Iowa to Chicago

Iowa was John Deeres and wide fields. But in other ways, Iowa felt much like upstate NY (minus the wineries); we were driving on county routes, slowing down to 35 mph for 2 minutes to pass through a small towns.

If anyone was reading my blog back in 2010, you might remember Cheerful Jen. We worked at Rodale together, biked together, laughed much, and both had “–man” last names. Cheerful Jen and her boyfriend, Guitar Paul, hosted us in their Ames Iowa apartment for our Iowa Contingent. These two have bicycled across the united states! Absolutely inspiring, generous, GOOD people. Ames Iowa holds the nation’s first land-grant university (**see footnote), and we explored the charming mid-western/college town on bicycles. Then that evening we relaxed in the apartment: four young people, records on the stereo, a little good beer, food of kale chips and chickpea curry. Talking about the chemistry of coffee, about Jen’s and my sustainable agriculture graduate research, about bicycling stories.

(**Footnote: Ames also had a food co-op, which was a distinct treat to buy some dried apricots and hummus. In Wall, South Dakota—home of the profusely advertised Wall Drug store—unwilling to pay the pumped-up tourist prices for Wall Drug tourist food, we drove the few blocks to the truly authentic grocery store, a dimly lit Sure Save affair. Mr. India asked Mrs. Cashier if they had hummus. She looked at us like we were from Mars or Seattle or something, and said she didn’t know what that was. It probably didn’t help that dear Mr. India calls hummus “Who-Moose,” though.)

I was so taken by Guitar Paul’s music—he played just for us there, living room setting—that I wanted to buy a CD from him (check him out: “Paul Doffing”). I handed him money but he said I must take it as a gift; I insisted I must pay. Cheerful Jen suddenly appeared over us: “A mid-west Nice Off!” she exclaimed, “I shall moderate!”  (we finally bartered ourselves that I would take 2 for the price of 1)

Then we drove to Chicago.

What a distinct difference to be amongst so many tally-tall buildings, after paddling across all that ocean of Montana and expansive South Dakota. And the only cities we’d been through were, erm, rather squat in the building department. Coming into Chicago was like diving into a corral reef ocean all stimulating and full of structures. Or someone’s darkened study den, lined on the walls with hundreds of books. Overwhelming all the potentials. So many cafes! So many little corner bars! And pizza places!

In Chicago, Mr. India noticed the differences in driving. More rushing and diving cars. A slurry of tail-lights and crawling traffic, the extra impatient ones dipping and weaving in and out. It is hard sometimes for me, as a native, to see freshly, but traveling with Mr. India brings perspective. “There is a tram!” he says enthusiastically! And: “Look at all those graves!” And also, in the traffic, “That truck is not letting him in. Cruel. Drivers are cruel here.” And also simply: “Look at this….crazy!”

I was very excited to be in a city again. I felt in me that old Seattle zing, being on a bicycle, exploring new streets. The few hours we spent in Chicago that evening were precious to me: bicycling with Mr. India, having rich coffee under a tram station, riding along the lake bike path and gawking at the buildings, feeling poor in the shmancy Michigan Ave shopping street, admiring the refined brick townhouses, and finally finding a wee, delicious, affordable Thai restaurant.