We drove in to Chicago via Gary, Indiana. If you want to see a current scene from "Mad Max Beyond Thunder Dome", drive through Gary, Indiana. This is America? Gary tops the list of most depressing places I have ever been. I'm sad for Gary. Maybe it can be salvaged.
Yet, somehow its next door neighbor is brilliant Chicago. It was moving and exciting, full of vibrant lives. Sure there was poverty and somehow it blended into the city. (Amazing how acceptable poverty can be. If you're fiercely banging out "That Girl is Poison" on Home Depot buckets, you can have any corner you want.)
We made our way to the hotel. It was relatively fancy. Hipster fancy. I am not a hipster. At this point in time, it was regrettable. My Chuck Taylors are worn in and my Columbia sports-wear is the neon light that flashes, "Tourist". I'm okay with that, I fit the role of tourist well, especially when I am one.
I amble towards the front desk. I find myself aware of the eclectic lighting, seating and décor. I find myself questioning my fashion choices as I approach Rossi, the desk agent. I wonder if Rossi would ever choose to be friends with me. He is wearing high fashion red pants. His hair is coiffed perfectly with the added shine and benefit of hair products that I can neither afford nor pronounce. No, Rossi is kind, but he is not interested in my sub-urban friendship. He hands me the keys and sends me off to my room with a stiff smile.
