Airport trek to O'Hare; 5/14/2007

[Headed north on the Chicago Skyway/alternate route to O'Hare]

[Lakeshore Drive, headed north on U.S. 41]

[Fountain at Grant Park; attended Taste of Chicago here, back in 1985]

[Fore! Municipal golf, Chicago style!]

No Place Like Home

I’m sitting at O’Hare, tucked away in the corner, on the floor, at one of probably two electrical outlets (oh great!! It doesn’t work, so I’m depleting my already overtaxed and nearly drained battery—long story, I won’t bore you with the details). You would be right to think that in this age of wireless devices, having more than two electrical outlets, at the busiest air hub in the U.S. isn’t asking too much—particularly when you’ve been herded like cattle, had your water confiscated and encountered major road construction that makes the Big Dig seem like a residential driveway repaving. Oh, and the suit-wearing business hard-ons are all walking around, talking on their headsets and being assholes.

After having a whirlwind five days (two, if you count travel days, which I don’t—traveling by air in the U.S. is the antithesis of fun) of productivity and positive social interaction.

Fortunately for me, I left my hotel just after 7 am, knowing that I didn’t want to spend any time on the Dan Ryan, the Kennedy, or any other expressway I didn’t have to. I took the alternative route, via the Chicago Skyway, which allowed me one last look at the steel mills of Gary, which continue to fascinate me in some odd sort of way.

I got to retrace the route I used to take to work in Chicago, when I first moved out here in 1982. I was working for a security firm at a 40 story condo on Lake Shore Drive and used to enjoy driving through South Chicago, along U.S. 41, passing along Stony Island Parkway and through Garfield Park.

I stopped and took some photos along upper Lake Shore Drive, north of Grant Park and Navy Pier. I don’t have time to download photos from my camera before my flight takes off, so I’ll probably post a bunch of pictures Tuesday, or Wednesday, sans commentary, or offering very little. That will come later in the week, hopefully. I’m back to my day gig tomorrow and after being gone for a week, I can only imagine what awaits me when I walk in tomorrow morning.

Well, it’s time to board. Hopefully I don’t have to sit next to some freak that is averse to basic human interaction. And as Dorothy said in The Wizard of Oz, “there’s no place like home.”

[Addendum—my favorite airport, O’Hare, doesn’t have free wi-fi and I wasn’t giving the state of Illinois any more of my money—they rape you with tolls for roads that I’d rather not spend time on, going back to my sentiments earlier in the post.

For all the weirdness that is JFK, the jetBlue terminal has free wi-fi, outlets and the gate I’m flying out of is in the new terminal and the seats aren’t ripped and it’s clean. I must admit, I do have to bitch about something. Since I need an outlet as my battery is drained from O’Hare, I’m sitting here near an electrical plug and to my right is a three-year-old monster, with the typical mother who knows nothing about how to corral her child—beyond having her strapped into a harness, of some type. She’s pulling on the harness, screaming and the mother is like, “Yolinda, please don’t scream—you are giving mommy a headache.” Yeah and you’re adding to my travel-induced migraine! C’est La Vie!!]

Let's hear it for the west side!

[Valparaiso's west side business district]

[A coffee shop that's not a Seattle-based chain]

[A local pharmacy stuggles against Wal-Mart and Walgreens]

[Local farmer's market]

[Ubiquitous box store development]

I’ve been dependent on my suitcase, since Tuesday. The chain hotel where I’m staying is quiet and clean and given the current state of the world that’s not a bad combination. While cleanliness is often placed side by side with Godliness, the staff that occupies the front desk has been another story.

As someone who has spent a lot of time of late focused on workforce training and skills improvement back in my home state, I can’t help but see some serious shortcomings at the hotel, as well as numerous other places that one is forced to frequent when on the road, namely convenience stores and unfortunately, fast food chains and sandwich shops.

While I’ve been limiting myself by and large to the complimentary fruit and coffee after my daily morning walks, a midday snack and a large meal in the evening, occasionally, I’ve been forced to grab a bite on the run. Everyone of these visits have been disappointing. I’ve learned that not all low-skill workers are created equal. While I expected this to be the case in some of the “grittier” communities in the northwestern most tip of Hoosierland, I expected Valparaiso (Orville Redenbacher’s hometown, btw) to be a bit better.

Adding to my disappointment in the most rudimentary skills these workers possess is that each time I’ve asked one of these hotel desk personnel about some aspect of commerce in the town, as in, “where can I find a drugstore (or grocery store),” everyone of these 20-somethings advised Wal-Mart across the way, on the other side of U.S. 30. When I mentioned to one young lady that I didn’t care to shop there, she offered the alternative suggestion of “Target.”

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that the downtown area (the west business district) wont’ be functional in another five years, if everyone shops at the eeat end of town (big box heaven).

Granted, one’s consumer choices often boil down to a matter of degrees and shades of conformity, but as I’ve been writing about frequently, our choices do matter and at some point, we may not even have the option of making our own free choices.

Enough of that for now, although I’m bound to be back on this topic again.

As Bobby Fuller, sang, “I fought the law and the law won.” While I didn’t engage the law in any confrontation, I was ticketed to by a member of the fine Indiana State Police on Thursday, while on my way to an interview. Traveling southward on construction-choked I-65, between Gary and Merrillville, I was pulled over by an officer of the law, who inquired if I “was in a hurry.” I learned long ago to answer politely and respectfully when dealing with and agent of the law. This one was obviously a veteran, as evidenced by his quiet confidence and mannerisms. Being that I was traveling in a construction zone, I was fortunate in that all he wrote me up for was going 73 in a 55 mph zone and not triple for the construction zone violation.

So while things have been going remarkably well that event put a bit of a crimp on my enthusiasm, on Thursday.

Dry on election day (wastin' away in Hoosierville)

[I’m back in Hoosierland, home of Hyles-Anderson College, where I once attended; a place where the Klan once had a successful run and where no piece of open space is safe from the development mafia~JB]

I flew into O’Hare around midday and was eager to make my way to the southeast, where I’d be staying. I had secured my lodging in Valparaiso, far enough away from the gray, post-industrial remnants and the diesel fumes that epitomize northwest Indiana.

I was returning to my fundamentalist roots, at least my failed attempt at becoming an acolyte of the late Jack Hyles. Having lived in the area for five years, I knew I didn’t want to stay in Hammond, thought it wise to steer clear of Gary and preferred to bypass the retail hell that is Merrillville.

If you’ve never been to this part of Hoosierland, its not the idyllic place that the basketball movie portrays it to be. The northwestern tip, bordering Lake Michigan (and part of the greater-Chicagoland area) is an ugly place, ravaged by its industrial past and held hostage by a failed national policy to ship all our products via trucks. Crossing into Indiana on the toll road, heading east, I was amazed at the wall-to-wall tractor-trailers (or BST's as Howie Carr calls then), hugging the right two lanes of the tollway, made worse by the ubiquitous construction that I encountered during my 75 mile trip from O’Hare.

What should have been a 90 minute trip easily morphed into a 2 ½ hour ordeal, made worse by my early flight (6 am, out of Portland), delay at the rental car place (don’t rent with Enterprise, at least outside of Maine) and an accident on I-294, which further delayed getting to some basic sustenance, like water. I don’t know how you are when you are traveling in a strange land, but I hate exiting toll roads, especially when they whack you every time you leave their goddawful maze of hardtop.

I finally found my hotel, tucked in behind Valparaiso’s own acquiescence to low-wage box store development. I remembered the home of Valparaiso University as being a quaint Midwestern town, with a nice Main Street, with its typical courthouse square. I used to pass through it often, usually later at night, when I returned from my second shift job as a med tech at Westville Correctional Center. My normal east/west passage for efficiency and speed, was U.S. Route 6, but on my way home, I enjoyed seeing the students out and about on a Saturday night.

Valparaiso’s changed and not for the better. Just as Maine succumbs to the Faustian bargain that is big box development, so has Valparaiso and much of the formerly quaint, non-industrial areas that I remember from my time in the Hoosier State, two decades ago. Apparently, no matter where you go, people just can’t resist the lure of merchandise manufactured by serfs in third world countries. Americans have become so hollowed out and devoid of a soul that all we seem capable of is pushing a shopping cart from parking lot, to and fro around the local retail giant, back to our car, only to do it all again tomorrow. It’s Ground Hog’s Day done horror-style.

While I had expected my travel day to be all but wasted on the details of getting to my final resting place, I did harbor a hope for a nice meal and a few adult beverages at a local watering hole, preferably not of the chain variety.

Once I was checked in at the Hampton Inn (a serviceable travel hotel with a few business perks), I was off to frequent the local supermarket, to pick up some water, some caffeinated beverages (for me, it’s Diet Pepsi) and probably a six pack of cheap beer to round out my small refrigerator. Nothing takes the edge off a day of research and blogging like a cold Bud Light.

Of course, the dolt at the desk at my hotel was unable to direct me anywhere else but Wal-mart, when I inquired about a supermarket. His line was, “There’s a Wal-mart across the street; they’re the cheapest around and that’s where I shop.” Yeah, like I expected anything more from a hotel desk jockey and yet, I registered a bit of disappointment that he didn’t send me down the street to the Wiseway.

I was too fried at this point to engage him in my own skewered vision of economics, so I nodded politely and set out to find somewhere other than Wal-mart to pick up a few items for my fridge. Not that I was on some mercy mission for the common man, as I ended up at the Seven-Eleven. I picked up my six pack of D-Pepsi, jug of water and plunked my suitcase of Bud Light (thank you, sir!) on the counter. The sweet, cornfed cutie behind the counter said, “I’m sorry sir, but you can’t buy that today, until six.” At this point, I had one of those moments that one can only appreciate, after watching countless episode’s of Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone. I looked at my watch. It said Tuesday and it was now 4:30 pm. I wasn’t sure if at some point, I had flown through some type of door of no return and was growing somewhat concerned that I had arrived in my own personal hell, reminiscent of the movie, Pleasantville.

Usually eloquent and loquacious, even with a total stranger like Miss Indiana Corn Princess, yet in this instance, all I could muster was, “Why?”

This 18, or 19-year-old came back with, “You’re not from around here, are you.” I was thinking at this point, “No and boy, am I fucking glad!”

Unbeknownst to me, today was primary day and in places like good ole’ Indiana, towns statewide are “dry” until the polls close. Now, in light of how we’ve fared of late at the voting station, I’m not so sure denying people a good stiff drink is having all that great of an effect on our politics, but that’s a topic for another post.

Of course, at this point, I had to offer my own two cents worth about voting and alcohol that I’m sure was lost on this teenager, approaching womanhood. In fact, like most youngsters her age, she had no sense of why Indianans can’t drink and vote, or why the goddamned state, a state by the way, where the Klan had some staying power in the early 20th century, still had blue laws on Sunday. Apparently, they don’t teach history in the Indiana schools, either.

To be quite honest, I don’t know much about this type of thing, either. I do know that Maine was rather late in repealing its own blue laws and in fact, you still can’t buy an automobile on Sunday. Apparently God wouldn’t be honored by that.

There are still a number of states prohibiting alcohol and voting to be paired; apparently it has something to do with trying to prevent crooked politicians from getting voters drunk and bringing them to the polls. Like this would make a bit of difference, with all the other ways that our election system has been tainted.

Well, that’s day one—I can only imagine the other surprises Hoosierland has in store for me.

[Coming up—the search for the "real" Jack Hyles, a game of catch and my "meeting" with the law, ala Bobby Fuller-style.]

Rooting our memories somewhere

James Kunstler wrote a book not long ago called, The Geography of Nowhere. His premise was that as all parts of the U.S. and elsewhere get bought out and paved over, the ubiquitous sameness robs us of who we are (or were).

I think Kunstler is a good writer, although I’ve made a departure from his prepossessions about the world, as only he can know it. Limiting my exposure to cranks (takes one to know one, eh?) helps me remain somewhat sane in an increasingly insane world. While the argument can certainly be made that there is “nothing new under the sun,” the increasing speed at which everything moves—information, commerce technology and its plethora of “must have” gadgets—makes the time during which we live like no other. Men (and women) much smarter than me have predicted that this may ultimately cause our world of smoke and mirrors to collapse.

Getting back to geography, however. Place defines us. It is a rare human being that doesn’t long for some place, or places, usually tied to some pleasant memory, or memories that occurred in that place, rooted in time. While life moves at breakneck speed, interview anyone about their past and you’ll find them falling backwards into nostalgia, as they rhapsodize about the ball field where they hit their first home run, the soda fountain where they met their future wife, or even the shopping mall where a young girl bought some special dress, for some occasion, often rooted in tradition.

Much of my own writing is tied to the memories that are rooted in the geography of a town called Lisbon Falls, located on the banks of the Androscoggin River. The working class men and women that I had the pleasure to get to know, as I brought them their afternoon paper and later the Maine Sunday Telegram, taught me a lot about honesty, integrity and what it means to love the place where you live. I often say, only half jokingly that the story that became When Towns Had Teams really began when I was nine, with my first paper route.

I'm very fortunate that I grew up in one of the last great eras to be a kid and as a consequence, I can draw upon experiences and people, rooted in a specific place and time. Younger Americans, people my son’s age, or younger, may not be able to find the same deep and abiding connection that I have, with a special place.

As our unique and special places get bulldozed over, or maybe even worse, go out of business due to being unable to compete with the local big box store, we are defined less and less by these places that possess an almost sacred quality. I posit that this is not a good thing, although I'm sure persuasive arguments can be made that I'm once more being overly nostalgic.

It's quite possible that the explosion of social networking sites, like MySpace, or Facebook, or even Second Life, are filling the void, irrespective of geography. Maybe the need that 20-somethings have to create profiles and create personas in cyberspace are due to some inherent need that people have for a familiar place that they can own as their own. The beauty of favorite places is that they can be all our own, even while thousands, or tens of thousands of others are experiencing their own special memory and creating a place in their mind to go back to. Fenway Park and the Red Sox might be one of those shared places. This helps connect us collectively, in a way that the internet and social networking sites can’t do.

Obviously, I’m passionate and intrigued by this topic, as I continue to find the need to write about people and the importance of place for them, as well as for all of us, in order for society to remain connected in a healthy and meaningful ways.