I am writing this blog post sitting cross legged on a dainty white bench, under the shade of tall trees, surrounded by the chirps of birds on their dinner route and the racket of cicadas, who seemed to have hatched a little late this year. Chipmunks are bounding around, standing on their hind legs and gnawing at the food they find from time to time.In front of me is about 50 yards of gently sloping lawn, a longitudinal patch of greenery tucked between wooden picket fence on one side and a line of trees which look like the seven trees that Ram sent his arrow through to kill Vaali treacherously on the other. It is a balmy evening, cool under the trees, with a soothing breeze. Wireless connectivity is excellent.
I’ve found meself a little piece of summer idyll, right at the back of my hotel property.
This is the sort of perfectness that has driven lesser mortals to write poetry. But I, gentle reader, shall desist. I shall give you an account of my week-long birthday celebrations instead.
I do feel like a state, or at least a minor royalty, to have such distributed festivities. But life is a lemonade stall and such things happen. (It means nothing--I just wanted to say that.)
S (male) helped me usher in my birthday on Tuesday evening. It was another beautiful day like this and we went to P.F. Chong’s, an evidently popular Chinese sit-in restaurant chain. The place was thronging with (mostly white) people as we went in. I still can’t get over the fact that I am living in very white area--strange for a suburb of Chicago, no?
That aside, the evening was exceedingly pleasant, as S and I discovered some common interests and were talking long after the (mediocre) dinner was cleared from our table. He also lent me a bunch of books by my favorite Tamil author, Sujatha.
On Wednesday, I had just enough time to respond to a deluge of affectionate, tongue-in-cheek, or just plain nice birthday wishes that came via Facebook and e-mails. I love FB for facilitating this and making me feel like a celebrity with 100+ wishes. What’s a birthday without people making a small fuss about it?
On Thursday, I left work early and took the Metra train to downtown, where S (female) and I were attending a music concert at Millennium park called “Music Without Borders.”
Chicago has been experiencing a tropical summer this year--hot and humid. It is the kind of weather that makes us Indians curse and long for the monsoon showers. But here, coming as is does after a cold winter and a wet and gloomy spring, people revel in it, hanging outdoors in the migraine-inducing sun in a way that makes us desis go, “Seriously?”
Its like a festival here in Chicago. Everybody is outdoors, there are events of all imaginable kinds every 100 yards, and all public transport is filled to the rafters. It is exhilarating.
Before the concert, we stopped to have dinner at Pizano’s, a “Chicago Italian Restaurant,” just off Michigan Ave. It was an all American place, with a nice bar, walls chock-a-block with sporting memorabilia, not very fancy decor, but thick with crowd and conversations. Food was very good.
After dinner, w
e walked to the Jay Pritzker Pavilion where the concert was underway. The “Music Without Borders” is a series of double bill concerts by music bands from literally around the world. That evening, the first concert was by a band from Columbia and Latino music was pulsating through the giant speakers. People were dancing in clusters all over the place. The music was top notch--especially one vocalist had a rich voice that did calisthenics at his bidding.The second band was from Cotonou (Capital of Benin, a West African country). Their music was very different, but energetic and infectious nevertheless. But I was like Cinderella with a train to catch to my distant and not very well lit suburb, so had to leave soon.
The bus to take me to the station did not arrive at all, so had to do a mad dash to Union Station in a taxi driven by, well whaddyaknow, an Ethiopian. Luckily he didn’t propose marriage--perhaps the drive was too short. But he did tell me that he is an elementary school teacher and just drove taxi for the summer, had many Indian friends, and knew all about Tata. I made it to the train just in time. The walk back to the hotel from the station was not half as hairy as I had expected it to be.
The original plan for Saturday was to go biking/hiking with S’s family at Salt Creek Trail. However, while reading on it, I discovered that the trail ended in the Brookfield Zoo. I begged S whether we can go to the zoo instead, and she gracefully agreed.
Well, here’s the deal. I grew up in Thiruvananthapuram, which has India’s second oldest zoo (established in 1843), surrounded by the beautiful museum gardens, which also encompasses Sri Chitra Art Gallery, featuring some of Raja Ravi Varma’s most spectacular paintings. I’ve visited it a million times and have encountered wonders such as one week-old lion cubs, which we saw in the smelly and dark maternity enclosure, sub terra. Zoos, even now, take me back to that happy childhood place.
So I was as excited as (if not more) S’s six-year old at the prospect. We reached the Zoo at 3:00 p.m. and learned to our dismay that it would be open only until 6:00 p.m. that day. We set forth gamely, determined to partake of as much entertainment as could be had in the time we had.
The first stop was at the dolphin show--which by itself made our day. It was not a very long show, with the standard jumping, splashing, swimming backwards, playing, fish bashing and vocalizing elements. But what fascinates me and warms the cockles of my heart at such shows is how adorable these playful and intelligent creatures are. And how like dogs in behavior--loving and demanding attention. I look at the palpable affection between them and their trainers and wonder, can there be a better job in the world?
We then went to see the underwater showing-off of the dolphins and then the sea lions. I’m sure they are just doing their thing, but they are obviously aware of the onlookers and seem to be doing one extra graceful lap on their backs just to put up a show, like that lion in Madagascar.
Going above ground, we were faced with a somber reminder of where we were--there was a news item about a sea lion that died of complications from swallowing a coin tossed by onlookers into the pool. Damn!
We then set o
ff to the stingray pavilion, at the excellent suggestion of T, S’s six-year old. I had no idea what we were going to see there and was quite puzzled when they asked us to wash our hands before entering. I also didn’t understand why everybody was leaning into an oversized tank with their hands inside the water.S told me patiently that we have to put our hands inside the water and the stingray would come and nibble at our fingers. It was then I noticed the two or three stingrays, excellently camouflaged under water, swimming up and down.
Oh dear! The stingray feels like suede, soft and velvety. It’s little body is so soft that one feels one might puncture it if not careful. I don’t know about you, but the thrum of life in little creatures’ bodies always renders me speechless. How? How? Makes a great argument for Intelligent Design, non?
We saw lions, tiger, and snow leopard, but it was time to leave by then. We were exhausted by the heat and sweating as well. We had covered only about 20% of the zoo, but it was a very satisfying experience.
I set back home, emboldened by my piece-of-cake journey on Thursday, even though S and her family were suggesting that I should go back in the morning. I got into the train by 8:50 p.m., befriended the Swedish gentleman sitting next to me, and we had a nice conversation going. I have met very few Europeans, but the difference has always been stark--this man, even with his halting English, had a much more intelligent conversation than could be expected from an average American. (There, I am a snob, I accept.)
Things were going swimmingly until 9:15 p.m., when our train screeched to a halt and the power went off. We were two stops away from my station. Those who have traveled in American suburbs would endorse the surprising lack of streetlights. So the scene outside our compartment was feeble illumination cast by few lamps on the platform and darkness beyond.
The young Tamil man, sitting in front of us with his family, boldly stepped out of the train and came back after some time with the news that the engine and the first compartment have been detached from the rest of the train and are about 20 ft away from the rest of it. We saw conductors running up and down the platform, but no news. They then closed the gates so that we couldn’t exit from the train.
We sat there, in darkness, completely devoid of options of getting home if the train wouldn’t start again. Teenagers made their laughing way to the front of the train to take pictures. Oh to be that carefree and irreverent again!
The Swedish gentleman asked me, “Does this happen often?”
Does it?
I thought it was better explained by my “Calamity Jane” aura, but held my peace. I didn’t want to scare him. After about 15 minutes, the conductor came and said, “We are trying to connect the train back.”
Impossible as it might sound, they did manage to connect the train and we were off again. We reached my station 20 minutes late, but luckily there were other people from my hotel in the same compartment (what are the chances, I ask you), so I reached safely.
So this, gentle reader, is a faithful (well, mostly) account of the first week of the rest of my life. You can see all the pictures at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=229850&id=547851114&l=aaf812e74c
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