Rüzgârlı Şehri.

The Windy City; or, how sometimes things work out for a hairy Italian boy.

Chapter One: Otelde.

I was about as leery as a one o' them be-robed Tibetan monks walking into Tiananmen about using Priceline.com. The premise of it didn't make sense; in a very Old World sensibility, you name a price for a service and someone out there accepts your bid. It's like going to a bazaar where people fight to suck the money out of your sweaty palm, except, uh, there's no sweaty palm and there are really no fights. OK, well that metaphor blew. At any rate, for the sheer shits and giggles factor of it all, I decided that I wanted to stay on the Loop (Downtown Chicago) for $75 a night. Yes. I really didn't think it would work, seeing as how the apparent going rate for hotels in that area were upwards of $150, plus a carefully taken core drawn from one of your kidneys. Or the first two knuckles of your index finger. Or a discrete "favor" in the alley with the general manager, a portly man who smells of Old Spice and cheap cigarillos and whose unrepaired cleft palate causes him to say "Thicago." Needless to say, when a three-star hotel accepted my bid, I thought: either I'm lucky or I'm going to end up on the 7 o'clock news.

The drive to Chicago from Bloomington Republikası was through some of the flattest real estate I've ever seen, and I've been to Kansas AND Iowa. No hills, barely any trees-- and the prairie (prairie? would it be prairie with all of that corn on it?) stretched until I could almost see the curvature of the earth. Then, after about two hours, there came a stench like tires and gasoline and dead baby seals all mixed together and blow-torched; in the distance there arose forty-foot high flames from towers that reached like the fingers of the damned supplicating in vain to the soot-laden heavens.

GARY.

I'd heard whispers about Gary since I came out to the corn almost two years ago. Gary has earned several colorful sobriquets, like "Scary Gary", "Boil-covered Armpit of the Earth" and "Town of Ass and Fire." Labeled in "Places Rated Almanac" as one of the least habitable American cities, Gary has the nation's third highest murder rate, after Saint Louis and Metro Dade (Miami). A quick glance at the little movey thing that tells you how much gas you have was a huge effing relief; it was a half tank. We were just not 'savvy' enough to have lived through the experience of getting gas in that little ashy corner of Hell. As we passed through an industrial landscape that would make anyone, as Keith put it, "want to get naked and run through a forest", I thought: how can anyone live here? And why would anyone want to live here? And, are all of Britney Spears' teeth real? The girl's like a salt-ravined sea-shark, honestly.

With the flames of Perdition itself behind us, Chicagoland began with miles and miles of strange row houses and tiny warren-like streets filled with half-naked young-uns desperate to contract tetanus. In the distance, the spires of the nation's tallest building, the Sears Tower, pierced the heavens; the illumination of the "spikes" was, of course, a pale green, deferring to the impending Saint Patrick's Day merriment. Ah... a real skyline.

Indianapolis doesn't count. *derisive snort*

The highway took us straight into downtown, where the real task at hand became abundantly apparent: distract myself from my own intense excitement (stop looking up at them there tall things, bitch!) to try to find our hotel. As we passed many "hotels" with ominous signs like "Chicagoland Hotel: Men Only", icy fear crept into my loins. Was there to be a dead prostitute under our beds? Clumsily cleansed chalk outlines in the bathroom? Would the Andes chocolates on our pillows be possessed of their original integrity? After circling a few blocks 900,000 times because of Chicago's apparent desire to not label anything, I noticed that there were weird white banners fluttering on the side of a building up ahead. They said "Blake."

Our hotel! And and AND, it looked like it wasn't going to be the scene of our collective tragic demise!

We park and check in. The lobby is draped in sheets and strange fluttery wisps of cloth; no, this was not some sort of decoration scheme. This was because the entire hotel was being gutted and made into a condominium hotel. Yeah, I don't know what that means either; {whispers!} but it sounds pretentious and European to me. THAT'S why the room was so cheap. If the hotel were up and running as it should have been, we would have been tasered at the door. As it was, we were welcome guests in a hotel that appeared to have only three or four rooms in commission. The elevator's floor was plywood. The hall was filled with the stench of paint and caulking. But our room! Enormous bay windows afforded a view of downtown and the Public Library; two fluffy double beds beckoned to the weary, and the bathroom! Immaculate!

[ Dom used to work in a hotel. I work't theyah a real long time. Clean bathrooms; not only hard to prepare, but insanely difficult to maintain. Do you know how much hair a human sheds in one day? And skin flakes?]

Of course, there was a more pressing need still: Imminent starvation. Of course, who can go to Chicago and not get real Chicago pizza? Pressed to the bosom of the "L" near a dark alley was the Boni Vino, which, unbeknownst to us until now (googling its ass as we speak) is a Chicago landmark. A Coke, a Sprite and a large 'roni pizza later and that which was corporeal was transcended: mutha-effah, was that good pie. *

* pie: (pi): New York/New Jersey slang: a goddamn pizza, you Phillistine morons.

With bellies distended, we walked through Chicago's Miracle Mile past [closed] shops where scarves cost more than my monthly rent. A huge mug of hot chocolate and a ride on the train later and we were back at our London-after-the-Blitz hotel, where warm beds and the soft rumble of traffic carried us off.

Chapter Two: Zhongguocheng DaJie.

Now, as all of ye who know me well are aware, I am utterly paralyzed with delight in Chinatown. Most people are turned off by the overpowering reek in the Chinese groceries and apothecaries, the seemingly random ethnographic artifacts and the unidentifiable food served with them stick things [no! you not have fork!], but wow, all of those things bring me to nearly perish with excitement. When I went to San Francisco's Chinatown, I distinctly remember asking my friends to save themselves and leave me behind; had they done so, they would have found me several months later wandering the streets, unwashed and gibbering in a bastardized mix of Cantonese, Mandarin and Wu whilst clutching a tiny replica of a Forbidden City guardian lion. Anyway, I didn't want to get my hopes up and have them dashed: after all, a Midwestern Chinatown? Whateva, no you di'ent.

As the train shuddered to a stop at the "Chinatown" station, I saw pagoda roofs; naturally, my pupils dialated and my pulse began to tap-dance in my Sino-lovin' veins. A monumental gate inscribed in gold paint with the Chinese for "Chinatown" led into the main street of Chinatown, filled as it was with dozens of stores filled with achingly beautiful randomness, restaurants serving China's and Vietnam's finest, and of course a Chinese Methodist church; hey, why not? As I browsed through a Chinese Christian bookstore, I thought: who do I know who'd appreciate a wallhanging of the Psalms written in Han Dynasty Chinese calligraphy?

Of course, I had to procure something that was completely effed-up for my ethnographic artifact collection; after seven or eight stores, I settled on a Chinese unicorn statuette. Now, Chinese unicorns (qilin) don't look like the willowy white horses of medieval European lore; no, Chinese unicorns look like bulldogs on contraband former USSR-ilk steroids, and their "single horn" is usually an antler that protrudes from the back of their heads, not their 'delicate' crowns. They also have fangs and talons. They are fantastic and provide a good example to show people how beauty is construed in China; also, they provide a great illustration of the dangers of smoking a lot of opium.

The best part, though, was taking Keith into his first Chinese apothecary. In vast jars the size of a seven-year-old, hundreds of teas and herbs held majestic court. There were also, uh, things like:

Dried seahorses.
Dried abalone.
Dried deer sinew.
Dried deer tails.
Deer antlers.
Jimmy Hoffa's fingers. (A steal at $450 a tael!)

Keith was obviously mildly horrified, but it needed to be done. Then, back on the train.

Chapter Three: Ελληνικάπόλης.

From Chinatown, a ten minute ride back into the vicinity of downtown brought us to a place where I dare not bare my left arm for fear of black-clad widows hissing at me through their teeth: Greektown. Now, if you are one of the three people left on the planet who hasn't yet seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding (*gently strokes Keith's head, crooning softly*), you might not know that Chicago's Greek community is the second largest in the United States after the Astoria neighborhood in NYC. Swarthy, olive-skinned people of all ages milled about, sacks full of olive oil, honey and Epirian bread, komboloi (worry-beads) clacking merrily, the Cross of Saint George (the Greek flag) proudly flying next to the American one... and the cloying perfume of grilling flesh on a spit. For a moment I was transported back to the magical days I spent in Αθήνα... the moonlit night wandering around the Plaka at the base of the Acropolis... that same smell of barely treated human sewage... *mist*

The one store in the whole district that I wanted to shop in was closed for a religious observance. Tantalizing me from the darkened property were hand-dipped Hymettus beeswax candles, baleful Byzantine icons, incense censors from Mount Athos... my kingdom for a brick! Once my disappointment ebbed (with bitterness and salty-sweet tears as the flotsam and jetsam), it was time to procure sustenance. Quick, lads! στο εστιατόριο!

I'd been told that I needed to eat at the Parthenon. As a smallish, pimply teenager, I had an entire wall that I'd plastered with black-and-white photographs of the Athenian Acropolis and it was like my first, tender lover; I owed it to the ol' battle-ax to eat at a restaurant named after its pillar-crusted magnificence.

When our waiter came, with no hesitation I ordered the Κεφτή από το Ιζμίρ.
Of course, the last word wasn't "Izmir", but the Greek city-state name for Izmir, Smyrna.
[The rest of it, by the by, is "meatballs of."] In Turkish today, the word for meatball is köfte; in transliterated Greek, it's "kefte." Yay for the Ottoman Empire! Çok yaşa Türkiye! Anyway, the kefte danced the flamenco in my mouth; it's been since I slaughtered and ate that seven-year-old child two years ago that I have been so pleased with a meal. Out of the corner of my tear-filled eyes, I could see Keith enjoying his treat immensely as well; Αθηναϊκό κοτόπουλο was his treat of the day, and that Athenian chicken seemed to please him to no end. "That chicken", he later said, "makes me wanna slap your mama." Whatever that means.

Again, the train.

Chapter Four: Göl'e.

After the train vomited us into downtown, and a frantic car-ride later, Keith and I found ourselves barely able to speak as we stared slack-jawed at the Field Museum's Pacific Northwest collection. There had to have been three hundred masks, representing the Bella Bella, Chinnok, Clatskanie, Eyak, Haida, Kwakiutl, Makah, Nootka, Salish, Takelma, Tlingit, and Tsimshian peoples. It was astounding. I vowed then and there that I would take all of the money I earn selling crack and blow under the railroad trestle and buy myself one of them my-t-fine slices o' Heaven one day. [hastens to prepare dozens of tiny baggies]

Then, the lake. As the sun rode low on the horizon, we went out to a jetty near the Field Museum and beheld the undisputed capital of the Midwest from her lake, Michigan. As the lake lapped upon the pier and the sun set, I couldn't help but think: what WOULD impress Shania Twain?

It was the perfect end to a perfect day and night before, and as we drove the four hours back to the Republic, I knew that I'd be back. There's too much to see. There's too much to eat. And there, in Chinatown, there's a red-visaged Chinese demon who will look fantastic on my shelves.

I remain, as ever,

Dom