What a difference a day makes! Yesterday we were sunning at the beach; today we had on all the warm clothes in our luggage and were wishing for more. The north wind off the lake was blowing and kicking up 4 to 7 foot waves on the beach; it definitely kept things brisk. We were feeling travel-weary so took the opportunity to be lazy, recharge and get ready for the Cubs-Mets game.
We caught the Red Line train at the Chicago-State station, about six blocks from our hotel. Figuring out fares on a new system is always a bit fraught, but the instructions from the help desk were clear: press G, press B, wave your credit card. Most of the time was spent discussing the game and who we were pulling for (not the Mets) and whether the Cubs or the White Sox deserved more loyalty (no comment). We made our break at a lull in the conversation and were soon rattling our way north to Wrigleyville.
We got there early enough to walk around the area near the ball field - more pubs per block than we've seen anywhere else - even than White Sulfur Springs, MT. The Blarney Stone, which here is not thriving, brought back a memory of the first ever underage visit to a pub (Blarney Stone in Vancouver's Gas Town).
Wrigley Field was the main show, though. The walk around the outside of the stadium properly celebrates past greatness. Statues of hall-of-famers like Sweet Swingin' Billy Williams, retired numbers of players like Ernie Banks, and pavement markers of marquee names mark the rich history of the club dating back to the 1880s.
Here Betty has found one of her favorites - Andre Dawson.
The grassy area just outside the gates quickly filled with moms, dads, sons, daughters, boyfriends and girlfriends playing catch. We took a table nearby, had a beer and some fries, and watched the goings-on. The wind was relentless, though, and we were thinking a hot drink would have been more comfortable. But, at a ball game?
Once through the gates, we walked the levels inside and out. The place has a nice feel, even though our Tucson friend, James, is adamant that the upgrades over the past ten years have wrecked it. It doesn't feel like it could hold half of its 41,000-seat capacity. The ushers were about the most polite and helpful people we came across in Chicago. Definitely, "the Friendly Confines". They even run a 50-50!
Our seats inside were just to the left of home plate and close enough that we could see the pitchers grimace during their windup. A close look shows the flags snapping straight out - damn, but it was cold. The hawkers were having a tough time selling beer, except to the young bucks in shorts, t-shirts and flip flops.
The Mets jumped out early with an Alvarez 2-run homer in the third, but Stroman shook it off and pitched otherwise flawlessly (88 pitches in 8 innings) to shut the Mets down. Hoener homered for the Cubs and the team drove in three more runs to end it 4-2. We shivered our way back to the Addison station and basked in the train car warmed by happy Cubs fans and sad but resigned Mets fans.
Question? - When you discover a new author, do you think the first book you read is the best? That seems to be what happened when I moved to the U.S. and discovered Willa Cather. I read the Song of the Lark and fell in love. I had forgotten that when young Thea discovers her true voice she moves to Chicago and becomes a star.
... a day later ... walking through the galleries of the Art Institute of Chicago, I rounded a corner and saw the original painting by Jules Breton. It took my breath away. Willa Cather named her book after this painting - another example of artists leaning on other artists.
We can't leave Chicago without some blues from Buddy Guy. Here he is in a small club singing Meet Me In Chicago. As Buddy says 'let's do it'.
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