Here I am in my first trip to the Midwest. Chicago is stunning. The sheer size of the buildings downtown overwhelms me. My friend Karla once admonished me in New York City to "Stop looking up at the buildings!"

She's wasn't with me today to stop me. And when you're not craning your neck to admire the architecture, you're watching all the people. I've never seen so many! Just as auto traffic clogs the streets, people fill the sidewalks in walking waves.

You see the throngs of people and see the need for such tall buildings. There's so little room for all these people that they have to stack them on top of each other to make them fit.

I visit the tallest of Chicago's towers, the Sears Tower. The 108 floor elevator ride to the top floor open to the public takes just 70 seconds. The view is nearly as impressive. The sky is just hazy enough that I can't see into any of the three neighboring states that the tourist literature promises but concrete and steel stretches over everything I can see.

Oh, and I find out why Chicago is called the "Windy City." There's almost as much wind as there are people and tall buildings. Someone later tells me that Chicago is only the 14th windiest city in the U.S. The rest comes from people blowing hot air about what a great city Chicago is.

I don’t know where the air is blowing from, but I promise it’s not hot. Quite chilly, in fact. Must be where that "wind-chill factor" comes from. Downright winter like by Florida standards with night time lows dipping into the 40's. No way would I want to get caught here in January.

Wednesday I go to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. This is cool. In more ways than one. Karla tells me that the ballpark is within walking distance of her condo. You can walk to Wrigley from Karla's like you can swim to Florida from Cuba. It's been done but I wouldn't recommend it.

I guess city people who either don't have cars or don't drive them because there's no place to park have a different view of how far walking distance is.

I learn how far when I try to call Karla from the ballpark and discover that I have walked into the next area code!

I have good seats. I'm 12 rows behind the visiting dugout on the first base side. I'm not close enough to count any of the players nostril hairs or anything but I can attest that major league baseball players do indeed have nostrils.

The Cubs' rookie phenom, 20 year old pitcher Kerry Wood, is going against the Florida Marlins. Earlier this season he tied the major league record by striking out 20 batters in one game with a fastball that reaches 100 miles per hour. He strikes out only nine in eight innings of work this time but the Cubs win 5-1.

The thing that strikes me is how much more colorful the park looks in person than it does on television. The place looks so drab on TV. Not in the flesh. Or in the grass, I guess. The seats and much of the stadium trim are also green. The place looks greener than a seasick frog but a lot healthier.

Funny thing happens as I'm leaving. I hear someone behind me say, "Hey, aren't you a TV guy?" You gotta be kidding. I'm 1,500 miles from home, wearing dark glasses and a golf cap and someone in Chicago recognizes me? No. The guy behind me works for Channel 7 here in Chicago.

I might not be getting recognized but I am getting my exercise.

Friday I go for another walk. I start north to Lincoln Park. I see a guy walking one of those little rat-size dogs. Attached to the leash it looks like a yo-yo with feet. I ask the guy, "What kind is it?"

"Popoyonne (sp?), he says. "It's a French breed dating back to the 17th century."

"Is it full size?"

"No. She's five months," he says. "She'll be six pounds when she's fully grown so she's about halfway there."

Oh, I'll be afraid then.

A few steps farther I walk past a statue of Abe Lincoln. Illinois is the "Land of Lincoln" after all. Somehow it never occurs to me that I'm in the state of Illinois. Chicago seems a land unto itself. What I couldn't see the connections to the park were the statues of Ben Franklin and a guy on a horse. Does there have to be a reason for everything?

The distinguishing characteristic of Lincoln Park is its zoo. There's no admission. I'm glad about that when I see the flamingoes. They're pink because of the algae and plankton they eat, by the way. But I'm thinking, why have I come all the way to Chicago and gone to the zoo to see birds I see in the wild at home?

I feel better when I see the male lion. Ever since they captured that escaped one near Orlando we haven't had any running loose in Florida.

He stands majestically atop a giant rock looking over the entire zoo. Looking right past the throngs of squealing school kids, perhaps all the way back to the grassy plains of the Serengeti his ancestors once ruled. Or maybe just staring at that condo building.

The tiger doesn't look so happy. I watch him pacing and patrolling the same patterns over and over. He has worn a path through the grass where he made what where continuous rounds during the five to ten minutes I watch. He knows he doesn't belong here. Soon I don't think I do either.

After the zoo I head south toward downtown. Someone had told me I should go shopping on Michigan Avenue, the "Magnificent Mile" it calls itself. What he didn't tell me was that none of the stores there sell anything I can afford. In Saks Fifth Avenue I see a shirt I had bought at TJ Maxx for $29.00 (reduced from $39.99) on sale for a mere $93.50 (reduced from $135.00). I doubt I'll ever buy anything in a store like Saks but it's sometimes fun to go in and see just how much people will pay for things.

The same person who told me to shop the Magnificent Mile also recommended I eat at The Berghoff.

At least this one has food in my price range. "Good German food," I'd been told. Except for sauerkraut I don't know what that is but I'm happy to see that it apparently includes a hot open faced turkey sandwich and mashed potatoes because that's what I'm having.

The place was founded in 1898 and my waiter looks like he's been around from the beginning. Nick is a bald-headed, liver-spotted, hunched-over old guy who doesn't walk as much as he shuffles his feet and hopes he moves forward. I'm in no hurry which is good because ol' Nick couldn't beat an earthworm in the 50 yard dash.

He speaks with a foreign accent so I ask him if he's from Germany. "Near Germany," he says. "I know Germany well." When I ask what country he does come from he only says, "Eastern Europe. Eastern Europe." After I’ve eaten we talk again and he asks me where I’m from so take another stab at asking him the same question. Still all he'll say is, "Eastern Europe. Eastern Europe." Now I figure I have a retired concentration camp guard here who thinks I'm a Nazi hunter. That's right, Nick. We're on to you. Me and the JDL and the GDP and the ESPN are going to track you down.

And we're not fooled by that fake crippled walk.

Saturday Karla takes me to a party. It’s part of a party circuit in Chicago that Karla belongs to. There’s usually at least one a week with some costing $60 or more to get into because they’re allegedly charity fund raisers. Karla says she doesn’t know where the money really goes. Fortunately this one isn’t pretending to benefit anyone and there’s no admission charge.

Not long after we get there Karla sees two women she knows (I don’t see anybody I know. Should I?) and she introduces me. After a while Karla and one of the women leave to go mingle, and I continue talking to the other one. She works for a consulting firm and her current job is in Miami so she spends all week in south Florida then flies back to Chicago on weekends.

We have a pleasant if unmemorable conversation and guessing that she’d like to go mingle like her friend and Karla did I excuse myself to get a drink. After pouring myself a diet 7-up (YUCK is right but it’s the only non-alcoholic drink in the place), I rejoin Karla.

"How’d it go?" She asks.

"How’d what go? I say.

"She was hitting on you," she says. "You were supposed to ask her if you could get her a drink."

"Hitting on me? What for? I live in Tampa. She lives in Chicago and works in Miami. What’s there to pursue? Am I going to take her back to your place and have wild sex until she wails like a siren in your guest room while you try to sleep in the room next door?" I don’t say any of this. I just stand there nodding dumbly as Karla auditions for the guest host spot on the Miss Manners Show (What? There’s not one?) because I’ve trampled proper courting etiquette.

Lucky for me Karla tires of the scene not long after I do and we leave.

Monday is my last night in town and I keep my promise and go to a blues club. Blue Chicago, it’s called. Right on Clark, the same street Karla lives on so I walk. It’s only a mile or so and I get there before the 9 p.m. show time because Karla warned me these places pack people in and I don’t want to have to stand against the wall dodging spilled drinks all night. It’s only five bucks to get in and I find out why as soon as I order my first Diet Coke. It costs $2.75.

I get there early enough to get one of the tables not far from the stage. I’m joined by a couple from Germany, Joe and Eva. I don’t know what they do for a living but it must pay well because they’ve traveled all over the world. They’d even visited Tampa. I don’t ask if that was before or after German tourist season had officially opened to hunters in Florida.

They were nice people whose biggest struggle that night was finding a beer rich enough for their Teutonic tongues. It’s a blues joint. Whaddya want?

Playing tonight is the Linsey Alexander Blues Band with special guest Zora Young. If you were casting for a blues band leader, you’d pick Linsey Alexander if B.B. King weren’t available. Linsey introduces his band members as "Groundhog" Simmons on bass, Chuck on guitar and George "Rigor" Morris on drums. They’d have sounded better without the special guest.

The 9 p.m. show actually starts around 9:20 p.m. but I figure that being blues men they were busy being cheated on, stole from or otherwise wronged by their babies. Although the tables are taken, there is still plenty of room to walk around and Linsey takes his wireless guitar and plays a long solo as he walks from table to table.

Yes, it seems the late 20th century has reached old blues clubs. It’s even pervaded blues songs. Sure, many still chronicle the woe that befalls the blues man when his baby leaves him for another man but Linsey brings us into the 1990’s when he sings, "I was in love with a woman. But my woman, she loved a woman too."

I hate when that happens.

By the end of the first set the place has begun to fill and by the start of the second set the place is so packed with people that nobody can walk from table to table and so full of smoke that even smokers choke on the secondhand stuff.

The second set ends around 12:30 a.m. and I decide I’d like to breathe again. I leave and see a line of people outside waiting to replace me.

Tuesday. Time to go home. I take the bus downtown, say goodbye to Karla and thank her for letting me visit then hop on the "El." If nothing else, I’ve mastered mass transit. The bus ticket costs $1.50 but you can get a transfer pass for another 30 cents that’s good for the train so my whole trip from Karla’s condo to O’Hare costs less than two bucks.

Flying to Chicago, the plane was mostly empty but I don’t get that good fortune going home. People pack this plane and I’m right across the aisle from a woman who has an infant and a toddler. This is not going to be a quiet ride.

Scheduled takeoff was 4:30 p.m. At 5:10 we’re still sitting on the tarmac when the pilot comes on to explain the tower has stopped all south bound departures because of thunderstorms so we’re parked on the tarmac until further notice. "As soon as we get an update… blah, blah, blah,"

The toddler is already restless and the baby who I’d hoped would go half the flight before exploding begins fussing too.

At 5:20 the engines re-start and at 5:27, only 57 minutes late, we take off for Tampa.

I try to concentrate on my book God Bless John Wayne by Kinky Friedman. It’s an easy read that I was afraid I’d finish before we ever left the ground but I’ve still got enough left to last most of the flight.

Across the aisle, the toddler is doing well but the baby begins to give warning signs of an imminent explosion, like puffs of smoke from an active volcano. Sure enough, at 7:43, little Miss Vesuvius erupts. But three cheers to the mother who (if I may change metaphors in the middle) does a good job of putting down the uprising.

The pilot does just as well putting down the plane and I’m home.

John

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