Downtown Chicago & No Kitesurf

The next morning I go straight into the city, I didn’t even notice David coming home yesterday. Taking the L-Train into the city is much more fun than in New York. There’s simply more to see above ground. I ride the Loop once and then walk through the Merchandise Mart, one of the biggest department stores in the world.

I walk along the Chicago River, then on to the Sears Tower. Good exhibition about historic skyscrapers. Then it’s up to the top, at breakneck speed. 110 floors in 60 seconds.
One of the tallest buildings in the world, the view is really staggering. Another thunderstorm rolls in, lightning strikes the skyscrapers all around.

After an hour, I head back down and go in search of a new trolley. After seven shops I’ve seen pretty much everything between 120 and 800 $. 120 = the last piece of rubbish, exactly the same as my €25 Metro trolly, only three times as expensive. And the ones for 800 look sturdy, but I wanted to spend less than a tenth of my travelling budget on a suitcase. I wander around the city a bit, look at a few more tower blocks and then go home again. Work. David doesn’t arrive until after twelve, and we chat for another two hours about Hitler and Nazis, about Regensburg, and have a good laugh about Bush.

The next morning I make a great discovery. I just don’t want to lug my 45kg around America any more. I’ve already been to a few car hire companies yesterday. They’re all expensive as hell. Daily rates: small car 30$. And almost the same again for insurance. For 2 weeks it would be about 800$ – plus 100-500$ one-way surcharge. But: if I book with the same hire company via Holidayautos.de, it’s only 380€, one-way surcharge 200$. I book immediately from Milwaukee to the vicinity of Yellowstone National Park for 2 weeks. America, off under my tyres :-!

In the afternoon, a nice caretaker repairs my trolly and gives me a screwdriver. I forgot my kite tool at home. I walk to Montrose Beach, about 2km from David’s flat. And see the first kites. Cheers! The wind is blowing superlaminar side-onshore from the north at 3-4 Beaufort. Perfect. Even if the locals call the beach a “washing machine” – the direction of the waves turns 90 degrees from one to the next.

I got my kite licence at a time when there was no IKO and therefore no IKO kite licence. But without it, you can’t get a starting licence here. I shout into the wind and do what I always do when I just can’t get out: save another kiter’s board. Smoke. And go home again at some point.

In the evening, I continue planning the tour. Write to some Hospitalityclub.org members. Thanks already, Eli! Best tip ever… A caretaker fixes David’s loo. The latter had a moderate midlife crisis about it – they’re just like that, the soap-at-the-right-angle-to-the-mirror-positioners… David comes home around 10 and we take a look at the old Chicago Uptown entertainment district. Old theatres from the twenties, cool art nouveau blocks. It all used to be a drug district and definitely not night-time compatible, says David. Now the yuppies are moving in. But one thing has remained:

The Green Mill (fixdreck, I didn’t have a cam with me) was a speakeasy in the twenties. Al Capone used to hang out here regularly. Apart from Al Capone’s carved likeness, the interior is 120 years old. Admission is $6, and even if I’d paid for 10 people, it would still have been the best dollars of my life. Fun prices, apart from a $5 Jägermeister. But at least the bartender had to open the old Al Capone escape tunnel for that one. It was worth the archaeological surcharge.

Red lights, dark wood. Smoking allowed. Finally, everything that is unhealthy and fun comes together in the USA. I’m even allowed to take chips in from the “I like big butts and I can’t lie” pub next door. We drink a few beers. A boozer hits on me: “How do I tell my girlfriend that she’s overweight?” He’s drinking his first martini. Apparently he’s already had two of each of the other 20 types of high-proof. I’m sure he forgot my “First be true to yourself” before he threw up for the first time.

The big band starts playing around eleven. For years, I was really annoyed that some pissant in Year 11 made false statements and got me expelled from my beloved big band choir. Today I’m happy about it. No pissant will ever be as happy as I am today. I melt away to Gershwin, Billie Holliday and Route 66. Brilliant singers, constantly changing. In between, they skilfully mix up the dance floor themselves, which is already quite lively anyway.

I stagger home along Broadway de Chicago around two o’clock. Halfway there, a Times Square even gets in my way. Much nicer than the New Yorker, I kick it into the gutter anyway. I just want to go to bed.