You know, I used to have a friend who lived there.

Albert was a man who appreciated things in their right place. Indeed, some would go so far as to suggest that he was a little obsessive. Did it really matter if a chair was not square to a table when no one was sitting at it? To him, the answer was a resounding yes. Of course, things being in their right place could also refer to the general ambience of a room, or, more importantly, to himself. And so it was with a great deal of consternation that he surveyed the lodgings where he would be resting for the night.

Replacing his snifter on the tabletop before him, he smacked his lips as he reached out again to readjust its position on the coaster and allowed the briefest of sneers to traverse his face as his eyes scanned the peeling wallpaper. The drapes were heavy with stains and dirt. It was reminiscent of a place he had once visited and would sooner not be forced to remember. As his hand grazed the wood by his glass he noticed the lacquer was broken and the surface defaced, a record of drinks spilled and enjoyed. There was nothing worse, he thought, than people having fun.

As the stifling heat encroached and a droplet of his sweat fell by his glass he found himself somewhat short on patience. A knock at the door did nothing to avail him of his agitated mood and it was with a great deal of regret that he bade the assailant enter.

No, ladies and gentlemen, I haven’t gone mad. That is simply the short piece of writing I felt compelled to put to paper by my room in the Denver hostel. I am unable to give an opinion on the city because I only saw the few streets between the Greyhound station and the hostel and back.

The journey on was, as has become the norm, fairly uneventful. That said, I met a carny who claimed to be one of the top five clowns in the United States. I had a flick through Time magazine but I must have missed the official ranking.

I passed a good deal of the time listening to a Bill Bryson audiobook. He’s one of those authors I’ve always meant to read but have never really got round to it. I don’t know whether it was my tired mental state or the way the wannabe John Malkovich read it, but I was not impressed with the one I listened to. I have since started another and found it much more palatable.

I also kept myself entertained for a little while watching a guy who was very good at talking and talking about absolutely nothing talking to his neighbour who seemed very disinterested. When he started showing off his CD collection, which consisted mainly of heavy metal, she became visibly annoyed that she was being kept from reading ‘The Confident Woman’.

As the bus arrived in Chicago so early (around 6am), I wasn’t optimistic about making it to my room when I arrived at the hostel, but they usually have a place where you can store your belongings until you can check in properly, so I made my way there anyway. As expected, I wouldn’t be allowed in yet, but, with my load lightened considerably, and having taken advantage of the free breakfast, which was far superior to the one on offer in San Diego, I ventured out to explore some of the city. As it was a warm day, I decided the parks and the shore of Lake Michigan would be a good place to begin. After a little while getting my bearings I called in at the free (which is always a bonus) Museum of Contemporary Photography on the way. That done, I spent a while becoming increasingly infuriated at people on segways, who seem even more numerous there than in D.C., if that’s at all possible.

As an aside, the old saying about the weather in Chicago has been very much proven true for me; I took a photo of a skyline when it was almost clear, and not long after I’d crossed the road the tops of many buildings were in cloud. As I came across Millennium Park I began to feel a little hungry but ignored the impulse to go and eat, and as it turns out that was one of the best decisions I’ve made on this trip. It was also one of the most unusual. As I traversed the park, I noticed some dancers warming up on stage and joined a small crowd watching in the open air Jay Pritzker Pavilion. I was a little disappointed when they started some routines. This was not because of the quality of the dancing, which I am in no position to judge, although it seemed superb, but because the nature of the practice meant that all my photographs had other dancers hovering in the background in casual poses.

As time passed, I overheard somebody saying that there would be a dress rehearsal in just over an hour before, I presumed, the real show in the evening. Taking this as my cue to go and eat, with the idea that I could return in time to see the rehearsal and thus a free show, I was surprised to see a poster advertising that the show in the evening was to be free too. I changed my plans almost immediately, buying food with which I could return and eat during the show if necessary. I quickly returned to the hostel to check in properly, shower, and change, and met a couple of my roommates.

The first one, a fairly overweight guy from Ohio, who can be forgiven on account of his seriously awesome beard,* and the fact that he’s currently reading a novel by Alan Moore with a foreword by Neil Gaiman, described himself as ‘tired’, eschewed small talk, and promptly fell asleep. Not long after that, a German who looked very American entered and accidentally awoke epic beardy. We spent a little while discussing ‘college parties’, which sound exactly how they appear in films, before I gave them my tip on how to spend their evenings and left.

*This reminds me of having the door held for me at a stop somewhere along Route 66 in Arizona. I thanked the guy and was greeted with a ‘Woah, totally righteous beard dude!’ You can imagine the accent and intonation, I’m sure.

I was somewhat discouraged to find, on my return to the arena, that the seating area had been closed. Not wishing to appear the stereotypical tourist, I waited for another group of people to breach the barrier and followed, any blame clearly resting with them. After witnessing some of the dance, I was asked by a park employee whether I was affiliated with one of the groups, or a sponsor. As I was wearing the clothes of a wannabe cowboy and snapping away like Ansel Adams with Parkinson’s, I am of the opinion that she already knew the answer. Resisting the temptation to scream ‘don’t you know who I am!?’ I conceded that I was in fact a harmless, lost, and somewhat confused tourist who had wandered past the large ‘NO ENTRY’ sign in a state of total bewilderment and please don’t call the police. Or words to that effect. I was pointed towards the ‘line’ and began to queue. My enthusiasm to return for the dress-rehearsal, which is, I imagine, being met with a certain degree of disbelief, afforded me the wonderful position of third in the entire queue for the evening’s event. It also meant I had a very long wait.

Luckily, the two ladies in front of me were very chatty, and seemed pleased that I was a traveller in their fair city. At one point the conversation turned to the dance group rehearsing at the time and I confidently asserted that although I didn’t know from whence they hailed, they had been preceded by a group from New York. One of the ladies asked a follow-up question and I shut my mouth. After roughly a million people asking if this was the line, and when did the place open, and myself wondering why only the Brits seem to be able to get queues quite right, we were let into the arena and scrambled for the seats we desired. As more and more people entered, I became more and more aware of complaints that they couldn’t enter the ‘wristband area. Not only were these seats technically undesirable from my point of view, as they don’t afford a view of the dancers’ feet, they were reserved for the sponsors. The very sponsors who had made the event free in the first place. How someone can try to cause a fuss over such an issue is, frankly, beyond me, and a detriment to our race.

Before long the show began, and we were treated to performances by The Joffrey Ballet, Ballet West, River North Dance Chicago, Martha Graham Dance Company, New York City Ballet, and Paul Taylor Dance Company. For those readers as ignorant as myself in such matters, they can, I’m told, be considered some of the finest dancers in America, and indeed the world. I consider it something of a privilege and a very happy accident to have seen the show, and perhaps the only negative surrounding the whole experience was its exposure of the inadequacies of my camera and lenses in low-light conditions. And the fact that you weren’t there to see it with me, of course. After the show I returned to the hostel to backup my photos, began to fall asleep, postponed that endeavour, and went to bed.

In the morning I had more free breakfast, backed up the photos from the previous day and researched camera upgrades. An extremely expensive purchase may be on the cards in the not-too-distant future.

That done, I went to the Chicago Cultural Centre to see some art. As usual, some was good and some was shit. I really don’t understand how any art critic maintains gainful employment. I then wandered the streets some more on the way to Pizzeria Uno, where the Chicago Deep Dish pizza was born. On arrival I was told that yes, the individual size would be sufficient for me, and yes, I had heard correctly, the wait, after ordering, would approach 45 minutes. I ordered a beer to tide me over as I watched Cubs vs Brewers on the TV and drafted some of this blog entry in my notebook.

The host was right about one thing. I had to order another beer. And it’s a shame really, because there were lots of waiters walking around with leftovers but I have a feeling that ‘is that up for grabs?’ probably wouldn’t go down too well in a restaurant. Belly half-full, I departed, but not before asking the barman, Bill, for a favour. He was able to complete my souvenir, or so I thought at the time, which I can now reveal to be a collection of 52 quarters: one for each of the states, one for D.C., and an eagle. There are more available, but that issue won’t be completed until long after I depart. Next time, perhaps. I also noted down a number of verses from behind the bar. I reproduce one of them here because it is the truth:

A man should hear a little music,/ read a little poetry,/ & see a fine picture/ every day of his life.

I had on my mind some sight-seeing related to the 20s, but as it turns out, Chicago isn’t very proud of its past so this proved more difficult than anticipated. Still, I made it to the area of North Clark Street on which the Valentine’s Day Massacre took place, although the garage has since been levelled. On the way I stopped for a Chicagoan Hot Dog to fill the space the pizza hadn’t. It was very good, but there was far too much pickle and too many peppers, and based only on this example the New York style came out on top. Having said that, the relish was spectacular.

When I got back to the hostel I met another roommate, Matt who had been working with Camp America. For my evening’s entertainment, I met up with Andrew, a Chicagoan who Nicola had met on her travels while he was cycling from San Francisco to Boston in well under two months, an impressive feat, I’m sure you’ll agree. We met at Buddy Guy’s Legends and got on very well, with very stimulating conversation. In fact, I felt that life had dumbed me down since university and I must have been stagnant in England for too long. Andrew left around midnight as he had work in the morning but I stayed for a few more songs before heading home.

The next day I spoke to Matt for a little longer and joined him on a hostel-led walking tour of the city after breakfast where we met a very friendly Filipino who immediately added us on Facebook and extended an invitation to visit him in San Francisco.

On the hostel tour we were soon joined by Tanya, who lives in Preston, doesn’t watch TV, and, to our amazement, had never heard of the Twilight series of books. She was very excited to see more English people and Matt and I treated her to a very liberal dose of sarcastic humour and mockery which she seemed to very much revel in. After the tour we went for a deep dish pizza at Exchequers which was far superior to the one I had the day before.

Just before we had gone into Exchequers I had received a call from Joe who I had met at the dance celebration and had invited me out on his boat to see the city shoreline from Lake Michigan. The lake is, by the way, as large as they say, and it’s fairly hard to believe it isn’t actually a very mischievous sea. The invitation was extended to Matt and Tanya, who declined in favour of Richard Attenborough hunting, and so I went to meet Joe on my own, the butt of many jokes about rohypnol, gay cruises, and kidnapping.

Alarm bells first rang when he included a smiley face in a text message he sent me. There’s nothing wrong with that in principle, but there is when you’re sending it to another man you’ve only just met. They became louder when we got to the boat and he opened the door below deck to reveal a sofa/bed and told me to get comfortable. I had also noticed that he seemed a lot more camp the second time around. The clapper struck the lip so hard it shattered when he turned on the music to reveal a combination of Take That, Avril Lavigne, and Nickelback, and started asking me about relationships.

It was Joe’s opinion that a huge aspect of travelling involved being willing to explore yourself and embracing new experiences. Having made it fairly clear that my last relationship had been with a girl and that there my preferences lay, any awkwardness he may have been feeling melted away to be replaced by a palpable sense of disappointment. I spent most of the time thinking about what a great story it would make and struggling to keep the laughter from bursting out of my mouth.

Nothing more was said of the matter until we were floating out on the lake. I was enjoying a beer (which I made sure was opened in front of my eyes) and, admiring the Chicago cityscape which is, I might add, possibly the best I have seen in my life, when Joe told me I had beautiful eyes. Smooth. I offered a thank you and crow-barred the conversation back to where it had been before. We soon returned to the harbour and I told Joe thanks, but I didn’t need a lift because I was going to stay there to do some photography for a while, and declined his invitation to dinner. Although this may sound like an avoidance technique, the truth is I had envisioned some very interesting shots as we had entered the harbour. Unfortunately by the time I got there the people who were to form an integral part had moved on.

I followed the lake shore path for a while and was pleased to see many Chicagoans engage in jogging, cycling, and even waddling along. As my meeting time with Matt and Tanya was approaching, I glanced at the map to see how many blocks I needed to walk. No luck. Turning the page to look further North, couldn’t find my location. Turning the page again I found that I was right at the top. As it was far too far to walk in time I paused at each bus stop and walked to the next if there wasn’t one in sight. This risky tactic paid off as I arrived at a stop precisely as a bus pulled up. I hopped on knowing it was heading roughly South and hoping it would continue to do so. Luck was on my side, and I was eventually dropped a mere block from the hostel. This gave me time to shower before Matt and I went to meet Tanya, who had been waiting for half an hour as she had checked what time the hostel outing we had mentioned was due to depart and we had not.

As it turned out, the hostel group had gone to Buddy Guy’s Legends, where I had been the night before. Eager to experience more great playing, I agreed to return and on arrival we were told our hostel cards granted us half price entrance. If only I’d known that the night before! After a fairly difficult session of chair re-shuffling we had joined the others at the table and got talking. Tanya introduced us to Emma, one of her hostel roommates, and we soon discovered that we have a mutual acquaintance from the Uttoxeter area. Meanwhile, the music consisted of a jam night, and the musicianship was excellent, with a great variety of ages and instruments represented. There is something particularly satisfying about watching an elderly man playing the shit out of a guitar.

However, that was nothing compared with the entertainment to come. The self-proclaimed ‘black, blonde bombshell,’ which I’m sure tells you enough to form an accurate image in your mind (and if not, think very curvy, with a huge ass. No, bigger. Bigger. BIGGER. Now you’ve got it) took to the stage, and Matt was convinced she was a transvestite. He was wrong. She singled out a couple at a table and commented on them before the man explained they were father and daughter. She had him sit at the front of the stage, christened him ‘daddy’, and his jaw hit the floor so quickly as she gyrated in front of him I was concerned it would shatter with the impact. His daughter was suitably embarrassed, as was Matt, whom she also singled out for some attention. It was a little concerning to see one of the elderly guitarists pounce as soon as her father was out of his seat. It was worse to see that her dad didn’t seem to mind when he eventually returned. Following an excellent evening of live music, supplemented with $6 pitchers and Tanya’s first beer, we made for the hostel to get some sleep.

The next morning I woke early to do some laundry before we met up to scale the Hancock Tower and the visit the Art Institute, wherein are housed numerous paintings by some very famous people. Laundry done, I packed, checked out, left my bags with the front desk and realised I’d missed the free breakfast. Whilst waiting in the lobby I got talking to some more English guys from my room who were heading for the Willis (formerly Sears) Tower. I suggested the Hancock as an alternative for the reasons I had been given, viz. a $5 drink in the bar gets you a view without paying a full entrance fee, and the view from the Hancock offers more of the lake and beaches. They were convinced, and we set about waiting for the women. Tanya eventually turned up alone and explained that Emma had decided to go on a segway tour. A cardinal sin, if ever there was one.

We soon departed, and after a rapid, ear-popping ascent, were at the bar, where I had Red Bull over ice for breakfast. The view was impressive, but I imagine it would have been a lot better at night like the Empire State Building.

That done, the others went to Millennium Park and Tanya, Matt and I went for some lunch at Gino’s, where you can write on the walls but not the tablecloths, and definitely not the servers.

For those who can’t quite read it, the text on the blackboard reads ‘I will not write on the walls’. As we waited for our food, we entertained ourselves by completing the puzzles on the backs of the menus and using the wax crayons we’d requested to colour in the pictures.

Fed and watered, we walked to the Art Institute, where we saw a great deal of exceptional art, some good, and once again some shit, in a variety of styles. With all the Monets, Van Goghs, etc. on display Mr Maycock, my old middle-school art teacher would have needed a change of underwear.

One of the most interesting exhibits was the Russian war-time posters. Matt was fascinated enough to buy a book on them in the gift shop, and there we soon found ourselves talking to Vivian, an elderly lady who first thought we were Australian. Apologising profusely, she redeemed herself to a certain extent by correctly guessing that as I lived in the South-West I would probably be found in Cornwall when I was at home. After imparting some questionable advice regarding men and their homogenous nature and some good advice regarding not trying to reform or change a member of the opposite sex, we briefly discussed Prince Charles and Vivian’s presence in England for the Silver, Gold, and impending Diamond Jubilees of the Queen before the gift shop closed and she left us to it. I would later see her again on my way to the bus stop, but didn’t stop to talk as I was already crossing the street when I spotted her.

We returned to the hostel and I picked up my things. Tanya and Matt met Emma as we returned and after we said our goodbyes they all went to Millennium Park for a free jazz festival and I returned to the Greyhound station. I’m sure the jazz would have been exceptional, but such is life.