There I was, the country girl (old woman), from El Valle,
New Mexico (echoes of Danny Lyon’s cholo declaring “I’m from Bernalillo, New
Mexico”) riding a rented bike among a whirlwind of riders, Lake Michigan to the
east, the Trump Tower and Chicago skyline to the west. They came in all shapes
and sizes: shorts and T-shirts; hot pants and tank tops; flip flops and
helmets; babies in bike seats; dogs in baskets; man buns and beards; fat tired
mountain bikes; and blessedly little full bike gear regalia. I could hardly
watch the scenery as I dodged and passed, slowed and zoomed around other
bikers, joggers (the older man shirtless and in flip flops particularly
impressive), inline skaters, walkers, and dogs on a crisp, Sunday afternoon
with Kimiko, Alan, and Naomi, former New Mexicans, now part of the urban
community that scares, intimidates, and fascinates this country girl (old
woman).
There’d been a lot of talk among us about the infamous Mayor
Rahm, who was supposed to attend the 150th anniversary celebration
of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (where Alan works) but pulled a
no show, as has been his wont since the release of the Laquan McDonald video. So
when we met up with a Chicago police officer at the Navy Pier and needed to
know where to renew the time on our rented bikes (a totally screwed up system
that’s too complicated to explain here), Naomi kiddingly (brazenly) asked him,
“How much do you want to tell us where the nearest bike rack is—five dollars,
10, 20?” With a straight face he answered, “Are you implying that the entire
Chicago police force takes bribes? Let me tell you, we get paid way too well to
threaten our salary by taking a $20 bribe for a speeding ticket. On the other
hand, vice, corruption, fraud . . . .” Then
he smiled and asked us where we were from. I said, “New Mexico” and he said,
“So am I” and I said, “Wow” and he said, “Just kidding” and turned, pointed out
the bike racks and said, “Have a nice day.”
To get to Lake Michigan we had to ride our bikes through residential
streets from Kimiko and Alan’s house on a route that took us past Wrigley
Stadium, where the Cubs were playing a game that went 13 innings (they won).
Street hawkers and vendors were everywhere, the bars were full of fans drinking
and watching the game on big screen TVs, and the streets were lined with cars that
search for parking for miles around this stadium smack dab in the middle of a
huge urban environment. Regular neighborhood residents have to plan their car
trips around the Cubs’ playing schedule or the traffic will whittle away your
patience until your blood pressure boils.
Getting stuck in various traffic jams on this nine day trip
to Minneapolis and Chicago reminded me that the only time my son Jakob ever
used to call me from grad school in Berkeley was when he was stuck in traffic.
It eventually contributed to his departure from the Bay Area back to New
Mexico, where often I can drive the entire eight miles from Chimayo to Truchas
and see maybe five other cars. In Minneapolis, my friend Catherine and I got
stuck in traffic on some freeway coming back to the city from Paisley Park,
where we paid our respects to Prince. Why he chose to live in a bunker-like
complex off a busy street in a tacky Minneapolis suburb remains a mystery, much
like everything else about his life, but it didn’t stop thousands of fans from
trekking out to stuff flowers, purple balloons, photos, messages, stuffed animals,
records, guitars, and Doritos (he must have been a Dorito man) onto the chain
link fence that surrounds the compound. While the autopsy report is still not
out, the best guess is that he got hooked on pain meds after his two hip
surgeries and died of an overdose of Percocet.
So it was an interesting sojourn to the urban/suburban
landscape and reminded me that I’m way too old to ever live anyplace larger
than Santa Fe (and even the thought of that gives me pause), and
that I never want to own a smart phone (not a single soul who I spent more than
five minutes with didn’t use a phone at some point in the encounter). As I look
out my window today, the grosbeaks are feeding in my yard, the apple trees are
in full bloom, and the green, green grass in the fields is already a foot tall.
I’ll be hitting the weed whacker first thing tomorrow morning.
