(Part I -- Getting There)

It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. I had planned to get a full nights sleep, get to the airport at a decent hour, read the papers and sip coffee on my morning flight to Chicago.

But a little old lady from Weehawken had other ideas, and by 9:00PM the Post newsroom was scrambling to make heads and tails of the fact that said little old lady had driven headlong into a Garment District restaurant, killing 2, injuring many. I wasn’t going anywhere, and didn’t, until 1:30AM, when I collected a copy of the second edition with it’s screaming block fonts on page one: "CARNAGE CAFÉ!" and my own name, in much smaller letters, in a byline box on page 5. All in a day’s work.

It was going to be a great weekend. I could feel it. But I could also feel my body collapsing, as I remembered I had not eaten since 4:00 that afternoon, and was starving. So I cabbed it home, which I cannot afford, and fixed a bowl of Campbell’s with the begruding assistance of a microwave that I could write a whole story about, file it under ‘killer appliances.’ I dropped off somewhere around 4:00AM, frantically mulling over worst case scenarios about missing my flight.

Well. If I thought things had gotten out of hand the evening prior, boy was I in for a surprise.

7:33 AM. No baloney.

I was beside myself. How was I to get out of Queens, across midtown, through the Lincoln tunnel and down the turnpike for an 8:15 flight?

Before I had finished dressing, I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble.

It was 8:00 when I rubbed my eyes and realized we had just exited the Midtown tunnel – I was near the point of implosion. But who knew? It took a paltry 8 minutes from tunnel to tunnel (a minor miracle) but at 8:15, my scheduled time of departure, we were still winding up the exit ramp on the Jersey side.

I began to panic when the meter rose above $30.00, but escaped at Terminal C with a total bill of $61.00, including tolls and tip. It could have been worse, as I stared at my now empty wallet. This was more than half of what I paid for the flight, if you can believe that.

This had better not be all for naught, I thought, or I was really going to be upset. So I put my doe-eyes into overdrive and begged mercy of the counter rep. Boy oh boy, did it ever work – She acted as if it were nothing – without question, she booked me on a direct flight on an affiliate and the best part: I would arrive a mere 15 minutes later than scheduled.

I wanted to kiss her on the lips – I felt so relieved, my eyes got all wet, and for all of three seconds, I thought I was going to break down right in the middle of the airport. Instead, I went out for a cigarette.

We were off!

When I take time off of work and leave the city, unlike some, I want to leave the city. I mean, really. I want to get as far away as possible, both in person and in spirit. Which is why I like to head for Chicago.

Odds are, when I mention this, my favorite ‘other’ city to the average New Yorker, I get lots of wrinkled noses, puzzled faces and occasionally the I’m-sure-it’s-a-great-town concession, which, my friends, doesn’t even begin to do justice to this deeply-soulful-city-on-the-lake, this metropolis-in-the-cornfields, the crown-jewel of the Midwest, where seasons are still decipherable (and winters make you want to flee in terror), the people are pleasant, and fiercely self-promotional when it comes to the wonders of this, The City That Works.

Landing 10 minutes early, it’s say hello to Midway Airport. Sure you could fly into that chi-chi glass cathedral, shrine to air-traffic, that place they call O’Hare International, but a far more realistic and fitting introduction to the realities of this corn-fed manufacturing town, is the entry one makes through Midway, located on the far Southwest Side of the city, home to hundreds and thousands of Poles and Italians, living in pint-sized bungalows, brick-box apartment buildings, and yes, trailer parks.

Extricating oneself from the bowels of the great O’Hare can take a good half hour – and that’s just finding the baggage claim. Midway – 5 minutes tops – and before you know it, you’ve been dumped out on lovely Cicero Avenue, that prolific main drag of the absymal border town of same name, it’s claim to fame the civil-rights era unrest involving the visit of one Martin Luther King, Jr. Hot-sheet motels, housing projects and White Castle outlets side up against heavy manufacturing zones which emit a most unpleasant odor.

Take the CTA into town – it’s the best bargain in town, $1.50 to anywhere in city served by it’s adequate "El" service. Catch is, you must walk almost a mile to the platform across the street, but stellar views of the downtown skyline from the pedway across Cicero should be enough to entertain you as you drag your bags around a million twists and turns.

Being a trained New Yorker, what one first notices is the absolutely stock-still, humanity free train station. Where are all the people?

Driving.

Yes, the City that Works is not the City that Walks, rather, it Drives. Which is a perfectly good reason for you not to – traffic can be far worse than in New York, even in the most remote locations of the city, the pile-ups can be maddening, at the most obscure hours.

I was jolted back to this reality when making plans to meet up with good friend/former roommate/all around pal Joey, his first idea being hey – pick up my car for the afternoon, just pick me up after work.

Ah yes – cars – I remember those.

Meanwhile, the "Orange Line" train is preparing to depart the station (all four cars of it), my car mates a host of businessmen from southerly climes, all with short cropped blond hair, polo shirts, shorts, porn-star wraparound sunglasses. They are in town for a convention in the Loop, and are quite enamored with the whole concept of Chicago.

"Hear they wanna build a new building higher than the one in Taiwan."

"Now that’s arrogance for ya."

"How tall is that Sears thang?"

"1300 somethin’"

"Hear, over in Taiwan, they got two of em, 1500 each or somethin’"

Funny – two days ago they just had a major earthquake there – if they had been there, they wouldn’t be standing any more, as far as I can guess. Besides, I thought, it was in Kuala Lampur, which is Malaysia, last time I checked.

Anyway, I’m being a snob, I thought, and I tried to focus on other things, such as the fact that I was rapidly approaching the station where I had to transfer to the "Green Line", for the final leg to Ashland and Lake, where Joel works.

The real-estate boom is not limited to New York – Chicago is currently experiencing the best market conditions in many, many years, every spare space and empty lot near downtown (and there have always been many) being converted to loft-style apartment developments, almost comical carbon-copies of the old manufacturing spaces existing in Manhattan. One wonders what will happen when the market levels out – there’ll be an awful amount of space available – they’ll probably be giving them away in a few years.

Once I’ve got the car, I drop by my old friend Dan’s office on Erie Street, where he directs a local office of a national modeling agency. Dan is a New York ex-pat, a 30-plus year resident, who has lived in Chicago for 5 years or so. He’s happy here, however, after 30-some years in the Apple, enough is certainly more than enough. We chat a little about similarities and differences, and I give him copies of the day’s Post and News that I’ve brought, we make plans for the weekend, and I’m off – his charges are climbing the walls and abusing the office phones.

By now, I’m heading straight for my favorite spot in town, Lake Shore Drive.

With the historically devastating winter months quickly approaching, the city that knows how to party is doing so in an almost aggressive fashion. Many residents are still out here, relaxing on the lakefront, in Lincoln Park, which extends along Lake Michigan from the Oak St. Beach in the exclusive Gold Coast neighborhood, to the Far North Side is peppered with fabulous beaches, playing fields, gardens, the Lincoln Park Zoo, it’s spine a comprehensive bike/pedestrian path that runs parallel to the Drive, which, at this moment, I’m sure, is one of the nation’s most beautiful urban highways.

It's good to be back.