I hate showers. Baby showers and bridal showers. Really, any shower that takes place outside the confines of a bathroom.
But I love my friends, a lot. And I love Chicago. Maybe in equal amounts. So I trekked to Chicago over the weekend for a baby shower. Via Greyhound, because that’s how important this lady is to me. Last time I went to Chicago, I was just getting over a nasty stomach bug, and didn’t feel well, and she said she was getting over a bad hangover, and we walked around Logan Square looking for a) brunch, and b) a brunch that would be palatable to each of us. (We consumed a lot of pita bread that weekend.) That hangover turned out to be a little boy.
I sat through the shower–which honestly was better than I was expecting; it was nice to catch up with people I knew–but it got better afterwards.
And this is just a little something I like to call the greatest city in America.
Greyhound actually really held it together this trip, I have to say. And on the way back I sat next to a lawyer–possibly the only man in history who’s ever worn a suit on the Greyhound–and we talked about public transportation development and the politics of gentrification in Minneapolis. He was my parents’ age, and had a vague Woody Allen look about him, but I totally got a brain crush on him.
Riding a long-distance bus makes me feel like a character in Simon & Garfunkel’s “America.” There were a lot of songs I’ve been into this week, but I haven’t stopped singing this one to myself for three days.
There might be a video; I’m not sure. But why dig when you know there’s an as-good-as-the-original cover by Bowie from the 9/11 concert?