My kind of town

Chicago is.

Zelda and I cruised into the Windy City in the golden Sunday afternoon, gliding up Lake Shore Drive (the highway signs say 'LSD') past the Field Museum and Shedd Aquarium to Grant Park and the Loop. We hung a left on Columbus, another left on Wabash, going south under the El tracks, straight to the Hostel International on East Congress. Lickity split, almost like we knew what we were doing.

We checked into our clean, quiet dorm rooms, called our friends, and went for a walk to get into the spirit of the place. Up Michigan Avenue in all its shiny, cosmopolitan glory, a few blocks west, and then south again, making a loop through the Loop. By this time, Zelda has the layout down cold and she's telling me where to find things.

Turns out my taiji brother Donald was starting his summer work project supervising teacher interns on Monday morning, so we arranged to meet Monday evening. Zelda's high school pal David was free, however, and he invited us out to a bar in his neighborhood, so we got a quick bite to eat and boarded the Blue Line north to Logan Park.

David and his roommate Kevin met us at the station, and we walked a few blocks to the Map Room, a nice little neighborhood bar with full-color physical maps on all the walls and the largest beer selection I've ever seen - four pages, three columns, single-spaced in 8-point type - I would have died of thirst before I got through the list. Luckily we had guidance, and David ordered a round of something Belgian, very smooth and sweet. It was delicious. An oatmeal stout followed, something completely different, to go with the ongoing banter of David and Kevin, and the whole evening was a pleasant introduction to Chicago culture as seen by a couple of guys from Ohio.

We got up the next morning, enjoyed the free breakfast in the hostel, which really is international, bought two-day transit passes, and solved a small parking problem before heading north toward the Loyola campus. Luckily we found a free, shaded, on-street parking place right next to Donald's building. It was like that - unpredictably up and down - all day, as we negotiated our way through the city, and we adjusted as needed.

Z and I rode the Red Line south and walked a few blocks east to the Field Museum, pausing for a few minutes to repair my broken sandal on the way. We initially intended to go to the aquarium but reconsidered when we saw the mile-long line. There was no line at the Field, and admission was free on Monday to boot, so we spent the whole afternoon roaming through plant and animal bio-geography (or was it geo-biology?), ancient Egypt, and planetary evolution, with time out for lunch on the south steps. Do you realize how much 'natural history' includes? The vast collection is mind-boggling in its scope and somewhat traditional in its approach, but a real treasure and worth every minute.

We were tired coming back north on the Red Line and got coffee at a little place by the Granville station, then went to meet Donald. It had been a long time (1980?) and I guess we've both been through a few things. When I first knew him, Donald (or DJ, as everyone called him) was married, had two little kids, taught middle school math, and had a house in Evanston. Now he is divorced, retired, a grandfather, and lives by himself in a condo overlooking Lake Michigan.

DJ was an influential figure at a formative time in my life. He was Huo Chi-kuang's senior student at the Chinese Cultural Academy in Evanston and introduced me to the practice of t'ai chi ch'uan. Needless to say, I took to it like a duck to water, and DJ's personal friendship only made my study more rewarding. Looking back now, I think I took his big-brotherly mentoring and mythologized a combination of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Charles Mingus, and Othello.

We spent the whole evening talking, mainly catching up on what has gone down in the last 30 years, and that's a lot of catching up. Donald knew a good Ethiopian restaurant a few blocks away, so we walked there and had a fabulous vegetarian meal and a good red wine. That helped free up the flow of conversation. He explained his breakup with Paula, and it became clear how difficult that ordeal was. Paula still lives in their house in Evanston.

Donald also had a falling-out with Prof. Huo and left the academy to study with another teacher, Joe Morris, on the South Side. The practice there involves more meditation, qigong, and martial applications than Huo had shared and led to a Taoist initiation with Joe's teacher, Wang Yen-nien. We later talked about A Course in Miracles, which DJ has been doing through a group in Evanston.

DJ has always been serious about music, and recently has taken up playing the viola da gamba and electric bass. DJ turned me onto Renaissance and Baroque music back in the day, but I never knew he was into jazz, so when I mentioned my love for Brubeck, he brought out his favorites: Coltrane, Miles, and yes, Mingus. We later watched a DVD about the classical guitarist Julian Bream that included some fine performances.

Zelda got the futon and I got the air mattress. DJ made his favorite breakfast: fresh mangoes, boiled eggs, toast, cheese, and jasmine tea. Before catching the El downtown, Z and I made a beeline to the Heartland Cafe, where Gven Golly worked in the seventies, for our much-needed coffee. A trip to Chicago wouldn't be complete without at least one trip to the Heartland, and we both felt right at home. We sat at a screened-in outside table, talked, and soaked in the vibe of that special place.

With emotions running down my face, we rode the El south to the Museum of Contemporary Art on Michigan Ave. near Water Tower Place, a very different part of town from the funky charm of Rogers Park and the Heartland, but free on Tuesdays! It was different and just a little jarring: one level under construction and noisy; another level with a small but fascinating collection of Sol LeWitt works; Raphael Terrer's Paddle and Kayak were also pretty cool; another level housing "Exposed: Defining Moments in Photography, 1967-2007"; and people setting up for an evening jazz event outside on the terrace. Bernd Becher and Hilla Becher's Cooling Towers was riveting in juxtaposing the materials and design of grain silos, industrial towers, and nuclear power plants in several sites in Europe.

We walked across the street and sat on a park bench for a while in the sublime June weather, and Zelda caught the El to meet David at the Fullerton station. She would hang out with him for the evening, and I would pick her up in time to head for Wisconsin the next day. I watched the upscale urbanites and had a bite to eat, then went back in the MoCA and wandered out to listen to the band and enjoy that distinctive cross-section of humanity. In my excitement I called Gven at home and gushed (to her voice mail) about how much she would like there and how we should visit (or move!) there some time soon. Rather than ordering food and a drink like the beautiful people on the terrace, I sat down by myself at a Reserved table and explained to three different waitpersons that no, I didn't need anything right now, and yes, I understand that the table will be needed, and yes, isn't it a lovely evening, and they were fine with that. It's funny how people treat you with respect sometimes.

When I was ready to go, there was a young guy busking on the platform at Chicago Ave. and doing a very good rendition of Steve Goodman's classic "City of New Orleans," made famous by Arlo Guthrie. Steve's been dead for some time now, but as far as I know Arlo is hanging in there. But it is a sad, sweet post-industrial song.