Rusty Brown and Cold

#224: Ice Baby

After a little over 2 weeks here, my assessment of Chicago remains unchanged: it is rusty brown and cold.

We took the train last Friday to go downtown and as I looked out, there was nothing but an hour's worth of brown houses. And brown stores. And brown trees. And brown streets. We had to change trains midway and we had to wait in a brown train station, and boy was it cold.

The train ride was torturous. The tracks were old and squeaky and there was no rhyme or reason to the slowing down and speeding up of the train cars. They just happened randomly - in stomach-turning, mind-bending staccato that left me feeling queasy and ready to vomit my humble bagel-and-butter lunch. I spent the last 6 stops with my head in my hands, my palms keeping my mouth closed lest a random jolt sent me spewing.

So we arrive in Michigan Avenue and the trees are, well, also brown. It was a shopping trip fpr gloves and scarves but surprise, surprise, the shops no longer carried such ridiculous items. They looked at us like we were asking them to sell us human liver. All they had were spring dresses. Apparently, when Chicago gets to -5C weather, it's time to wear above-the-knee cotton dresses with floral prints. I wanted to cry. But then ice cubes will gently stream down my face.