“Dad, look at her hair. It’s purple, I like it. I want to dye my hair that color.”
“Dad, that guy behind you looks like Maui (from Moana).”
“Dad, do you see his leg tattoos through the rips in his jeans? Is that a Devil?”
We are taking the Blue Line into the city from O’Hare midday Thursday. Sybbie, overdrawn on iPad time from the flight, falls into an easy slumber before we get to Jefferson Park. Eva, however, is alert with observations. She whispers into my ear as she scans the train car taking an inventory of the passengers as they gently jostle, heads craned down toward their phones, moving with us toward the city of my youth.
“Dad, how many people live in Chicago?”
We consulted the internet and found the answer. We compared it with Charlottesville. We opened the calculator app and talked through a division exercise.
“For every 1 person in Charlottesville, there are 58 people in Chicago.”
Eva was quiet for the next few moments while the scope of Chicago became more tangible in her favorite language… numbers. The train gained momentum as the cars on the Kennedy slowed to a crawl at the Edens merge.
*
On a clear Sunny day, you can see four states from the top of the John Hancock building (Indiana, Michigan, Illinois and Wisconsin). Despite this fact, we decided Chicago is best viewed nearing the magic hour. We ascended at 6pm with the elevator express ride taking 53 seconds (we counted) and our ears popped in transit. From the observation deck, the encroaching dusk was illuminated by a sea of incandescent lights covering the earth like a patchwork carpet.
We walked the circumference of the building as I pointed to landmarks – Navy Pier, Willis Tower, United Center, Wrigley Field. Eva and Sybbie marveled at the vastness, the all-encompassing breadth of their visual field. Eva posited that the windows could be screens simulating a city beneath. I didn’t push back on her playful theory, Chicago from this vantage does feel like a dream world.
We entered the “Tilt Room” to partake in a 30-degree tilt out over the street below. We previously watched this experience on YouTube and both girls were giddy with anticipation. We held onto our vertically affixed bars, sharing furtive side glances, before the pneumatic drone signaled the beginning of our 2 minutes suspended 96 stories above Chestnut Street. I was immediately uncomfortable as my brain shouted at my body to resist, push back, bail. I looked to my left and Eva was wearing a broad smile, calm, soaking in the weightless loft of her perch. I looked to my right and Sybbie has let go of her bars and is LAYING DIRECTLY ON THE GLASS giggling.
*
“They are cheaper on the outside! Get your peanuts here!” shouted a man sitting on an overturned bucket on the corner of Clark and Sheffield.
The morning rain was gone but the scolding wind off the lake reminded us to keep our jackets on. Sybbie was on my shoulders again for “Mile 2” of her piggy back adventure after a full morning of walking the Lincoln Park Zoo and Chicago History Museum. My spine had now reached maximum compression and my pedometer read 16,000 steps. The time was 12:45pm.
We snaked through the main Wrigley Field gates and were now awash in people. We surged through the cross traffic of the mezzanine and up to the field level. We sat in Section 122 on the first base line. Hot dogs were immediately purchased and consumed before the first pitch.
Joey Bart, a 29-year old light hitting catcher for the Pirates, came to the plate to lead off the top of the 3rd inning. We didn’t know at that moment something magical was about to occur. Bart popped up a Shota Imanaga pitch and my brain immediately registered something urgent. I knew this ball was destined for our seats after gauging thousands of fly balls during my youth. All I could muster to Eva was, “Get Ready!”. The next few seconds were a blur of rising voices and arms. When the gravity of earth finally reclaimed Bart’s foul, it smacked directly into my forearm and dropped dead at our feet. Before I could say a word, Eva pounced on the ball and held it aloft like it was the Olympic torch.
The row in front of us were double fisting, wise cracking Cub bros with “Curt 🚬 Natty” IU hats. They softened at the sight of Eva’s joyful revelry and joined in, “Way to go! I just want to touch it! Can I?!?” one belted out. Eva obliged. We tingled with excitement for the next several minutes as the game forged on. Cotton candy, hot chocolate and peanuts soon followed. Life seemed to hang easily for us on the North Side that afternoon, like some sublime force reached down and touched us with a gift of serenity.
During the 5th inning – Eva clutching her ball, Sybbie intently shelling her 24th peanut – I leaned back in my seat, spine slowly uncoiling, and I knew I had two Cubs fans for life.
*
We spent Saturday night with old high school friends and their children. I’ve known Shawn, Carlos and Olivia for ~30 years and that informs a shorthand that is present no matter the duration since our last conversation. Our bond was cemented by bitching about yearbook moderators, attending parties in northern Chicago suburbs and late 1990’s pop culture ephemera.
The children played gleefully in Shawn and Erin’s basement while we circled the kitchen island eating Italian beef sandos and sharing status reports about distant characters from our collective past. We dished about old flames, relitigated old arguments and shared humorous tales from our recent timelines. The 4+ hours flew by only interrupted by the occasional child, hair matted with sweat, heaving breath, looking for sustenance.
I left Shawn’s house in a bittersweet mood. Grateful for time spent together but knowing these occasions highlight the dimming of memories, the inevitable passage of time. The girls asked the Uber driver where he is from. He is from Ghana. They have many more questions before we make it back to the hotel.
*
Sunday morning we take the Blue Line back up to Rosemont. Kurt, my Liverpool spirit guide, meets us at 11am to take us to his home in Prospect Heights. We will spend the next 5 hours there playing with his daughters, watching the Masters final round and eating well. Ellie, Evie, Eva and Sybbie are thick as thieves instantaneously.
The first Chicago trip with the girls will be one that I cherish forever. Sybbie riding every “ex-a-later” in Water Tower Place. Eva studying the Loop diagram and telling me how many stops are left. The girls hailing taxis on Michigan Avenue. Making change at Potash Brothers grocery. Hearing a 20 person school choir sing under The Bean. Visiting the Chicago Museum of Illusions. Nabbing a photo at my childhood home (20 W. Burton). My heart is full and my back is… slowly recovering.
The Clumsy Interloper 
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