Sweet Home, Chicago

I am coming to the end of my first weekend in Milwaukee and am getting used to the grandeousness of things. I am in for a shock when I return to London.

A group of us went into downtown Milwaukee for a meal and I have to say that it was really quite good Italian. I say this with some relief as I was struggling to find any food that hit the spot. Some things do not exceed with excess. Then again, I am staying in the outer ‘burbs so I need to keep my expectations in check.

Actually, this night downtown there was some live music being played on the forecourt of the new museum (which is a good looking building). Good, daggy covers band. It was a very warm night and there was a breeze coming in off the (huge) Lake Michigan. All in all, a great experience.

But come the weekend and I set my sites on bigger things. Namely, Chicago. After negotiating what seems to me the normal trials and tribulations of internal public transport (queues, waiting, lack of information ... no wonder everybody drives ...) the $20USD (one way) 1:45 minute train ride lands me (and my drinking buddy on this tour, TS) on the outskirts of Chicago.

Chicago is one big city. I would estimate it was at least 15 times as big as Melbourne. The photo in this blog entry was taken from the observation level of the John Hancock Center (sic) which, according to the promotional audio pumped into the elevator in the lift on the way down, is the world's most recognised building. Never heard of the John Hancock Center? Nor have I. Big Ben which is actually the name of the bell, not the building), Empire State, Sydney Opera House ... John Hancock Center. Hmmm ...

Again I have been amazed by the capacity of the American people to be open and warm to visitors. On the way we ask a couple of guys for directions, to which they end 'Have a great stay'. This is a common ending to conversations pertaining to locality directions, of which I have had many, and I think it is sincere. TS and I ask another lady on route the same kind of question. She tells us where we should go (in the nice way, not the bad way!) and then power walks up ahead. She then walks back - but is stopped by a set of lights she had crossed well before we had gotten to them - waves like a mad woman to get our attention, and then points in a direction in order to make sure we get where we are to be getting. Gives you that warm feeling about a place.

But, as has been my experience, I found some people to me a lot less ... well ... accommodating. Starting with, ironically, the hotel in which we stayed.

Now, I won't give the name of this hotel for obvious reasons. But it was a well known name and supposedly a good one. I phone booked and paid in advance for a single bedroom with two double beds. When my order was taken, I thought it was interesting that the operator said 'Yes, I can REQUEST that'. Request? Anyway, things became clearer at the hotel when the front desk told me 'Oh no, that REQUEST is subject to availability and ... well ... we have none available'. Now, it may not be clear, but TS is a bloke and I will do what I can to avoid sharing a bed with another guy (SP and MB being two times where its a case of any port I
in a storm). So I pretty much go into the Seinfeld 'Now anyone can take a reservation. But the key to the reservation is HOLDING the reservation' routine. and, lo, a room with two double beds on a non smoking level becomes available. And a nice room too. But already I am a little ... well ... irked.

Older people go out in the states. A lot. And by older I mean closer to 50 than 40, if only just. Now, I know this sounds ageist, but I have always thought that as I age I will confine my social activities to dinners and wine bars. Indeed, I imagine it is already happening. Not here and particularly not in Chicago. We found a great piano bar and settled in for a couple of bevies but if a man is only as old as the woman he sees then it was time for me to leave. And I did.

We had a fairly good stake for a meal and by this time it would have after 10:30. We really struggled to find a good place to have a drink after that. We found a King Street like strip (oh, the pain) and were going to go into a place when someone was in the process of getting thrown out. Forcefully. This kind of thing happens in all countries, I understand. But we were warned that the Chicago Police were not tolerant of drunks and, sure enough, this man got arrested. Handcuffs and all. For getting thrown out of a pub. Now ... I thought this was just a little extreme and TS though it was more so. Still, I was keen for a look inside. 'ID please'. This was unusual. I mean, I look older than 21 (or do I!!). But I have seen signs saying that anyone looking younger than 30 will get asked for ID. But I don't look younger than 30 (or do I!). I show my (Australian) licence. But this was not enough. Turns out that I need to run the risk of carrying my passport around so that I can show it to this individual to get into this bar from which I have seen somebody VERY forcefully evicted and, indeed, arrested. It was getting past 12 and I had a feeling that it was time to make toward home.

The punchline is that after walking miles trying to find a place that looked good for a drink and to listen to some music and to do some people watching, we returned to the hotel lobby to see it transformed (since earlier that day) into about the best club we had seen all night. Dress code dictated no shorts - which I kind of understand, but we had been walking all day in 39 degree heat - so it was time to take our bat and ball and go home.

The next day was site seeing and shopping day. Both were OK, though I bought less than I thought I would. Some prices are cheap, some are not cheap enough. Navy Pier was interesting, with a kind of carnival atmosphere. But our time was short and by 4pm it was time to head back to the train station for the waiting, queues, lack of information and 1:45 journey back to Milwaukee.

The goal of the journey was fulfilled, though. I came to the States hoping to see a big, big city. And I did.

All things great and great

I am in the hotel room and they offer unlimited broadband to their guests. So it seems a perfect opportunity to catch up on my blogging.

I took a BA flight out of the UK on Sunday to Chicago. The mob that booked my flight allowed 1:45 between the connecting flight from Chicago to Milwaulkee. Cleary, this person has never gone to an American airport: It is no 1:45 procedure. Firstly, my flight was about 35 mins late. Then I got to the immigration queue - there's another hour. I am so late that by this stage I am almost relaxed (I mean, what are you going to do?).

So I hop the train to get to the domestic terminal and it is bedlam; O'hare airport in Chicago is no picnic. I can't see a customer service desk anywhere. So I latch onto a woman who is taking care of the luggage for American Airline and she is very, very nice. In fact, she is the only person I like in the whole airport. I mean, the immigration officials were rude in the extreme and the woman monitoring the line was, at best, unforgiving. Anyway, this nice lady tells me that the gate for my flight has closed and that I will need to get on the next flight, which is 4 hrs later. I do some running around to see if there is another option to get to Milwaulkee. The guy at the nearby train station knows less than his middle name and I did not realise there might be a bus option. So I wait the 4 hours for the 19 minute flight north from Chicago to Milwaukee.

But before I get to wait in relative relaxation, I need to get through the domestic airlines' security check point. So again I line up, but it is only about a 15 minute line. I get to the front where the decidely camp security guy tells me 'Oh ... were checking you out' in the manner of Queer Eye for a Straight Hero. At this point, the guys checking baggage on the xray machine tell me they are going to go through my baggage and that I must keep my distance. So my wallet, passport, phone, laptop and all my important documentation are laying splayed across the checking counter while I am let behing one of those barrier-seatbelts. The guy who check out my person (you know, he runs a hand held scanner over me and pads me down) is a pretty good guy, but all this time I keep thinking that I find it unusual that I - a 32 year old agnostic accountant who was more than cooperative with all officials at the airport - have been identified as anything remote resembling a security threat.

Still, I am as nice as I can be to whomever I come in contact with. It is not that I am a nice guy. It is not even that I am a patient guy. No, it is more that the threat of a body cavity search is enough to temper ones enthusiasm for any sort of retaliatory comment or, for that matter, gesture.

So I get to the gate which my plane is due to leave from and I kill my remaining two hours by reading a bit of Bill Bryson. 3o mins before my plane is due to leave it starts boarding. I hand over my ticket, at which point I am told I am on stand by. Stand by. If I had known that, I'd would have found an alternate way to get to Milwaukee rather than gamble I would be able to get on this flight. Who the hell gets on a flight when they are on stand by anyway? Turns out that I did. Glad that I did, too becaue I was about to explode and the guy at the gate knew it.

I land in Milwaulkee at about 10pm. I had missed the opportnity of being greeted by my limo driver holding a sign with my name on it. In fact, I have no idea as to how I am going to get to the hotel. Certainly, there are no taxis around. Turn's out that there is a shuttle service running from the airport and I can tell you that the service was great.

I can say, though, that I was not the happiest chappy upon arriving at my hotel at 11:00pm.

My hotel room is huge, but that is only the begining of the 'huge' theme. The roads are wide, wide, wide. The houses are very big. There are huge distance between everything. The office I am working at reminds me of a Bunnings hardware store. The pharmacy across the road is the size of a small department store. And then there is the food.

Now, maybe it is where I am located at the moment, but I can't say that the food does it for me. Fried food features large. I had a dish today that featured pita bread, but the bread was cut in fingers and looked more like a fried potato chip. I got balsamic on my salad, but it had the consistancy of tomato sauce. I had a great entree last night - a mexican number - but I was full as a goog by the time I got to the main. And the main was a bit rough: a blue cheese beef burger which sounded much better than it was ... something not quite right with the blue cheese. More mould than goodness ... I can't put my finger on it. The meals a big and the meals are, well, complex and big flavoured. But all I keep seeing (and tasting) are examples where more is not more.

But this sounds all rather negative, doesn't it? The upside is this: as a whole, I've found everyone to be friendly and helpful (other than the hotel desk staff). And charming in a way that is hard to describe, but warmth has something to do with it. Politeness seems to be prevelant too. I am sure that part of that has to do with being the foreigner in a strange land, but I don't care about the reasons, rather the outcome. Today I have had dinner with a mob from the workplace and had a great time.

One of the other guys over here with me (who I had not met before the trip) seems to be up for a beer and a look-see, so I have a drinking buddy. I have been working hard during the day but I am having a fairly good time as well. I will try to head into Chicago on the weekend. Look out for the pics

Blueberry Hill

Very very quick one ...

Felicitations to Ange and hello from sunny Milwaukee. I will report more very soon, but I will tell you that size of things here - as is the stereotype - is too true. Roads, cars, buildings and, yes, food.

More very soon

Hold that thought .. Take 2!

Just quickly ... looks like we might just have a place anyway. Not quite as homely as the previous one, but recently renovated and much larger. We are due to move in three weeks, unless something goes awry. I know that the real estate agent was doing the checking of our details today (ringing our respective employment agencies and the like) and these check should, of course, come out just fine.

Not much other news to report. Oh, but I am in the US on business for two weeks starting this Sunday, so I hope to have a couple of stories from there.

Where in the State? A hint: Heeeeeyyyyyyy. Post your guesses to this blog. I will post kudos to whomever gets it.

Hold that thought!

Ten minutes after I posted my last blog raving about our new flat in Southfields the real estate agent called me up and told me that the landlord had changed her mind and has decided to stay in the property so it was no longer available to us.

Back to the drawing board for me ... I am SO over it!

A place to call home (away from home) ... at last

Since Paul started working last week it's been my task to find us a place to live. Now, if you know me at all, you would know that it's almost a hobby of mine to check out houses and apartments on the various property websites around the traps. Hell, I had been searching for suitable London accommodation since last year! I swear, I should have been in real estate. Actually, a perfect business opportunity for me would be to be a house-hunter for all of those "too busy to deal with agents, trawl through the net/papers, view properties" kind of people.

I commenced my real search last week. On a daily basis I'd log into to findaproperty.co.uk and search for suitable properties. We had criteria you see and it had to be met; wooden floorboards, dishwasher (I cook a lot), a garden, fully furnished, walking distance to transport and reasonably newly renovated. In the space of a week I had viewed over 10 different apartments, maisonettes, conversions and flats. My head was spinning with rental listings, street names, agents names etc etc and my mobile was running off the hook. The second property I viewed was a fully furnished first floor conversion flat in fabulous Southfields (mine and Paul's ideal location). It was the kind of place that wasn't perfect (no garden, small kitchen and no dishwasher), but when you walked into the living room (they call it a reception over here) it gave you a warm feeling. It was nicely furnished, the bathroom was getting renovated, it had a funky big stainless steel Smeg fridge and the second bedroom was big enough to be a study and a guest bedroom. I made Paul come and see it straight away and he had the same feeling as me.

Well, I wasn't happy was I! I wanted my garden and dreaded cooking in that kitchen as it was kinda tiny ... so I kept looking. On a daily basis, I'd choose a new suburb, impose myself on real estate agents and get them to drive me around to various "suitable" properties. Now, I'm not sure if I'm fussy, but my idea of a nice property is certainly not a real estate agent's idea of a nice property. I've viewed properties with kitchens the size of broom closets, flats above Indian takeways (I've been warned about the smell of curry embedding itself in your linen), bathrooms with carpetted floors (I still don't get that), places that smell like cat pee, carpet that looks like someone's mud wrestled on them and gardens you couldn't swing a jaffa cake eating squirrel in.

The only real upside of all this property viewing has been being able to drive around in Letting Agent's cars all day. On Tuesday I was swanning around in a convertible VW beetle with the sun beating down on me, last week it was a funky mini-cooper (the agent was kinda cute too!), and I've driven in every VW Golf and Polo known to man.

So after what seemed like my gazillionth viewing I decided to give up and allow Paul to put an offer on the second property we looked at (always the way isn't it). Someone else had already made an offer so it wasn't guaranteed that ours would be accepted, so today I continued looking. Just as I was viewing a property that met ALL of our criteria, dishwasher, balcony, walking distance to the Tube, wooden floor boards, two good-sized bedrooms and really really nicely renovated, (oh, and squirrels frolicking in the front yard) Paul called me to tell me that they had accepted our offer on the property in Southfields and we could move in at the end of the month. I wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or excited. Excited I am though ... we will now have a place to call (almost) our own. I have already conjured up ways to spend money on additional furnishings and adding my own touch to the place.

So the next chapter begins.

Oh ... and I start a temp role with a very large, very well known music/media company in Oxford Street next week ... good widget factor that role is going to be!

Oh ... and I met up with my dearest friend G-Roov (Mark) yesterday who I used to work with in Kings Cross in Sydney when he was a backpacker in Australia. He's English but has been living in New York for the past four years. We did the London Eye, The Tate Modern Gallery, had lunch at a quaint little pub in the Borough, I tried my first Pimms (no more Mel Royales for me - I'm converted!) and then met up again for more drinks and a fabulous Italian meal in Clapham for dinner. He's a member of the Soho Club in Soho (apparently it's tre' exclusive) and has promised to take me there for drinks as soon as.

Oh ... and ... no more "Oh ands" ... for now.

Of Pots and Pints

The worst thing about not having regular internet access is that so many stories come and go, with out me writing them down. By the time I get onto the internet the story has become so vague as to not merit telling. So today, I will only tell the lessons learnt - I hope - from the night before.

I am not a big drinker. I neither profess to be nor aim to be. I enjoy a tipple and probably only really get drunk four times a year. At most. I do this be keeping an eye on the amount that I drink and I drink beer so that I get physically full before I get too out of hand. I know that I can drive after two pots of beer. I get merry after four beers. I get vocal at six beers. I get a little roudy at eight beers. After that it just becomes a matter of degrees of loudness until I start losing full motor control at twelve beers. I can't remember the last time I had more than twleve pots of beer in a night.

But as we know, beer is not served in pots (275 mL) in England. No ... it is served in pints (600 mL). But I have not done the conversion in my head yet. So I am still using my counting system.

So last night I went for after work drinks. I had two pints without them touching the sides (which is just over four pots). I imagine that I had about 6-7 pints and a shot of something or other. That is somewhere between 12 and 15 pots and a shot. I got home at about 2am this morning Mel was almost certain I was going to have a heave in the bed. For the record, I did not. I do not know how loud I would have gotten last night (though I am sure I will be told throughout Monday ...), but I was certainly feeling sick and sorry this morning.

The lesson, then, is that a man not only has to know his limitations (as per Dirty Harry), but he also needs to know the rate of exchange. In all things.