Ten miles outside Chicago. There's some twenty bucks in my pocket. A plane that got away right between my proverbial fingers, and the cheapest room in a hotel.
My bag held at the bowels of a beast called O'Hare, all I have right now is what I carry with myself: A blue spring coat. My messenger bag. A book I got for pennies at the airport where this all started... And a hungriness product of a cheap Board of Directors' decision not to provide anything more than chips in international flights anymore.
The shuttle drops me in downtown, around five in the afternoon. It's been over 4 hours since I lost my plane to Hong Kong. I must read like I am quite the traveler. I'm not. I am a sham. One that took the longest time to set things right, so that he could resume this travel to the other side of the world the next day by dawn.
But right now, I am a castaway. I walk the streets of this city with the last lights of an evening that ripples from the shadows projected off the tall buildings surrounding me. The river calls me. Bridges up and down project a geography so unique I feel the need to further loose myself in these streets... Five celsius over zero and a persistent wind puts my coat to shame. But who cares. Not me. Not these eyes.
A smell assaults my attention. It's already been almost three hours since I lost myself in the streets of this city, and now hunger calls with a rush not to be forsaken. I turn a corner to find a cathedral for the pilgrim my stomach has turned into: Celestial chants fill the air, as cooks and cashiers shout orders one another... it's Portillo's. --What's gonna be, pal?!!-- Shouts the cashier, sickened by my hesitation and the length of the line behind me, and I answer like an automaton: --A Maxwell Street and a Bowl of Chili... Please-- --Coke??!-- --What?-- --You want a coke with that?-- --Yes, p-- --$12.32... Next!!--
I choose a place to sit by the balcony, so I could still study the city, and feel the hustle inside the restaurant. Be part of it all. As I devoured one of the best, simplest meals in my life, all of a sudden, all of the cooks, cashiers, errand boys and some patrons start to sing some tune...
This is happiness. Right here, right now... Seven dollars and change in my pocket; a piece of bread with meat and onions inside... The wind rushing through my hair... I am lost in a city whose buildings are teeth in a maw that will chew me inadvertently, and then spit me back away... This is happiness, I realize.
More time passes by. I take the train. I need to go back to my cheap hotel room, some ten miles outside Chicago.