Walking the Windy City - Part 3

This is the third part of a nine-part series.  Click here for the first two.  [1] [2]

The bus rolled away down 61^st Street, and the morning grew quiet.  Here was the beginning of the day’s walk, with sixteen miles of adventure ahead.  As I looked up at the street sign, I heard a starter’s pistol go off in my head.

The wind was silent, too, rustling the back of my thin hoodie with its icy breath.  I exhaled, and a cloud of warm vapor mingled with the crisp air.  Time to go!

Directly across the street, a modern, blockish building was painted a bright gray by the morning.  From the outside, I’d say it’s upper class student housing, but I was admittedly going into this portion of the walk a little blind. 

My original plan had been to start from the Museum of Science and Industry, a Chicagoan landmark, about three miles east of here, near the lakeshore.  However, due to the potential for a lack of variety in scenery, I decided to head inland a bit.  The college features several architecturally significant buildings, but its main library, the Regenstein Library, provided a nifty architectural centerpiece, with its post-brutalist concrete design.  A couple months ago, a fellow photographer had featured it on their blog, and I knew I was going to Chicago by then, so this felt like the right choice.

The University of Louisville, where I’m currently in the last weeks of my business graduate degree, is a treasure trove of dated, brutalist structures with harsh angles and textures and innovative placement of architectural design elements.  Based on the modernity of this first building, though, it might be the exception.  I leisurely crossed the first intersection and turned north.

About halfway down the block, my stomach roared.  Truly roared.  I had rationed three protein bars for the walk, and it sounds like it was time for the first one.  I got an assortment of them; one was a particularly high protein-count bar, one was an all-natural bar, and the other was a normal, have-every-morning bar.  I decided to eat the big one first, and it was right tasty and surprisingly filling for basically being an unsweetened Three Musketeers for meatheads.  I stowed the wrapper and came to the center court  of the first building and its neighbor.

This trendy compilation of chain fast food and casual dining outlets was designed to serve the most well-placed students.  The fact that it was so quiet at 9:00 in the morning means two things: it’s a commuter school or it’s a Saturday morning and they are college students who wouldn’t get out of bed that early if the place was burning down.  No judgment: I did the same thing, too.

At the end of the block, the Midway Plaisance spread out; the Plaisance, probably from the French word plaisir, meaning to make happy or please, was an expanse of grassy fields and bushes.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a park, as there were still significant roads that cut through the paths every hundred feet or so.  I skipped across 60^th and took a right.

No one said March was going to be the prettiest time of year to come; it’d probably be several weeks still until the grass would grow and the trees would bloom, especially if the below-freezing temperatures I was feeling now lingered for any amount of time.  I crisscrossed through the official and unofficial paths wrought in the dirt, and found my way back over to 60^th Street, mainly for the architecture it featured.

This glass-walled facility, veiled behind an iron fence, was particularly unusual.  I love wall windows like that, so I’m sure it was quite a view from up there.  Goodness knows there were probably some law students up and about at this hour, reading through case history, texting their BFFs, and looking oddly out at the hooded guy leaning through the fence gaps to get a good shot.

A lawn care worker nearby was walking to his truck; he looked like he’d been working for hours, but he greeted me warmly all the same.

I was already off my prescribed path, but I knew that’d happen.  As long as I found the street I needed on the north side of the campus, we’d be fine.  I took Woodlawn north across the Plaisance, and I heard music to my left.  What looked an outdoor swimming pool, clearly in disuse, had speakers blaring some Motown hits.  I heard a Temptations number ring out and, in transit, it changed to an old Police song.  Once on the other side, I could get a closer look at the huge cathedral that had been visible the moment I cleared the first corner.

It had a manufactured newness to it, similar to the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., if you’ve ever been there.  A bit of investigation turned up that it was younger than my grandfather: 1928 was the year on it.  I’d wager there was a revival in this style at that time, as there are several Louisville buildings that have this grand, gothic style like cathedrals of Europe.  One particular example is one of our most impressive old churches, but it does admittedly look a bit out of place across the street from an equally famous greasy spoon, Dizzy Whizz. 

A bit farther up the road, though, I got a real treat.

This handsome and contemporary façade contains the Booth School of Business, one of the best business schools in the country.  U of L, my soon-to-be alma mater, is up there, too, but Booth is an undisputed heavyweight.  Most people know where the Booth School is without tying it to the parent university. 

Either way, the building in which the school is housed is quite dashing, maintaining the fresh, contemporary look of the rest of the campus.  I wish I had a minute to walk through and size up my competition, but we’ve got to keep moving.  At the end of the road, I took a left towards the main quad, where’d I’d turn right and find the library across campus.

On the way, I passed another handsome, well-kept institute; this is the economics wing of the school, and that campanile is enormous!  I’m not sure why an economics building needs a bell tower, but that didn’t slow U of C down.  The tower is not solid; each of its four sides are mostly unwalled, providing a neat effect as you look up from the ground, looking through the tower’s bones to the other side.  I’d walked about a mile, so it wouldn’t be chiming for a while. 

The quadrangle was, like the rest of the school, impeccable.  New and old buildings lined the grassy square, and each sidewalk had permanent and temporary barriers preventing cars from going up onto the quad.

As was the rest of the university, a variety of colliding architectures mashed shoulder to shoulder along the edge of the common area.  There were a couple students out here reading, even despite the chilly temperatures.  I turned right at the circle in the middle and followed the wide path north again.

I didn’t really feel like I was an institute of learning; I felt like I was in some rich guy’s estate, an interloper wandering about looking for a spot of food or warmth.  Under the stone arches I went to the older buildings of the campus and, soon, to the library that drew me here in the first place.

This looked positively Elizabethan; I think it was probably the covered walkway, but I could just about here the lute and lyre strumming away as period actors walked along its length.  Dried ivy tendrils crawled up the sides and along the base of the building, hinting that soon each building would be delightfully overgrown.

Through the Hull Gate ahead, and there we are!

In stark contrast to the century old stylings I just saw, the brutalist Regenstein Library was a severe behemoth. 

It was tall and very wide.  I couldn’t fit it all in the shot, even at a distance.  The library was older than I thought; built in the late sixties, its smooth appearance is owed to the limestone that comprises it.  That’s right, it wasn’t concrete after all; it was made as the same stuff as the Great Pyramids (after a fashion.)  It had that look all the same, though, and even now, you probably could have fooled me.

The lobby, visible from the courtyard, enticed me inside, but I couldn’t spare too long.  Moreover, I frankly felt underdressed.  Maybe it would just be for students, anyway. Regardless, looking west, I saw something I hadn’t expected, and I decided to make time for it.

This earthbound spaceship was another library, distinct from its neighbor.  It was much smaller than the Regenstein, too; perhaps 20 feet off the ground at its apex, and as I walked around its elliptical shape, I’d say it was maybe 200 feet on its longest side.  It really did look like a spaceship, and I was tempted to approach the edge to peer inside.  The kid in me wanted to climb the outside like a sand dune, but there plenty of signs to dissuade me and drunken college kids from doing so. 

As I walked around its periphery, I realized that it looked familiar.  I glanced in, seeing stacks of books and an array of meticulously organized chairs, tables, and workstations.  Have I seen this before? 

You know, the book series (and, inevitably, the movie series) was set and shot in Chicago.  There was one particular scene in the movie where the Erudite faction (the smarty pants of post-apocalyptic Chi-town) are seen reading, studying, and looking at complex math equations in sharply dressed uniforms.  They appear to be in a glass dome, and there is a minimalist feel to the scene. 

It was actually a pretty good movie, all said and done, but I instantly thought of this building the moment I could see inside. 

A bit of research confirmed my hunch; the shot this scene right here!

So the next question is: how do you get in there?  There were emergency exits built into the glass panels (which would probably be pretty cool to come scrambling out of), but I didn’t see a proper entrance.  I guess you come in it from the bottom, maybe through a tunnel from the Regenstein. 

This is all pretty awesome; wish I went to school here.

North of the libraries, a couple new dorm buildings stood quietly, their occupants still sound asleep from a night of…studying.

Man, even the gym is interesting to look at!  What a campus, huh?  As if on cue, a couple German-accented bikers rolled past me, discussing something just out of comprehension.  I banked right at 55^th Street, planning to connect back with University Avenue, which I’d take northeast for a while.

After finally getting a lull from the beautiful campus I’d just traversed, my beautiful wife gave me a call to check on me, and all was well. 

North on University, and I was in another university before I knew it.

What a funny looking seminary building.  The first comparison I could think of?  The underside of a Portobello mushroom; yeah, not the best way to describe a building, but that’s what it looked like.  The arcade at the base of the buildings led to a pleasant courtyard area, with classes, administration, and the library all seemingly confined within this bizarre, vehemently rectangular structure.  Valparaiso, near Gary, Indiana, sometimes gets into the NCAA basketball tournament, but besides that, I knew little about them.  I certainly didn’t expect them to have a Lutheran school.  Turns out they are, in fact, the Lutheran school, with the largest enrollment of any Lutheran-affiliated institution in the country.

Past here, the college campuses ended, and the residential neighborhood of Hyde Park replaced it.  Truly a beautiful campus, but I still like variety.

The townhouses were well-maintained, putting even some of Louisville’s nicest historic neighborhoods to shame.  People of all backgrounds went in and out of them, all off to start their day.  In Louisville, I’d be halfway out of the county as far as I was from downtown, but here, this was truly urban. 

Most of the homes were classic, red brick, and even the surrounding, non-residential buildings strove to match.

Up ahead, a foreign-looking chimney spewed smoke (or steam, perhaps) as the furnace beneath it warmed its keep.  At intersection of Hyde Park and University, and the synagogue that owned the chimney came into full view.  A dog leg onto Woodlawn again, then north along its length.

One of the larger residences I came across had an interesting, albeit primitive, security system.  Each fence section supported a small, silver bell that, when the adjoining gate opened, most likely made a sound as the whole fence vibrated, announcing that someone was home.  At least that’s what I assume the function was.  I waited for a moment, curious if someone would leave or arrive to test my theory. 

Right up the street, a Frank-Lloyd-Wright-ish house popped up to the left. Although admittedly a bit bland for his style, it reminded me of the great architect nonetheless.  I couldn’t tell what the large statue in the lawn was, whether it was an anchor, a breakwater block, or simply an oversized jack (as in “ball and jacks.”)  Maybe this was Truck Show’s/John’s house?

There’s a mosque, just four blocks from a synagogue.  How ‘bout that?  Chicago is certainly a diverse place; the largest mosque (or, as they often call them, “Islamic centers”,) I know of in Louisville is a repurposed residence, smaller than every townhouse I’ve passed today.  Even this one, purpose-built and on a prominent corner, is still quite compact.  All the same, mosques are places of prayer, contemplation, and worship, and you don’t need much space to do that.  Christians have enormous facilities of worships, with even small congregations investing heavily in building a huge temple to God.  Muslims, however, have a different perspective, and I appreciate that.

A quick jaunt across the street, and I was about seven blocks from my next major turn.

More townhouses lined Woodlawn Ave as the walk continued.  One particular one had an owner whose dog sat on the stoop outside the front door.  As I passed by, he ran up to the fence, barking and wagging his tail wildly.

Cute little guy; I love sleek dogs like that, and friendly ones, too.  Maybe the owner wouldn’t mind if he walked with me the rest of the way?  He had the energy for it, that much was clear.

Over the top of a local store, I could see the towering peak of Willis Tower, still several miles away.  It would likely be the lighthouse by which I’d guide my walk when I got lost or simply needed a frame of reference for distance. I’d get there a little bit over halfway through my walk, so it’d also let me get a good judge on how I was holding up, and how well I was using my time.

I knew my turn was coming up, so I started moving east at each block, ready to intercept 43^rd Street.

As I crossed over Lake Park Avenue at 44^th Street, I passed a woman engaged in a somewhat unusual chant.  I heard “God” and “strength,” and after I passed by, I wheeled around to get a better listen.  She was reciting a prayer, but not as if she was praying at that moment.  Rather, I think she was rehearsing.  Perhaps she was on her way to church or Bible study, and she would be giving the opening prayer.  Maybe she was off to a wedding or funeral?  Either way, I’m sure she’d do great.  Three different faiths, all represented within a mile of one another.  Chicago really is a diverse place.

I turned up Oakenwald Ave, the last street before marching to the lakefront, and it was smattering of houses in all states and conditions. 

On one lot, a well-build and well-maintained single residence sported many colors, while another lot had a condemned husk darkening its acreage.  Still others were flanked by vacant lots where homes once stood.

This lot held two houses, it seems; on the right, the basement lies somewhat intact, the foundational borders just barely visible.  To the left, another house has been gone for much longer, perhaps more intentionally demolished and removed. 

Another few steps and here I was.  43^rd Street.  My directions told me to turn right and take the stairs, but this was very clearly a dead end.  A train track lay before me, surrounded by a gravel path and an old, abandoned warehouse with a sketchy-looking van parked out front.  I checked my directions again, but I sure didn’t see any stairs.

I considered abandoning the directions and continuing north; I could see the Willis Tower after all, and that could be my guide.  But it was bright and sunny; surely I could safely investigate the murder warehouse.

My sneakers crunched on the gravel lot, camera still in hand, checking around corners to see if I saw what I wanted to see (stairs) or something I didn’t want to see (literally anything else.)  The van was empty, which was a bit of a relief.  I rounded the hood and – oh!

Although glaringly obvious in the photo, the stairway blended in with its surrounding in such a way, with no signage indicating its existence or destination, that I totally overlooked it.  I clamored up the stairs to the bridge deck above.

The deck was in poor repair; no doubt decades of exposure and incessant vibration from passing trains had fractured the stone comprising it.  Still, looked safe enough.

It was already looking closer; well, that’s what I told myself.  I’d been on the road for just about an hour, but I’d already seen so much; today was shaping up to be a walk for the ages!

Come back next week for part four, and until then, keep going!

- Matt

Walking the Windy City - Part 2

Part 2

This is part two of a nine-part series; for week one, click here.

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Up, up, and away!

We climbed out of the airport and past downtown effortlessly; the calm morning welcomed us smoothly into the sky above the city.

No matter how many times you go up, they always look like models all the way down there, huh?  We glided across the still river a mile below on our way up to 28,000 feet.

Over my years of flight research, I discovered a pattern: when flying on a short-range route, your cruising flight level often matches the distance traveled.  For example, Chicago is 280 miles away from Louisville, and our flight level was planned around 280 (pilot-speak for 28,000 feet.)  If you flew to Chicago from the much closer South Bend, just eighty miles away, you'd only reach flight level 80, or about 8,000 feet.  Anything longer than 400 miles voids the formula, as few jets ever go above 40,000 feet; even the longest flight in the world, from Dallas to Sydney, rarely cracks 39,000.

We'd glided through flight level 90 (9,000 feet, right!) when I experienced an undeniable Lion King moment.

These pictures were taken just forty-one seconds apart, which will tell you how fast the sun was rising.  When you’re climbing, you’re speeding up the process even more as you effectively raise yourself above the horizon to which you’d normally be bound on Earth. 

About ten minutes later, we’d leveled off for the flight, and we’d only be cruising for about fifteen minutes before starting our approach into Midway.  With the glaring sun and haziness of the window, it was impossible to get much of a picture, so I grabbed the inflight magazine and flipped to the crossword in the back, wondering how much of it I could accomplish before it’d be time to bring out the camera again.

Quite a lot, it turned out.  Despite the small amount of sleep I’d gotten and the loud din of the engines, I was able to pound out a whole crossword in half the time it normally takes.  Maybe it was the lack of distraction that helped; I’m no crossword pro.  As I finished the last word (ELMO, which was nearly solved anyway), I slid it back into the seatback in front of me.  I’d take it with me, but every bit of storage in my swollen camera bag was already earmarked.

“Were you in town for the truck show?”

I turned towards the aisle.  The man sitting a seat down, perhaps late forties, gave a smile with his small talk.  I told him no, that in fact, I wasn’t aware of a truck show.  He shared that the Midamerica Truck Show was a trade show that’d taken place in Louisville for years; he worked for an outfit that sold alternative fuels for trucks, each with their own three-letter abbreviations that I’d never hope to remember.  Turns out he was from Chicago himself.  I told him about Miles By Foot and the walk I had planned for the day.  He had a property not far from my starting point, an old Frank Lloyd Wright kit house to be exact.  I tilted my head, and he explained that in the middle of the last century, Frank Lloyd Wright “kits” were developed, allowing portable modules by the eponymous architect to be transported all over the country and built on site.  He was trying to sell it, and he showed me a picture of it on my phone.

I felt the plane's nose turn down as we began our initial decent, and the flight attendants confirmed this hunch. 

He seemed intrigued with my walk and joked about the cold weather.  If a Chicagoan says it’s going to be cold, it must be unusual, right?  Those crazy folks stand a foot of snow and -20° weather all the time, right?  I felt prepared, but now I was nervous. 

Oh, look, it’s Chi-town!  We were probably still thirty miles out, but there it was.  Even with a 200mm lens, I could only get so much through the cloudy porthole, but I could pick out the iconic black Willis Tower on the left.  My guess is the tall, silvery one in the middle is that Trump property they’d recently built.  The vast Lake Michigan spread out behind it.  Maybe it’d be icy.

We dipped below 6,000 feet and the flaps dropped down a bit, slowing us considerably.  I turned to Truck Show and told him that I was wrapping up around Wrigley Field and if he had any suggestions for where to eat there.  He thought about it for a moment, then offered El Jardin, a Mexican Restaurant right along Clark Street in Wrigleyville.  Wrigleyville…sounds like something out of a Disney theme park.  I always like spicy food, and on a chilly day like today, it might be just the thing to warm me up.  I thanked him and he gave his name: John.

We lined up for what I thought was our final approach towards 31C, Midway’s main southeast-to-northwest runway, but we banked left, slowed some more, then banked right, lining up on 4R, perpendicular to the runway I expected.  I packed up everything but my camera, and the metallic whir of the landing gear heralded our final approach.  We skimmed the tops of the trees and glided gently to our destination. 

After touchdown, we slowed, took one right off the runway and were at our gate, B7, within moments; the whole landing and taxi took two minutes.  A quick check of my phone’s clock, now adjusted for Central Daylight Time, put us down at 7:24. 

We were up to the gate, and although the tone sounded for us to take off our seatbelts, we couldn’t deplane quite yet, as the jetbridge wasn’t ready.  We were too fast, I guess.

As we all awkwardly stood up to collect our belongings in the cramped cabin, John turned around to a man and woman sitting behind us.  The fellow was wearing a Cummins hat, and John asked if he worked for them.  He said he didn’t, and they shared a conversation about the truck show.  When John asked what the man in the hat did, his wife spoke up; she was actually the one in the business.  She owned some kind of supply company for them, and John audibled quickly to her.  I’m not sure if he just assumed the guy was the one in the industry, but the little faux pas interesting nonetheless.

I slid my headphones on in the meantime.  As an aviation guy, the fact I was visiting Midway and O’Hare in the same trip was a conscious decision; I hadn’t been here for years and wanted to walk every concourse before beginning the day’s official walk.  I had planned out every minute, as I had to be out waiting for the bus that would take me where I was going at 8:10.  Another check of my watch read back 7:28.  The cabin door opened, and the first few rows filed out.

Heart and music pumping, I followed them out into the concourse.

Literally within one minute of my planned emergence into the airport!  It took a lot of things going right to make that happen, but here I was.  I got my bearings; I was in Concourse B, the longest concourse, and I had to get down to the end and back before walking Concourses C and A, then I had to get to my bus stop by 8:12, the scheduled departure time.

The concourse, it turns out, was pretty easy to walk, despite the thousands of people moving through it.  About three minutes later, after making a bee-line for the end, I could slowly work my way back to the front of the concourse, examining each area with a bit more breathing room. 

The concourse was cleanly divided into alternating modules.  One module would have several gates on either side...

...then you'd have a small, low-ceiling module that contained shops, food outlets, and restrooms. 

Then you'd alternate, and then, I assumed, you'd get to the main transfer area.  I used the moving sidewalks where I could, as there wasn't much variation in the modules (and why would there be,) and I wanted to see as much variety as possible. 

Speaking of variety, Midway is, by and large, homogenous.  Southwest has nearly a monopoly on the traffic in and out of the airport, and if memory holds, this is their largest hub outside of Dallas, where they're based.  Still, you've got a Volaris plane here, holding out.  Volaris is a Mexican airline, so that flight was probably headed to Cancun, Puerto Vallarta (one of my favorite Mexican place names to say), or Guadalajara.  Southwest flies to a lot of those places, too, but Volaris does have a bit of a home-court advantage. 

And hey, even Frontier's got a toe in!  Southwest is, honestly, a pretty conventional airline price-wise these days, but Frontier actually is cheap.  Sometime soon, I want to take their nonstop flight from Indianapolis to Denver.  They’ll charge you for every extra they can; while most airlines these days charge you to check a bag, Frontier even charges you for a carry-on, but for me, that's a challenge, not an obstacle.  I think for a brief time, Frontier even flew to Louisville, but that's been long gone if they did.

Here's where Midway's three concourses converge, which is to say, here's where you inevitably go when you're catching your next Southwest flight. 

Midway Airport is shaped kind of like a claw, with a base and three angled phalanges.  I just came out of Concourse B, and Concourse C, to my left, was my next stop.

It turned out to not be much of a stop.

The "concourse" had three gates clustered together, set aside for charters and Frontier flights.  It gave me a flashback of Owensboro's tiny little airport, to be honest.  Although there weren't many gates, there was a USO lounge nearby, and several servicemen and servicewomen were, well, lounging after what might very well have been a lengthy flight.  They'd stashed themselves all over in uncomfortable positions, trying to get a bit of sleep as the rest of the world woke up. 

In less than two minutes, I was all done there.  I had about twenty minutes to cover the last concourse and head out to catch the bus. 

Now, I'm no art critic, but I'm really not sure what's going on here; this is either a bizarre sculpture or some kind of construction scaffolding.  Either way, really.  It was in a prominent enough location that I felt like it had to have been intentionally placed, but it could just as easily been a leak catcher.

OK, one last concourse; a small history exhibit prefaced the concourse entrance, complete with a fully constructed Dauntless bomber.  It was a naval bomber that was, you guessed it, integral in the Battle of Midway in World War II.  After glancing around for a second, I saw that all the displays had to do with that battle.  Although I thought it was just a coincidence, the airport is specifically named for that battle in the Pacific. 

As much as I wanted to gawk, I had to press on and walk the rest of it before starting the real walk of the day.

Concourse A was much quieter.  The carrier selection was more diverse, too; a small Canadian airline had a flight going to Toronto's secondary airport nearby.  This terminal followed the line of the road outside, so the gates were only on the western side of the terminal for a while, then it took a bend about halfway down, angling in towards the airfield.

Concourse A was also considerably shorter, but it followed the same module pattern as Concourse B.  I was at the far end just five minutes later, putting the terminal length at roughly a quarter mile.  If I was laid over for a while, this would be my preferred walking terminal, as there was less traffic and noise, and the planes were more varied. 

Now just to swing back and –

Hmm, an extra claw.  A quick glance at my clock told me I had ten minutes to get to the bus.  Well, maybe a little longer.  I took the deviation, which hooked to the right, where a maintenance man was changing fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling.  He paid me no mind, but I glanced past him, and it was quite a walk to A4A and B.  I hadn't planned for it, though, so I had to walk away. 

After snapping a couple extra shots between the terminals from the far end of the transfer area, I had to be on my way.  I walked past the considerably long security lines; hoped it wouldn’t be that bad at O’Hare.  After wiggling through some temporary barriers, I arrived in the landside terminal.

Most counters, unsurprisingly, bear the blue, yellow, and red mark of Southwest's branding.  They certainly have laid a claim. 

At two minutes to eight, I wander out towards the buses, up an escalator and past baggage claim.

When I got to the platform indicated by signs throughout the terminal, I did see that there were buses, but they weren't the ones I needed.  The frosty wind blew by, rustling my hood and giving me a taste of the morning weather.  I went back in, but indeed, this was the only place where they were directing you for buses.  8:01.  Back through to where I came from, and back to the original bus stand.   8:04. 

Well, my morning kind of relied on getting there in a timely fashion, so I had to think.  I figured out my cardinal directions and got my bearings. I jogged into a parking garage east of the terminal.  I knew that if I kept going east, I'd hit the bus-conveying road I needed.  Sure enough, after darting through rows of parked cars, I found a road and saw signs again for the CTA bus (short for Chicago Transit Authority.)  I jumped a guard rail, not noticing the cop car behind me until after the fact, and stamped down a small incline, jaywalking across the road.  I followed the road out from underneath the parking garage and emerged at the bus stop.

Yep, this was the place.  I found the bus for me, the 59, and got my $2.25 ready.

It's true, the sun was out, but it was chilly.  My hat was keeping the terminal heat in pretty well, but I lacked a pair of gloves, and my hands found their way into my hoodie pockets and off my camera. 

About five minutes later, the driver pulled up.  I got on an empty bus and deposited my change.  I found a spot in the back of the bus and, while I waited, I pulled out my travel notebook to jot some notes while the morning was still fresh in my mind. 

Although I got a bit of a whirlwind tour of it (I generally prefer two hours or more to see an airport through and through), Midway was a nice airport.  It was compact, straightforward, and easily navigable.  The fact that I walked nearly every inch of it in thirty minutes while taking a few pictures is proof of that.  Assuming something doesn’t go terribly wrong, Midway seems to be a great place for a tight connection, as no gate is more than about ten minutes away from another.  Having not sampled any of the food or services, I can't speak to those, but it felt like a nice synthesis of a large city's bustling airport atmosphere and options with a small town's size, feel, and convenience.  Midway, in some ways, is Chicago's little secret, especially if you're not a big Southwest flyer.  O'Hare will be a whole different story, I'm sure, and I'll be there in nine hours, with much more time and ground to cover, to test that theory.

It wasn't long before we were moving, and soon, so was I.  I scooted towards the middle of the bus to avoid the nauseating sway at the back of the bus as the driver curled around corners.  Just a block or two out from the airport, we were already in dense residential neighborhoods with humble, but charming houses.  A Southwest flight roared overhead, which I'm sure the neighborhood’s late sleepers didn't appreciate.

I was warned by multiple mean-wellers about the safety of the areas around Midway; Cicero, Washington Park, and Oak Park were on everyone's no-go list.  Riding a bus through them was fine and, although certainly not the brightest and most inviting of Chicago's neighborhoods, these little boroughs weren't bad.  I was reminded of St. Louis, where I ventured last October; Chicago has had its struggles, too, but all in all, I didn't think it was bad.  There was still snow on the ground in the shaded parts of lots, and signs heralding the upcoming mayoral race between Rahm Emmanuel and Jesus Garcia dotted storefronts and lawns.

The folks who got on and off the bus along the way were all pleasant and diverse individuals.  One elderly man wore a Blackhawks jersey and sat quietly in the back, bobbing his head to inaudible music; he didn’t even have headphones in.  A couple teenagers talked about an upcoming school-related sports event.  People in "rough" neighborhoods aren't percentages; they're people, and I think if you treat them as such, you'll do just fine no matter where life takes you.

In this particular instance, though, life was taking me to 61st and Ellis, where my main walk would commence.  At exactly 9:00 AM, the bus passed a sign for the University, and I pulled the cord for my stop.  A shouted thank you, a quick alighting, and I was on my designated corner within seconds of my planned start.

Come back next week for part three, and until then, keep going!

- Matt