off the exhausted parts.  It was a good burn, and having accomplished my walk successfully, I didn’t even mind the mile or so walk I’d have when I got home.  My Jawbone step tracker, which had ridden my wrist through the whole journey, had likely stored quite a few steps.  I was guessing around 50,000 steps but I was hoping for sixty.  I was tempted to plug it in now, but my phone was charging, so I took the opportunity to just close my eyes and process the day’s walk, listening to the ambient machinations of the airport.

About ten till seven, the desk clerk at L6 made the boarding call for American flight 4309 with service to Louisville.  I slid my phone into my pocket, now just floating above 30%, and made my way to the gate.  I presented my folded ticket with a smile and passed onto the jetway as my camera bag bouncing against my hip.

I’d done it!  I’d made the walk and gotten everything in that I wanted.  What a day!

Now the only step was to get home and get some sleep.  Oh, and count those steps…

The flight home and the return drive, along with a summary, will come to follow next week.  Until then, keep going!

- Matt

Walking the Windy City - Part 7

Six posts have already gone up, so click these links to view them! [1][2][3][4][5][6]

Part 7

Having a full belly is a blessing and a curse.  Most people, I’d argue, like to be somewhere between ravenous and stuffed, and I’m among them.  I was a bit closer to stuffed, but I still had a couple miles to walk off that full feeling.  Back to the street.

Lincoln Park was still pretty quiet.  Being inside a climate-controlled place, even for the fifteen minutes it took me to dominate my sandwich, made stepping outside into the mid-40s refreshing and bracing.  I wasn’t sure where I was in relation to Wrigley Field, as I’d planned to take Clark all the way till it intersected with Addison.  What I did know was that if I turned right, Lincoln would get me close, though how close was something I’d just need to find out.

As is the case these days, local groceries struggle with their big box competitors on everything from price and location to selection and distribution rights.  Lincoln Foods couldn’t keep up this complex equation, and it’s always sad to see places like these go under.  It is cute that they call carbonated beverages “pop,” which is generally assigned to Midwesterners and some northerners.  I call it “soda,” but lots of people in the south, and especially in Kentucky, call any form of soda “coke.”  So, they might ask, “what kind of coke do you all have?”  They’re not asking diet or regular, they’re wondering if you have some of that green coke called Mountain Dew.  Everyone’s got their own name, and I think it’s funny that these localizations still exist.

Sad about that grocery, though.

Assuming this was 106 years old, this building is in really good shape.  It didn’t appear to be a novelty company anymore; now it just looked like a warehouse, but I wonder what they used to make.  Novelties is pretty vague; it could have been anything from toys to tourist gifts to knick-knacks now consigned to antique stores and garage sales. 

With every block, things got newer and busier.  About a quarter mile from the sandwich shop, I passed DePaul University, another Chicago-based institution.  I remember seeing DePaul in my last visit to Chicago and for some reason, it stood out.  For years after that, I heard about people going to DePauw University, and I assumed they were saying the same thing, as the “L” isn’t well enunciated.  It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I discovered they were two different universities, the latter being about an hour west of Indianapolis. 

Another quarter mile passed, and I went under the L.  In my planning, I’d considered taking the L back to town before heading out to the airport, but I decided against it, instead voting for a bus that took me directly to the correct line to head to O’Hare.  However, the Red Line runs north-south and stops right near Wrigley Field.  Thus, I hooked the first right after walking under the currently still track onto Sheffield Avenue, planning to follow the Red Line to Wrigley Field.

This was a nice part of town, as its newer buildings and retail outlets indicated. Fancy furnishings, real estate offices, and trendy eateries all point to a neighborhood on the up and up. 

A dog park!  Just as relaxing for their owners as them, dog parks are becoming pretty popular around the country.  One of my favorite parks in Louisville, the Parklands, recently added a small, canine-friendly section appropriately named the Barklands.  Admittedly, I figure that right next to the track, the trains roaring by would spook the dogs, but after so long they might just be used to it.

If you haven’t seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, you really should.  It’s a fun romantic comedy, and conveniently for today, it was shot and set in Chicago.  Having been here again, it’s easy to see the environs that appear throughout the movie are distinctly Chicagoan.  When we came fifteen years ago, there were still strong ethnically Greek communities throughout the city.  One we visited even had a Walgreens with a Greek-language sign!  There must be a significant Greek population here, too, as indicated by this newer-looking church.

I felt like I was getting closer.  Things started to look more like the area directly around Wrigley, and more restaurants were popping up.  More signs of life, more trash on the sidewalk, and more mailbox graffiti.

The area was nice enough that this vandalized mailbox looked strikingly out of place.  The fact that it hasn’t been replaced elicits a certain endearment.  I dunno; Chicago and particularly Cubs fans are superstitious, so I wouldn’t put it past them to mark this mailbox or touch this mailbox as they walk to the game.  Maybe Sammy Sosa dropped a line to his mom from this mailbox?

I crossed Wellington Avenue and peeked east towards the Red Line.  A northbound train screeched to a halt, made its exchange of passengers, and roared back up again and rolled down the line.  Chicago’s transit system is kind of unique; normally you don’t get to see this when it comes to a city’s subway or any rapid transit, but as the L is often suspended above grade, you get to see the blood vessels of the city do their work.

This little bar on the corner of Sheffield and Barry Avenues has been there for at least six years according to Google Maps.  Like most people from my generation, Matilda is more than just a name; it’s a major childhood movie experience.  All I could picture when I saw this was a grown up Mara Wilson walking in to have a couple shots.

Matilda featured something kind of weird.

Twenty-three or older?  But you can drink at 21, right?  In Kentucky, and everywhere else I’ve been, you can go in a bar if you can drink, but maybe Illinois has a different rule about bar drinking as opposed to private drinking.  I suppose any business can do this if they want, or perhaps it’s a liability thing.  Still, never seen that before.

My phone buzzed; it was my wife, and my battery was strong enough that I could safely take the call.  We chatted for a second, and I passed under a another bit of the L which had peeled off from the main line.  I arrived at Clark Street a few minutes later and, down the street, I saw my mark.  I began power walking, my eye on the prize.  I passed by a number of pubs and souvenir stands on both sides of the street, and the roads were coursing with cars, but nothing was going to distract me.

I snapped my first picture and noted the time; I got there at exactly 2:56 PM!  Now I just had to take pictures until the #152 bus arrived to take me to the –

Oh, there it goes.

While waiting to cross Addison Street, the bus pulled up and, with no one at the stop, it crossed Clark Street heading westbound.  My schedule had the bus there at 2:54, so I just missed it.  The next one would come at 3:09, so I’d have about 15 minutes to take pictures of the stadium before my ride showed up.  Well, let’s cross and get to it!

Sixteen miles later, I’d made it!

Unfortunately for me, Wrigley Field was undergoing an unprecedented renovation.  I did know this was going on, but I didn’t know how limiting it’d be.  It’s possible that coming on a gameday, while being much busier, would have let me see more of the stadium.  I walked to the corner of each street, but there wasn’t a great way to get to the other side.  The trademark wall ivy would have been on this side, if I had my directions right, but I couldn’t find much evidence of the overgrown foliage.  My feet were sore, but taking that short break an hour or so ago helped a ton.  Nothing could rob me of this, though, so I just took a moment and relaxed. 

There was an active group of bicycling ladies that I’d intersected with at multiple instances throughout the day.  There were seven of them, and one particularly happy looking one wore a veil underneath her helmet.  What a fun way to hang out with your bridal party!  I’d passed them a couple times, but we’d finally caught up at this destination. 

They were being led by a guide, who offered to take a picture of them in front of Wrigley Field.  They wanted to do the Anchorman jump, i.e. jumping at the moment the picture is taken, much like my own wife did for our own wedding pictures, to which our party obliged.  Even her very pregnant bridesmaid Erin gave a little bunny hop in compliance. 

Pretty close.

With all my pictures taken and the bus set to arrive any minute, I squatted down, popping my knees.  I stood up to stretch my arms and began counting out the $2.25 I’d need for the bus.

“Are you a radio personality?”

I turned to my right and found a man standing next to me, looking at me intently with a big smile on his face.  He was around fifty, with a sharp eye, a heavy coat and thick, mismatched, fingerless gloves.  One gloved hand held a mostly empty McDonalds cup, likely obtained down the street at the Golden Arches I could see past him.

“What?” I asked.

“You look like a radio personality to me.” 

“What makes you say that?”

He took a step back and looked at me.  “You’re here at Wrigley Field!”  He laughed.  I’m not sure how to take this, as he hadn’t heard me speak and people on the radio often look, shall we say, much different than you expect.  My mom did radio for ten years, but I still think that way, and she still has people come up to her and tell her how surprised they were to hear her voice come out of her.  “This is where everyone comes.”

He was probably right.  Though clearly homeless, or financially struggling at least, this man was humorous, lively, and attendant.  I told him I’d walked here from the University in the southern part of the city, and he smiled and clapped.  He asked me for a dollar, and I put a bill in his cup, which he removed and slid in his coat pocket.  I looked down Addison and saw my bus approaching a few blocks down.

“You know, I’m a celebrity, too.”

I crooked an eyebrow.  “Really?”

“You ever go on YouTube?”  I nodded.  “My cousin has a channel on there; try and look me up there.”

The bus rolled to a stop, and I told him I had to get on the bus and we parted.  As I got on the bus, he called after me.  “Look me up on there!  Horace Howard!  Horace…Howard!”  The door closed, I deposited my change and thanked the bus driver. 

I sat about halfway back in the bus.  I checked my phone: 3:12.  Now I just had to get to Addison Blue, a Blue Line station that would take me directly to O’Hare.  It’d be about a 20-minute ride, so I stowed my camera and grabbed my travel notebook, settling in for a long ride. 

There were a large number of high schoolers sitting on the bus behind me, and they were chatting noisily.  In the front row, one high schooler was facing away from them, having a coughing fit into her sleeve.  She and the whole crew got off about ten minutes later.  Out the window, the city sprawled out endlessly.  As we got farther out of town, we saw more chain drugstores, some franchise restaurants, and even a mall.  In front of me, an elderly Hispanic woman and presumably her daughter talked quietly to one another in Spanish.  After another stop, my seat neighbor alighted, so I took the extra seat with my camera case.  I closed my eyes and listened intently for the cross street before my stop: Kimball Avenue. 

It came sooner than I expected, and I stood, slinging my camera case carelessly over my shoulder.  About half the bus was hopping off, and I stepped down with the pack into the chilly afternoon through the side door, stepped up onto the curb and walked to the ticketing machines, which were housed under a small overhang.  Beside these automated dispensers, a turnstile led to the stairs that descended to the platform.

I’d planned to use cash to buy my fare, but the only machines available here involved buying a Ventra card, which is what the CTA uses to store fares.  I heard the rumble of the track beneath me, so I knew a train was just around the corner.  I bought a three-dollar ticket using my credit card, slid through the turnstile and hustled down the stairs right as the northbound train rolled into the station.  I lunged in when the doors opened and grabbed a seat on a moderately populated car.  The doors slid closed and we were off in a hot second.

We were riding alongside a highway, I-94, as the signs would indicate, and we were moving along at the same speed or faster than they were.  One stop at Montrose, then another at Gladstone Park.  I sat across from an ethnically West Asian couple, who were talking lovingly to each other in Arabic.  They each had a suitcase, so I was hoping they were heading off on a fun trip together.  The mystery of a stranger’s trip and their motivation for travel is one of the things that make airports great, but I trust theirs was a happy reason.  I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but it didn’t matter.  They did, and they were pretty cute.

After leaving Rosemont (not to be confused with the earlier Montrose, apparently,) the last stop was a longer journey.  Passengers started to gather their belongings and their young ones, and the couple across from me did the same, slinging their backpacks and purses over their shoulder.  The landscape changed to one of car rental lots and flat, low-lying buildings.  I saw a taxiway before we swooped underground and began to slow down.  I’d been texting my wife, and I watched as my cell phone signal vanished.  The automated announcement asked everyone to disembark, and once we came to a stop, we all emptied onto a central platform, where escalators at the far end would take us up to O’Hare and one of the largest airports I’d ever walked.

Next week, I’ll be walking O’Hare and bringing you along; if you’ve never thought of an airport as a destination, I encourage you to join me next week to see how fun something you might consider mundane can be!

Until then, keep going!

- Matt

Walking the Windy City - Part 6

I’m so glad you’re here!  Though this is the sixth part of a nine-part series, you can access the previous entries by clicking here.  [1][2][3][4][5]

Part 6

Heat generally makes me hungrier than the cold, but putting fifteen miles on your feet will do it, too.

At the end of the Lakeshore Drive tunnel, I hooked a left, climbed a ramp, and emerged back on the frigid beach.

My next major landmark was a couple miles away: Lincoln Park.  While I considered the distance, my stomach roared, my final protein bar having been consumed almost an hour earlier.  My gut couldn’t be tricked anymore, but I wasn’t planning to stop for about two more hours, after reaching my destination, Wrigley Field, six miles away.  I’d just have to hack it, I guess.

The lakeshore walk had picked up; runners and bikers went whizzing by.  I was, so far, about fifteen to twenty minutes ahead of schedule, so I could stand to slow my pace a bit.  Couldn’t stop, but I could slow.  With that, I left the sidewalk and walked to the shoreline about a hundred feet away and walked along the edge. 

Behind me, the towering skyline of Chicago stopped abruptly at Lakeshore Drive, resulting in a surprisingly inorganic boundary for Chicago’s downtown.  Even just a short ways off, this felt like a different place.  You ever play a video game and leave one area or zone that’s a forest and the next one over is a desert but there’s not really any transition?  That’s what it was like.

Thus, I consigned myself to walk the relatively barren shoreline.  I looked out into the lake and saw the same offshore platforms that I’d seen that morning, distant and immobile.  

About the beach itself, I wonder if, despite the fact you’re sitting on concrete, people still come out here during the summer time to be close to the water.  It’s certainly not as natural-looking a beach as what you’d find on the South Side, but I feel like it might still fill up.  Maybe the lake is low and normally this is underwater.  Unlikely, but because I only get a snapshot of any place I visit, I have to extrapolate to get the whole picture.

The walk was pretty boring at the moment until I passed an opportunity for distraction. 

What I assume to be a ladder for climbing out of the lake should you intentionally or unintentionally end up in it, bore long, spindly icicles.  My parent’s house, particularly the eastern facing parts, always had big icicles during the winter.  As a kid, getting the icicles off was just as fun as playing in the often-coincident snow.  You had to get them off in one piece, and the bigger the better.  Once I got them down, a fairly dangerous foray for a nine-year-old that often involved climbing on benches or jumping towards the sharp death drippings, I’d swing them around like a sword.  When I got bored with that one, or a little piece broke off, I’d end my fun by throwing them into the air as hard as I could and watching them fall back to the driveway, shattering with a satisfying crash.  Even today, I still relish the opportunity of finding a particularly juicy icicle, removing it, and smashing it on a sidewalk.  You never really grow up, you know; you just get bigger and you get more responsibilities.

I was on a mini-vacation, and I thought I’d already passed icicle season this year, so I deserved to treat myself.

I picked up an icicle, smashed the end on the ladder, and tossed the base into the lake, where I watched it bob and float for a moment before disappearing.  Pleased with my diversion, I decided to head back up to the sidewalk to make sure I didn’t miss my next mark.

I followed the sidewalk for a bit.  I was walking parallel with another man, perhaps in his 40s, that was down next to the shore like I just was.  We kept the same brisk pace for a few minutes and I glanced at him.  He stopped at a ladder, like I did, but then continued.  Maybe he was looking for an icicle, too, or maybe he saw me do it, and it looked like fun.  I could only hope I was such a trendsetter.  OK, I just gotta let it happen.  Yep, here comes another ladder.  And…

Success!  He took one, too!  Doing the more proper and socially acceptable thing, he simply plucked it off the ladder and held it, much in the same way as the shopping bag he casually swung at his side.  He walked several steps and quickly cast his icicle into the lake without turning his head as if it was some kind of bug that had landed on his hand.  He looked to his left to see if anyone saw him and increased his pace.

My original point about not growing up still stands. 

Honestly, this was the most concentrated residential buildup I’d seen along the shore yet.  This was on the North Side, so these would have been pretty pricey units, but you’d have a heck of a view, and the location was about as convenient as it got. 

About thirty minutes after crossing Michigan Avenue for the last time, it was time to take my final Lakeshore Drive tunnel.

This was longer than the rest, as it went at a bit of a slant as opposed to straight under the road and out the other side.  It felt a bit warmer for once, and I could feel the temperature change the deeper into the tunnel I went.  The sound of a runner came up behind me and I stepped aside, allowing the more ambitious athlete to pass.

It felt like I was in one of those tunnels at a stadium where all the players run out and the crowd cheers wildly.  I was on a visiting team, though, so I wouldn’t get anything like that on the other side. 

When I did pop out the other side, I was nearly at my next mark.  Right near the entrance, though, there was a bike rack with a little electronic kiosk.

Blue Cross Blue Shield of Illinois had sponsored these little bike kiosks, and I’d seen them earlier on in the day at a bit more of a distance.  Basically, you could rent a bike for free and return it thirty minutes later.  Alternatively, you could rent it, drop it off at another depository, and pay a small fee.  I think it was seven dollars to have it for the whole day.  As I considered how nice it would be to be at my destination faster, I weighed the potential benefits and problems of getting one.  Who knows when these things stop?  I didn’t want to be at Wrigley Field, not have a close drop-off point, and then have to go find one in a local park or, heaven forbid, come back to here or nearby to return it.  Moreover, this is Miles by Foot, not Miles by Pedal.  If I’d taken a bike, I’d have been at Wrigley in about an hour and a half, with how flat things are.  No, on foot was better, both for posterity and practicality.

I crossed the street and I was at the southern edge of my second-to-last major mark: Lincoln Park. 

Lincoln Park looked much more like a typical park I might expect to see in a city.  Lots of trees, interspersed walking paths, people out doing park things.  This felt more natural.  My directions didn’t cover Lincoln Park very well, so I decided to wander in the general north-ish direction and wait to find a compatible crossover street to the left. 

Lincoln Park still looked like wintertime; the grass and other plants were in their natural fall or winter state, and I realized I kind of preferred that over the manicured, landscaped parks I’d passed through already.  Moreover, Lincoln Park felt like a place that all the locals come to; not that they don’t go to Grant, Millenium, or either half of the lakeshore, but Lincoln just seemed like a local kind of park. 

Every state between here and home claims Lincoln.  Illinois claims him during his formational political years, Indiana does for being his childhood home (they even put it on their “Welcome to Indiana” signs on the interstate,) and Kentucky claims him as the only president born within our borders, if you don’t count the Confederacy’s president Jefferson Davis.  He’s buried in Springfield, though, and his years in the House of Representatives started here, so Illinois might have a little more meat in their claim than either of us. 

Grant Park was named after Ulysses S. Grant, Lincoln’s preferred general.  Many of the streets in downtown Chicago are named for states; I saw Michigan, of course, but also Ohio and Washington, and several streets bore the name of presidents, including James Polk and William Henry Harrison.  In short, Chicago is, at its core, a very patriotic city.  It really is the all-American City I’d always pictured. 

Although I thought I was done with tunnels, I passed under one more to get to the western edge of the park.

I thought this was funny; the city put a nice sidewalk here for everyone, but despite this, the earth to the right is worn with footsteps, bike tracks, and pawprints.  Either the sidewalk isn’t wide enough, people pass other pedestrians a lot, or, more likely, people tend to do what they want.  It’s almost as if one path was for the rich and the other was for the poor at first glance.

Lincoln Park Zoo, much like Central Park Zoo in New York, is the city’s primary zoo; throughout the day, I’d seen billboards and flyers for the zoo and its impressive animal retinue.  I could see the edge of it, with a large lake filled with waterfowl just south of the boundary.  Something for another time, I’m sure.

I passed high-rise condos and restaurants alongside the street, but I didn’t find a cross-street that I recognized from my directions.  I didn’t want to cut over too early, but I wanted a change of scenery, too.  I’ve found that, the longer a walk goes, the more likely I am to deviate.  After finding one that looked as good as any, I crossed the quiet road to a state-named road, Wisconsin Street.

That’s quite an apparatus!

On top of a building down the street, someone had attached what appear to be trashcans end to end and stretched them from the roof to a dumpster, presumably with holes cut in the bottom of each “can.”  My guess is this facilitates getting rid of construction trash from the roof, but it looked funny, like a black centipede climbing the building. 

I took a right onto Lincoln Avenue.  No idea if this was the correct road, but as long as I kept heading north, I felt comfortable taking it. 

Lincoln Avenue was a central road to the neighborhood, which was quiet, bright, and ostensibly safe.  The stoplights often changed without cars in either place, so crossing the street was easy. 

On Lincoln Avenue, it claimed that a restaurant called Bricks Pizza was seventy-five feet away.  I looked down the street and it was right there, so I didn’t believe it was actually seventy-five feet away.  Luckily for me, I’ve measured my pace before to determine my average gait distance per step.  #walkingnerd.  Conveniently, my natural stride is almost exactly three feet, so I decided to test this very specific claim, and I started counting to see if, indeed, it was twenty-five steps away.

One, two, three, four, five …  twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty…five.  OK, Bricks Pizza, you win.  It put me right at the staircase that descended to the basement-based restaurant.  On second thought, pizza sounded pretty good…nope, power through.

This style of townhouse was common all over Chicago, and I saw several like it near the university several hours earlier; in fact, I consider this style to be native to Chicago in a way.  This looked like a newer iteration of the traditional style, but still handsome nonetheless.  Honestly, you get the best of both worlds when you do that: easy upkeep but you get to keep the classic look.

Lincoln Avenue seemed to be the main drag through this part of town.  There were small shops and large chains alike, but none of them compromised the homey feel of this charming, quiet neighborhood.  Even the CVS, with its older brick façade, didn’t look out of place.

That being said, some establishments did stand out.

This colorful grocery would probably catch the eye of local passerby, but it sure caught mine.  Urban areas, in my mind, are the most important places to have local groceries; they’re a fun, locally-grown alternative to big box stores (I’m not sure what the Chicago equivalent of Kroger is), and they’ll often have a lot of fun, can’t-find-at-Walmart stuff.  Maybe I could get something –

OK; my stomach was to the point of serious pain now.  I hadn’t given it any real food all day, and I was starting to lose my breath even at a quick street crossing.  My tank was empty, and I felt it with every step.  I got one more block and I stopped at a nearby park.  I checked my phone, which sat at a puny 18%; it was ten till two, and I was planning to be at Wrigley Field no later than three o’clock.  I guessed it was probably about forty-five minutes away, a little over two miles, which would, in theory, give me a half-an-hour to eat.  After twenty miles of walking, my feet were sore, my innards were turning, and I couldn’t go any farther without some food.  Sorry, Truck Show; no El Jardin for me.  Now is the time.

Luckily, there was a local sandwich shop right across the street: Snarf’s.  In the interest of time and due to the lack of preparedness for a place to eat, this would be as good as any.

In I walked, and the line was short; the shop was small, but full of local families, college students, and people coming and going with to-go orders filled with delicious smelling sandwiches.  One person was in front of me, but he knew what he wanted.  It turned out to not be enough time to look at the menu.  I stepped forward, and the guy at the counter prompted me for my order.

Juan, I believe he said his name was, had tons of energy and was pumped up about the day.  I tried to absorb the cavalcade of options on the board behind him to determine not only what I wanted, but what would be good fuel for the walk I’d done so far and for the miles I had left, both to Wrigley Field and at O’Hare afterwards.

I decided to ask Juan for his opinion, and without hesitation, he recommended the Philly Cheesesteak.  It’s like he knew me; a good Philly is, like, my favorite sandwich.  I agreed, choosing the tamer 7” size over a footlong.  This isn’t Subway; I trusted they would actually give you your money’s worth here.  Juan saw my camera, asked me for a picture with him and one of the line cooks, and I told him about Miles by Foot.  I promised to get a picture of them up, so I just had to hope the place was tasty enough to warrant a good report.

I placed my order, used the facilities, and grabbed a seat near –

An outlet!  Oh joy!

My bleeding phone was saved!  I jammed it in, heard the chime indicating a charge, and a wave of relief spread over me.  Instead of fiddling with it, I took a moment to relax, putting my mind at ease.  I heard them call my order a couple minutes later, and I went over to retrieve it.  I returned to my ailing phone and opened up my sandwich.

Generally, the messier the sandwich, the tastier it is.

I have to be honest, I don’t really remember much from the moment I took the first bite till the time I crumpled up the empty wrapper.  The bread was crisp, toasty, and flavorful, and the steak was perfectly seasoned; there was just the right amount of moistness, but despite the grilled onions, mushrooms, and peppers, it wasn’t the least bit soggy, a common ailment for Phillies.   The toppings were exceptionally flavored, crisp, and fresh.  The amount of cheese was just right, too.  Even as I write about it now, my mouth is watering.  It was nothing short of a gourmet Philly for a great price, just under ten bucks.  About five minutes after I began, the deed was done.  My stomach grumbled, and I worried I’d eaten it too fast, but after grabbing my phone, now at a much healthier 56%, I walked off that overstuffed feeling, thanked the guys for the great job, and walked back out to finish what I started.

This was the first time during any Miles by Foot walk where I felt like I’d given up, but I had to reassure myself I hadn’t.  I’d already put down more miles in a day than I had in any Miles by Foot walk before, and there was still a long way to go; the walk isn’t supposed to be torture, it’s supposed to be fulfilling.  Sometimes, there’s just other parts of me I need to be filling.

With a belly full of meat, bread, and veggies and a short part of the walk left, I knew I could do it!  I couldn’t wait to cross the finish line!

Join me next week for the final leg of the main walk.  Until then, keep going!

- Matt