That's Amore

And so another adventure begins…under the most unassuming of circumstances. I set out to find internet and instead find a treasure. I leave the ship intent on spending my break in the port terminal where internet is free but for the cost of a cappuccino, which is of course overpriced since the internet is free. However, for some reason, my computer won’t connect despite the triumph of all those around me. I take this as a sign. “Right,” I say to my friend who is happily skyping away in Romanian with everyone he knows on the planet, “I am off.” He looks at me quizzically asking if I am still unsuccessful. Nonsense, there is no failure here, just a change in purpose. So off I go, heading on foot towards the pizzeria I have heard has amazing food and free internet, but without an actual map or sense of direction which will make this a bit more of a challenge.

This is my first venture into the mean streets of Napoli as I have always been told it was a bit of a sh*thole but I am immediately entranced. I start to walk past the castle which dominates the landscape and then think to myself, “What am I doing?” I am not going to become so jaded that I put on blinders and miss such a sight. So I throw my hair into a loose braid and make my way up the hill towards this landmark which I come to find out is the Civic Museum. Well, truth to tell, I don’t feel like going to a museum but I do have a lovely view of the interior from the arch entrance and in the center of this egress the wind catches little wisps of my hair and they drift romantically across of my face. I take a moment to let my eyes lock ever so briefly with the two attendants then look away, slightly embarrassed that I am so caught up in this moment. In my mind I am the most intriguing being in this sphere, lithe and statuesque, though the fantasy is a far cry from reality. “Ciao, Bella.” Perhaps not so far from the truth as I thought. I shyly walk away to continue my adventure.

What a beautiful place, intriguing and exciting, not dissimilar to New York in spirit but with the look of a long and rich history. As I walk along, still with no real sense of direction, I cast my eyes to the street and the array of Pr*da, G*cci and D*lci and G*bbana bags which line them. I really do need a new purse. So I zero in upon one and allow myself to be pursued until at last I break at 15 euro settling reluctantly on the small polished leather Pr*da bag. Don’t worry, I know it is not Prada but it started out at 45 euro and it is quite pretty so I still feel victorious…and I really did need another purse as the only one I have brought abroad is too big and quite literally falling apart at the seams. I briefly consider buying a second one for a lark, but as my funds are limited, my time is short and the risk of buying knock off material great, I move on.

Now there is a moment in movies which you often see but which I have never experienced when a person walks into a place and is quite literally stopped in his or her tracks by the beauty of it. I have never experienced this until today. I came around a block and encountered what I believe was an open air shopping mall under the cover of a great cross shaped archway so breathtaking that I had to stop to take it in. I take a moment to walk through this beautiful place, enjoy the peace imparted by the flying buttresses above. It’s funny, it reminds me a bit of Grand Central or Union Station (perhaps their very designs were mirrored after this place) but the effect is completely different. You go to GCS or US to meet everyone in the world, to enjoy the hustle and bustle of the big city and the excitement of a thriving metropolis, but it seems here, you come to breathe and to slow down, even if it is, as with me, a fleeting moment. I try to take a picture with my I-Pod only to discover it is dead. Perhaps that is best, I shall just enjoy this moment for myself, a private respite undisturbed by the need to capture and covet it. I think sometimes cameras are a nuisance; a device you feel beholden to. So often I have seen people so fixated on getting the perfect picture, they miss the action around them. There is a woman, crippled and bent in the doorway begging for money with the face of an angel, sad and beautiful.

I do notice though that upon my departure, my pace has slowed and I seem so much more aware of the beauty of these narrow cobblestone streets with their lights strung delicately between the buildings since I am now forced to make only mental note of all I see and experience. Little gifts from the universe abound all throughout the city, wrapped in bright colored paper and delivered to my doorstep, like the woman on the Vespa, from behind a lovely and vivacious twenty something but come round the front and she is a hard-faced forty with a cigarette and a senior who jumps on the back. Husband or father? They kindly give way as I pass and I’m happy to have seen them. Or the bull-faced bouncer in the café who angrily tosses his cigarette across the counter onto the floor as he makes some dismissive comment to his companion, yet when I catch his eye and smile he grudgingly breaks the moment, face never changing with, “Ciao……..Bella.” The incongruity of the moment makes me laugh out loud. I catch sight of a narrow little alleyway and a restaurant with faux gaslights out front. “Restaurante Cucciolo a Bohemien” a bohemian pizzeria. Perfecto!

I walk in and immediately, I am struck by the photos on the walls of celebrities and artists of the theatre, opera and movies. OMG, I have come to the Neapolitan Sardi’s. There is Pavarati, smiling down at me as if to say, “Well done Laurel, you found us!” I am not even sure that the restaurant is truly open as I am alone here and the server actually closes and locks the door behind me.

“Are you open?” I ask timidly, to which this kindly Italian man with a generous face lined with years of service and laughter responds, “Yes”. “Do you have internet?” “Yes.” Wow, ok, I am doing quite well. He goes to get me a menu and I take out my computer. “How do I get on the internet?” “Yes.” Whoops. Ok, perhaps not as well as I thought. Nope, no internet access at all. Screw it, who cares? I peruse the menu which is entirely in Italian, which of course, I do not speak. It is of no consequence. I recognize the word insalata, know how to cobble together enough Italian for house red wine, and ask for a recommendation from the server who can say the words meat and fish in English. We shall go with the fish.

Oh, before I order, “Do you take credit cards?” “Ok.” I pull out a credit card to show him and he smiles reassuringly, “Si, si”. I return his smile, knowing that I now have no idea what I have ordered nor what it will cost and that I am likely paying 1 euro for internet I cannot use, but it is small price to pay for the joy that I am experiencing in this moment. This is a moment no one else will ever have, encapsulated for me. The salad comes and it is a thing of beauty. The fish comes and it is of course, amazing!

I end with a cappuccino and the “special cake”. It is not the best thing I have ever experienced, but it is wonderful. Everything in this moment is wonderful because I am so filled with the joy of it all and I feel especially brilliant for this adventure, knowing that soon I shall return to the ship, filled with people who never left because Naples was too hard or too hot or too ugly. Or that it was easier to nap or take a taxi or that they’d been here before and had nothing new to see. Please oh please, let that never, ever be me. Thank you universe for reminding me that I am special and that romance, beauty and yes, even magic exist in the world, if you just take the time and make the effort to find them.

One Night in Paris, A Love Story

I had never been to France.  More importantly to the story, I wasn’t scheduled to be in France either.  Actually, I was in Florence for the week as a participant in the Firenze Marathon, my second ever.  Florence was a wonderful experience, in fact I have returned subsequent times but this story isn’t about that magical medieval place.  No, this is about my single night adventure in the City of Lights.

I awoke bright and early to catch the bus to the airport in Florence, my first return to a vehicle , having spent the week traversing the city on foot.  My bags were packed, I was ready to go.  I had my Finisher medal, a few bottles of wine and what clothing I hadn’t thrown away after my 26 mile sprint through the cobbled streets of Florence.  We arrived at the airport; myself, a travel companion and about 8 other Americans who had all come over for the race.  Thirty five minutes through security and we arrived at the Tarmac…only to return to the airport.  Fog.  All would be fine, we were taking a bus to Pisa where another plane awaited us, already fueling up for our departure. 

We arrive in Pisa and rather than drive straight to the plane as we were informed we would, we are dropped off at the front door with no instruction as to where to go.  Half of our group left their bags on the bus, trusting they would be safely ferreted to the plane.  They were not. 

We head into the second airport and are sent back through security where they confiscate all of the items we had previously purchased in the Florence airport past the security checkpoint.   At least I had only a bottled water at something like 5 euro, ah well!  We at last get things sorted and get situated on the Aire Italia plane, ironically staffed entirely by an Irish flight crew, who are all smiles and jokes.  But time is passing and we aren’t moving.  An ever increasingly irritable Italian woman returns every few minutes calling for “Schultz”, a couple who apparently checked in in Florence but did not join us in Pisa.  Two hours passes, we haven’t left.  By now our Italian friend’s frequent visits are accented with fist shakes and cries of “Schultz” in our best worst “Hogan’s Heroes” German accents.  Morale is slipping.  Our crew of Celts breaks out the peanuts and a strain of some familiar pub song but that’s about the best they can do.  At last, two and a half hours past our arrival time in Pisa and more than three hours past our scheduled departure time, we take off.  It is a short flight to Paris, but already they are making announcements about all the connecting flights we’re missing. 

We arrive in Paris and are ushered immediately to the Aire Italia where they have been working diligently to make arrangements for us, connecting flights, hotels, food vouchers.  The patiently harried, kind faced woman behind the counter assures us we are in the best of hands and that we shouldn’t have to worry anymore.  A brusque, unpleasant family from the Midwest led by a sour faced man pushes past me in the line, insisting on being the first to be served as they’ve been the most inconvenienced, and then proceeds to brag about how his insistence on an upgrade assured them two hotel rooms and food vouchers for dinner AND breakfast.   He is unaware that this is the standard offer for us all. 

I make my way to the front of the line, am offered my confirmation for the two star hotel at the airport, my food vouchers and repeated assurances that I don’t have to worry about my bags because they have already gone onto America.  Spot the obvious problem here?

Exhausted, I reach the hotel by shuttle, spend my remaining two euro in the vending machine to buy a tooth brush and some tooth paste and head to my room, though cell seems a more accurate description.  It is old, and small, rather like a closet with a bed, and the lighting blinks like an old gothic horror movie.  Resigned I sit down in the battered chair and open the “Welcome Menu”.  There, emblazoned in the center of the page are the choice offerings for the restaurant; there are two, “Good Appetite” and “Very Hungry.”

Something in me breaks, I can’t do it.  I cry out loud to the G*ds, “I will not spend my only night in Paris at the airport hotel eating Good Appetite or Very Hungry.”  My companion, hearing my cries comes running. 

“What’s wrong?” 

I become very calm.  We assess our money situation which, as it is the end of the voyage, is nil.  That’s alright, didn’t our parents always say credit cards were for emergencies?   We each grab a card and a form of ID.  We find the shuttle to the train and take the train to the city.  I can’t quite make out the map but we find the station closest to the Eiffel Tower and hop aboard.  The train was an adventure in itself, two levels, cars you could walk between.  Nearly an hour later, we disembark and make a beeline for the Tower.  My only experience thus far has been the Eiffel Tower at Kings Dominion and Paris in Las Vegas, and no, I was never one to say, “It’s just like the real thing.  Only better ‘cause I got a steak!”

We pay the fee and head to the top and for the first time, I understand why this beautiful place is so beloved, why it is the City of Lights, of romance, art, culture.  It is very quiet and serene.  There is a fog bank rolling in which engulfs the lower part of the tower, but up here, you can see to infinity.  Heaven might be this beautiful, yet I don’t know if even heaven could make me as happy as I am at this moment.   A few moments pass and the Tower lights up with a million twinkling stars, an addition from the Millenium celebration.  I love it so much, I stay for two more cycles.  But at last it is time to leave.  We have but a few short hours and still so much to see. 

We head out and find a patisserie, nibbling on our nutella filled crepes walking along the Seine.   I find a Bistro and order a bottle of wine and Duck a l’Orange from a Parisian waiter dripping with distain.  The room is filled with music and life and smoke.  A group of older men sitting in the back corner smoking and talking furiously pause for a moment to assess me, then make a joke about an American in Paris.  My waiter returns and serves me some dessert I can’t pronounce, filled with some sort of marinated fruit delight and topped with real whipped cream and I’m sure a bit of spittle.  It is perfect. 

We return to the train station just in time to catch the last train to catch the last shuttle to return to our chambers.  But the next day, we go to the restaurant to order our Continental Good Appetite or Very Hungry and there sits the angry family from the Midwest, bragging about the free upgraded cable they got in their two rooms.  I refrain from responding.  I didn’t have cable.  I had one night in Paris.  One magical night.  The stuff dreams are made of.

Cadiz, A Solo Sojourn to Spain

I want to tell you, dear reader about one of the best experiences of my SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL existence. I went on a cruise to Europe; well actually I met the boat in Europe. I made it to the boat only 15 minutes before they pulled away from the dock, but that is another story. But I am going to relate a few tales out of order because my day in Cadiz was such an extraordinary encapsulation of everything I am trying to accomplish with my new found freedom that I feel it warrants highlighting. This was actually the first time I have ever traveled abroad alone. I was on a cruise so I was with many people but I was traveling alone and so it was a great experiment. I have been attempting to have a solo adventure for three years. I didn’t know how I would feel about it and I was worried that I would be lonely with only myself to occupy my interest. What a silly thought.

Our second shore excursion was Cadiz, Spain. Now I had met a woman on the cruise who had been to Cadiz several times and assured me there really wasn’t anything to see. I’d be much better off taking a taxi to a couple of the nearby villages and doing a winery tour. So I got off the boat with this intention in my head and as I stepped from the gangplank, I thought, “I’ve never been to Cadiz. What’s to say that I won’t find something of interest?” I spotted a Hop On/Hop Off bus depot just beyond the port and made a beeline-this being my only plan of attack for the day. So 15 euro later I am off on my single day adventure in Spain. I toured around for about a half an hour on the bus, when I got the feeling I should disembark at the castle. I don’t know why but I followed my gut to the street. The castle was beautiful with a long walkway which went out several hundred yards into the Sea of Cadiz. To the right, a little seaport of brightly colored fishing boats, to the left, fishermen and swimmers and just below the sea, a Roman street. I walked all the way out to the castle, which was closed for renovations, all the while taking pictures of the water, the swimmers, the fishermen. I caught the eye of a swimmer, smiled and waved and continued on. I got the idea that I wanted to climb out on the rocks and take pictures of myself, which actually turned out better than I expected.

As I sat on the rocks, the swimmer whom I had exchanged a momentary glance with, came over. “Madonna”, he said. Of course I melted at that. “You speak English?” he asked. Upon my confirmation, he offered to take my picture having noticed that I was alone. We struck up a conversation and it turned out he was a stage manager from France on sabbatical in Cadiz. He was in love with the city and all too happy to share with a stranger all the joys of this little sea town. He tells me about the bar I should visit and the restaurant where I can get the freshest fish in Cadiz…he points to the fishermen and says they are fishing for the restaurant he is recommending. We took out my map and he shows me about where the bar is and says they open about 1 pm. It was around 11 am so I thanked him and headed on my way, got back on the bus and continued my little tour.

Lunched back on board the ship, and about 1:30 pm I decided to try and find the bar that he had told me about. I wandered the backstreets of Cadiz a bit lost (which is ok, because I relish getting a little lost anywhere new I go) until I found it. La Manteca. I walked in and say, with my very limited Spanish, “recommendo de Gigi!?!”.

“Ahhh, Gigi,” went the cry. It was like the Spanish Cheers. And in fact it turns out this is a famous bar in Cadiz, owned by a former matador so the bar is filled with bullfighting memorabilia. I order my vino rojo de casa and a couple of tapas off the menu. I recognized chorizo and bonito (it is a fish, though I ordered it because I thought it meant beautiful man and that seemed like a great idea at the time). I also ordered cheese which required explanation and gesticulation since I forgot that queso means cheese.

So I was sitting, enjoying my wine and tapas, and taking in the sights and sounds that La Manteca had to offer when in walks Gigi. The room once again fills with choruses of “Gigi”, “Hola, mi amigo”, Bueno”. I raise my eyes and give a wave. He smiles and walks over and begins to introduce me to everyone in the bar, all of whom he knows.

We sit and chat until I finish my tapas and he finishes his drink and then he asks me if I still want to go to the restaurant for the fish. Well, he has yet to steer me wrong so I happily agree and we set off. The restaurant is but a block away so he says he will walk me over and translate to the owner, who is a friend of his. And then he sits down. We are joined by the famous flamenco guitarist whom I previously met at the bar, his female companion and her angry little dog. The restaurant owner gives a quick chorus of a lovely Spanish strain to the guitarist and they start to talk. I follow much of the conversation until at once they all laugh and look at me. My new acquaintance says he will translate. “My friend says he feels very badly that the beautiful lady is eating only bread and drinking only water because I am too busy chatting to cook her fish.” We all laugh again and he heads into the kitchen returning with the best fish I have ever tasted.

As we continue Gigi looks at his phone, then my watch and asks, “What time did you say you had to be back?” “Five,” I reply. “Your watch is wrong,” he says. I explain to him that I am on ship’s time and he assures me that I am not and that we must leave immediately. In fact, I will not make it if I take the bus so he offers to walk me back to the ship as he knows a shorter route. I apologize for completely disrupting his day and he just laughs and says if I miss the boat we will take his car to Lisbon in the morning. As we continue towards the boat, he stops and says he has a present for me; an amazing feat considering we had met only hours before. And yet, he withdraws from his pocket a handful of sea glass, plucked from the ocean floor that very morning when first we made eye contact. He fills my palm with sea glass and little shells, kisses me on either cheek and wishes me well as he heads back and I run for the ship. It is now 4:15 pm. I spend the last 30 minutes in the port of Cadiz thinking about the serendipity that had to have been at play to make such a day possible. And I hear in my head, over and over, “there is nothing worth seeing in Cadiz.” It is only the second stop of our journey.

Madeira, Oh My Dear ah!

Oh my Deara.  No, that’s not right.  Madeira, that’s what I meant to say.  But oh, m’deara, what a difference you’ve made to me.   The first thing to know about my trip to Madiera is that I arrived there by boat, having not seen land for five days straight and though our Trans-Atlantic crossing was free of incident and full of beautiful glass top seas, dolphins and whales, the first sight of sea birds filled our hearts with joy knowing that land could not be too far away.  For unlike the other passengers aboard our vessel, I was working and losing an hour of sleep each day.  The guests, who slept in each morning and spent their leisure time by the pool used to say to me on a bit too regular basis, “I always see you.  What, do you work 24 hours a day?”  And I could honestly reply, “Nope, only 23.”  This response garners the occasional chuckle, and sometimes a disdainful sideward glance as they try and figure out whether my insubordination is worthy of a corporate level smackdown.  Sorry, the lack of land is getting to everyone, even those on vacation, but after what seems like a little too long to avoid a Man Overboard, they laugh and give a little nod of solidarity.   I was also still recovering from the shock of my impending divorce, willing myself to find land with the firm assumption that life would improve when my feet hit terra firma in the Mediterranean and was still trying to overcome my current f*ck you attitude which was on the brink of landing me in cruise line fantasy jail.  My friends could see I was badly in need of an intervention.    

Madeira is a little Portuguese island which dates back to the 15^th century when it was discovered by sailors.  With its moderate climate, it attracts visitors year round and is famous for many things, not the least of which is a massive per capital income, the second richest in the region after Lisbon.  There is a list a mile long of things to see and do, enough to occupy a week to a month of leisure time.  But my visit was the briefest of brief, lasting only a few hours.  And I was coming off a very difficult turn, so I was determined to make the most of the day and have a lark of a time doing it.  Now I have grown quite accustomed and comfortable with the notion of travel by myself, something that is an acquired taste, but I highly recommend giving it a whirl.  But on this occasion, I had one of my best friends with me, another like-minded (read cheap and broke) theatre type who wanted to hit the must-sees on a budget. 

We met at the dock, my checklist in hand and headed out.  According to the chirpy tour director talks which run non-stop on a loop aboard the ship there are five things you must do, see and try while in Madeira.  The first on the list is the wine, famous the world over for it’s longevity and strength; a wine with a higher alcohol content than anywhere else in the world-which meant, as crew, we couldn’t have any…well, we couldn’t take it on board anyway.  So, first stop?  Wine tasting.  That would give us just enough time so that we weren’t breaking any rules.  There are wine tastings at any of the tourist stops and when pressed for time, it is best to avoid the wineries all together and just get a sample (or two or ten) at the local gift shop, which is what we did, combining the wine tasting with a trip to the Cathedral and Botanical Gardens which is a bit of a hike but well worth it for the views.   I will confess, a couple of sips of that power-packed wine and I was already feeling a bit more chipper.  Is my left foot numb?  Yes, good wine.

We grab a taxi, well worth it if you can split the cost, if not, there is a good bus service or a more expensive but as far as I’m concerned excellent value of the Hop On Hop Off Bus, a favorite of mine in any city, but we don’t have the extra time needed for this extravagance and I wouldn’t recommend trying to walk it all unless you’re adventurous and have a bit of time as this is an extremely hilly area.   But a trek to the top affords us some pretty awesome views.  There is a breath taking and death defying cable car ride but as my companion was deathly afraid of heights, we opted to take some comedy shots of me hanging off a swing set instead.  But even if you opt out of the cable car ride, go to the launch site as there is a beautiful, glass paneled platform that will give you amazing views and photo opportunities for even the most fearful of aerial travelers though I wouldn’t necessarily recommend doing the shoulder commando photo shoot climbing over the ledge action that we….never mind.     

This is also where one can find the world’s most ludicrous and overpriced toboggan ride.  It is world famous, dating back to 1850 when the rich and famous of Funchal, Madeira didn’t feel like walking downhill apparently.  So two men dressed in cotton shirts and straw hats will charge you lots of money to push you downhill in a wicker basket.  Honestly, it is the Portuguese equivalent of kissing the Blarney stone.  Yes, it’s corny.  Yes, it’s touristy.  Yes, everybody does it.

But if you’re a poor, creative type and just looking for a good laugh and an even better photo op, then you bypass the lines and find the nearest pile of crab boxes and push each other down the hill in these.   Which we did.  The results…epic!  And we even got a photo in the real thing when we climbed aboard the promo stand at the tourist office.  I mean, no we didn’t. 

A quick stop at the market, divided into three sections, flowers, fruit and fish, the three fs.  Samples and stories abound but since we couldn’t take anything on board with us, we just eat our way from stem to stern.  Isn’t that what they meant by sample the local culture?

Our last stop was the fishing village, where I had my own Little Mermaid moment out on the rocks.  Worth the effort for the spectacular views, the beautiful little, brightly colored fishing boats, which look like you’ve stepped right into a postcard, and the wonderful wealth of the people, who are more than ready to swap a story, a fish tale if you like, in a combination of Portuguese and broken English.  As I didn’t speak the language, I was a bit intimidated but since this is a resort town, in every nook and cranny you will find someone willing to translate  though somehow the exchange rate doesn’t quite seem the same with native speakers but I had also picked up a couple of phrases from our taxi driver.  It was clear from the friendly smiles and amused chuckles that my dialect was spot on and my attempt to blend in with the locals, unrivaled.  What, there are light skinned, blue eyed red heads in Portugal, right? 

We didn’t have time for the seafood or the music, something I’d like to enjoy should I ever return.  But my few short hours left me laughing so hard my tummy hurt.  They put a smile on my face and a skip in my step, though I did have to stretch after all the climbing.  But that little gem in the middle of the sea reaffirmed my faith.  Journey on SINGLEMARRIEDGIRL!

My Growing Love Affair With Chicago

When I was a kid, growing up in the suburbs of Washington, DC, I dreamed of the day that I would make it to the big city, New York, the big apple; a new bright city of giant monuments to human ingenuity, shining beacons of glass and metal filling whole city blocks, stretching with eager fingers to the heavens;  the beating heart of arts and finance, culture and industry in the US.  When I was 18, I finally made it.  I landed a scholarship to college and a dorm room on the 17^th floor of a building standing on the very apex of Staten Island.  Every day I woke to the New York Harbour, every night I said goodnight to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, and for Christmas and Valentine’s Day I watched with childlike delight as the lights changed on the Empire State Building.  Every chance I could I would take the walk to the ferry to take the ferry to the subway to take the subway to the big city; opportunities that were not as frequent as I would have wished due to time and money but every trip was a treasure.  My sophomore year my new room allowed me to see the Statue of Liberty if I craned my neck and looked only out my periphery.  Those were some of my happiest days but in the middle of my Sophomore year, as I returned home to celebrate the holiday season and take a well-deserved rest from my hectic schedule my parents dropped a bombshell on me.  The end of my next term would be the end of my career in New York.  See, my scholarship covered only a portion of my tuition and due to a fatal combination of events, bad investments, real estate collapse, my mother’s health issues, they were out of money for my education.   I was heartbroken but I never let on, explaining to my school friends instead that I really felt like this was more a two year program and I needed to expand my reach a little.  I returned home and completed my education at a state school vowing that I would return to New York at the first opportunity.   But life and love get in the way and muddy the once clear path to the future.  My path which had led right to the corner of 42^nd Street and Broadway took a turn in a very different direction though each time I returned to New York, I felt that same longing to be a part of the big city again.

I have traveled around the world since that time so long ago left behind.  I worked in the Caribbean to lose myself then in the Mediterranean to find myself again.  And then I came to Chicago.  And here, I came to fall in love.  Well, actually I came here to learn long form sketch comedy, but fall in love I did.  Today as I sat on the El train, a man sat across from me staring.  I knew why.  He could see it, that look of pure joy on my face, pent up lest I start singing.  I’ve always wanted to ride the El since I was a little girl watching “Chicago Hope” though to be fair until I arrived I never realized the El was short for Elevated, I thought it was “L” like the blue or green line in DC.  Funny to realize that one childhood fantasy was dispelled but replaced with something so much greater.  There is a tremendous sense of history in this city, an old city not of skyscapers but of buildings for the most part no higher than a few stories; built not of glass and metal but of brick and mortar, layered one upon another.  The sky is clearly seen overheard, unblemished but for a few towers though no light may pass between the buildings which seem so close that you could not traverse them  but for eating one Chicago deep dish.  No need for a Hop On/Hop Off bus, $2.25 on the El and you have a tour of downtown high above the street, nearly level with the rooftops, a maze of brick, stone and cast iron fire escapes.  The mark of Chicago’s hey day industrial age shows in every nook and cranny, on every corner yet without the seediness that often comes in an older city.  The El winds its way seamlessly through the city inconspicuous unless you are standing below the rails which roar and growl like an ancient amiable dragon.  Even the familiar doorbell gong of the El is an unexpected surprise for anyone visiting from the angry underground of the DC metro.   Everything is old school.  There are no credit card machines, no broken escalators awaiting repair, and do not expect a map to aid you.  But fear not weary traveler, the people of Chicago are as enigmatic and inviting as the city.  You would expect people to be funny, as this is the region for comedy but unlike New York, where if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere but many don’t, Chicago is no land of broken dreams and waiters awaiting their big break.  You may not get rich but you will work and you will love it.  There are opportunities on every corner and there are people looking to offer you a hand in every field.  Yesterday while on the train, I couldn’t contain my excitement when I found out my show had been picked up and rather than be angry that I was rudely invading their air space with my intrusive phone call, the other riders cheered me and asked how to they could get tickets.  I’m sure this isn’t an everyday experience, but I do know, when I’m on the El, I don’t have to keep my mean face on.   I never thought I could love a city the way I loved New York.  But Chicago, you are making me a believer.