A few summers ago, I spent a few thousand dollars backpacking most of Europe. While the knowledge, the memories, the experience I gained are now priceless, the biggest lesson I learned was that it didn’t necessarily take an airplane ride and a passport. The common sentiment I found from my fellow travelers was the newfound appreciation for the things that are in our proverbial backyard. I remember one guy saying, “I’ve lived in northern Florida for most of my life, and fifteen minutes away from me is a kayaking tour that I always thought about checking out, but just never did. It’s the first thing I’m doing when I get home.”
I’ve tried to maintain that attitude of peaked interest and appreciation for what’s around me – in other words, being the perpetual tourist. The spirit of this led me to Milwaukee Monday night. A straight shot up 94, an hour and a half (maybe 2 hours) – it’s a no-brainer, and I’m shocked it’s taken me so long do it.
My traveling companion was my 22 year-old sister. Fresh from finals, she’s also an up for anything gal. Our plan was so last minute, I was emailing her a list of things to pack for me as I sat at work Monday afternoon. And when I got off at 7, she was waiting out front with the car, and we hit the road.
One of the greatest, little, joys I’ve had of late is leaving the city, cruising 90/94 when there’s no traffic, windows rolled down, and listening to classic rock on “the Drive” at full volume. Just makes me feel good. Once we hit the border, we stopped for food at the Kenosha exit. We bypassed the McDonalds, the Wendy’s, the KFC, the Taco Bell, and opted instead for the “Cheese and Brats Stop.” In one place, it encompasses all the greatness Wisconsin has to offer.
We got to Milwaukee about 9:30, and before we even saw the skyline, we had “Nights with Alice Cooper” ushering us into the city like a giant electronic welcoming mat. And in the name of full disclosure, yes, our hidden agenda was to reenact scenes from Wayne’s World (“We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”).
We didn’t print out any directions to our hotel, but figured we could wing-it just fine. Mackenzie “price-lined” a hotel that afternoon, and we wound up paying $50.00 for a room at the downtown Hilton (thank you Mr. Shatner). And sure enough, one of the biggest buildings in the skyline bore the red Hilton sign, and we steered toward it like moths toward a candle. I waited in the car as Kenzie checked in, saying when she got back, “this is freaking Dumb and Dumber style nice in there.” I don’t know why that movie is her frame of reference for hotel quality, but it certainly was posh – an older historic building, decked out in chandeliers, expensive vases, plush carpet, even an indoor water-park. And here we were, the rats who snuck in the back door.
But we didn’t wait around to enjoy it. Not when there’s good old-fashioned Wisconsin drinking to be done. We walked around downtown, trying to find a cool scene with hopefully live music.
Now I’m the type of person who tends to idealize everything. And so walking around Milwaukee’s downtown, I was in a constant state of awe: there were cool old buildings, the waterfront, the music theatres and shopping complexes, and cute little stores. But most importantly – it wasn’t sickenly crowded. You could ride your bike on the road without fear, even downtown. There were people, but it wasn’t like you were tripping over them. In other words, it was all the good things about downtown Chicago, minus the bad.
Eventually we settled on a bar. We pulled our barstools up, and waited to be served our Spotted Cows, a delicious Wisconsin brew. We waited, and waited a bit more. It was crowded for a Monday night – apparently, we had stumbled into the college district. So I grabbed a local ‘zine, and waited. And as the bartender finally comes up, he asks the guy to my left who had just stepped up for his order first. I’m only slightly visibly annoyed. This older guy orders some cocktails, and then hands the bartender a twenty and says, and get these patient girls a drink too. I say, “that’s not necessary,” to which he leans over and says in my ear, “you could use a sugar daddy,” and walks away. OK. Two spotted cows, please.
Even though it had a nice patio, we left after one drink. Too many guys in stripped shirts and girls with blonde hair and clingy tops make me dizzy. We walked up the street to a place that had a sufficient dive-bar appearance. We walked in, order some more spotted cows, on tap this time (excellent), and were surprised by a giant wood patio that sat directly on the river. It was a great night out, the perfect mild weather for drinking outdoors. We settled into seats that were directly on the water. We watched the river run by, and stared at the lights of the downtown buildings. As I went for another round of a new local brew, Kenzie joked about being left alone and having to pretend to stare “wistfully,” into the distance.
Towards the end of the night, a group of late twenty somethings – two guys and a girl – were getting back onto their boat they had docked right out front of the bar. We watched in jealousy as they jumped back on, and got called out for laughing at the girl stumble and almost fall into the water, “Oh yeah,” her guy friend said, “I’d like to see you do that!” We of course said we couldn’t. “Hey,” he said a minute later, “would you mind doing us a favor? I’ll give you twenty bucks,” he said. “Sure, I’ll help, but you don’t need to pay me,” I said. So I walked down to the edge where they were tied up. “Hold onto this rope, and when we start going, let it loose and throw it back onto the boat,” he instructed as he reached for his wallet. “No problem – you really don’t have to give me anything,” I said. But he stuffed a ten-dollar bill into the side of my shoe anyway.
So he started the boat. I glanced into the cabin of the speedboat through the round window, and to my surprise, saw the disappeared buddy snorting drugs off the little table. How very rock-n-roll. So they launched, I threw the rope, and just then Mr. Coke came back up to say, “hey ladies! Aren’t you coming?? Come on!” I said, “No, I’m just here to break the Champaign bottle over the hull.” They laughed, and took off down the river.
These are the type of Wisconsinites I’ve come to admire in such a weird way - the guys and girls who will forever be 17. Maybe they have more or less money, depending on their trade, but every night is Friday night, and everyone is a friend you just haven’t met yet. There are no rules, and there are no consequences. When I’m sitting here at my desk on a Monday, getting so little joy from the average workweek, I can’t help but wonder - in some perverse way, do these party animals really have it made? Are they free? Perhaps, but I remind myself; there is always a price. Always a price.
After that, we stumbled back to the Hilton. We had one more drink in the hotel bar, the newest Leinenkugel summer ale at the behest of our friendly bartender. Then we went back to our room, and slept in between silky 400-count sheets.
Why can I only wake up early when I’m on vacation? If I had my choice, I wouldn’t normally wake up before 10 if my life depended on it. But not when I’m somewhere other than home. I was showered and making complimentary coffee before 9:30. Kenzie was grumpy and still in bed, that is until I annoyed the crap out of her and she got up. I watched as she went straight to the ice bucket, and broke off a chunk from the block of tomato-basil cheddar cheese we’d gotten at the Cheese Brat Stop. First thing she did, I swear to god.
So we had the day ahead to be tourist. We had lunch in the historic district at some sort of a permanent indoor farmers market open warehouse. I saw the “Now Hiring” sign at the place selling Indian food with the thin white-girl with a massive head wrap and long flowing skirt. Everyone working in the building seemed happy, and I admit I was more than tempted.
By 11:30, we were at the Miller Brewing Company. Early by some standards, but not our own. We took the tour with Chris, an awkward young man from Tennessee who was in town for an interview. Our tour guide was a cute guy, probably a 22 yr old college student. He recited the brewing info like a pro, and we joked around with him about who is it that drinks so much “Milwaukee’s Best,” or “Milwaukee’s Beast,” as we were fond of calling it.
The best part of this free tour is the end when you can sample the products. They start you off with a Miller Lite, but after that you can pick 3 other beers, served in pretty generous 10-oz glasses. They had Italian and Polish imports, local brews they distribute, even Sparks, the red bull of beers. I opted for something called “Frederick Miller’s Chocolate ale,” or something along those lines. It haunted me the rest of the afternoon. We ate peanuts in the little German style beer hall, and filled out postcards to everyone we could think of, even the troops, since Miller Lite would mail them for free.
Afterwards, we went down to what a brochure called the historic “Bohemian district.” At that point, it was raining cats and dogs. We ran from record store to clothing boutique to coffee shop. We hung out at a thrift store for a bit, talking to the clerk about their Chicago location and discovering the other two guys in browsing in the tiny store were from Chicago too. The talkative clerk talked about his time in Chicago versus life in Milwaukee. With his bleached blonde hair and edgy haircut, stripped shirt and tight jeans, it was obvious he wouldn’t fit-in in outside the confines of Milwaukee. But he talked about how cheap things were here, saying at one point, “you couldn’t even charge 20 bucks for back stage passes to Pearl Jam here. No one pays that much for anything!”
And we talked about Chicago neighborhoods and their various thrift stores and rock venues. I could tell he missed Chicago in a way, but was in no hurry to go back. “Here, they’ll warn you if there’s 12 minutes of traffic to downtown. That’s a good day on the expressway in Chicago.” So true.
The rest of the afternoon was rained out. We tracked down a guitar store thrift store man had recommended. Afterwards, we got a bit lost trying to get downtown in the pouring rain. In my crappy Escort, the windshield wipers don’t work, and the defrost doesn’t help much either. So we drove the side streets of Milwaukee in near blindness. After too much frustration, and no urge to get back out of the car, we decided to just head back.
Kenzie drove back in the monsoon. It was rough driving the whole way. By the time we got near the city, it was rush hour. Hearing a traffic warning on WBM public radio, Kenzie decided to ditch the expressway and head back to Chicago via the suburbs. So we crawled back into the thick of over-population that is the city through one bland and crowded suburb after another: Northbrook, Glenbrook, Oak Park, Schaumburg, etc. We sat at stop light after stoplight, dealing with the middle-aged assholes in decent cars that honk if there was a second’s hesitation at the stoplight. Or in one instance, a man who was laying on his horn at the stalled cars, despite the fact that traffic was being directed by a crossing guard. I rolled down my window and gave him the finger. Just one birdie is not enough for scum like that. Take your Audi, and shove it.
I asked my sister, “Why do people live in the suburbs? I mean, what’s the draw?” She was as stumped for an answer as I was. “I guess they want a house and a yard,” was her answer. “So, it’s a lame substitute for the city. Sounds like they get the worst of both worlds,” I said. “Or maybe it’s because of their jobs,” she went on. “Well, there’s unfulfilling jobs anywhere you go, I don’t see why it has to anchor you to a suburb,” I said, taking my road rage out on the unsuspecting peons of the burbs. No character, no nature, no culture, no room to breathe. That’s just how I see it. No offense.
Sometimes I say to myself, what am I doing here? Why Chicago? You got snobby yuppies on one side of town and snobby hipsters on another. Can I go somewhere in this city without being judged? There’s nowhere to park, riding my bike is a death wish on most streets, and even on the lake path for the most part. Rent is high, bars overcharge, and concerts cost a day’s work, not to mention gas prices or your average restaurant tab.
I have to remind myself; I’m here for museums, for music, for art and culture, to meet intellectual people. And I get all that on a regular basis. However, going to places like Milwaukee remind me that I don’t have to live in Chicago to get that.
But then again, I could be all wrong. I went to Europe with a certain reverence, and at the end of the trip, I was so happy to be home. I go to other cities and say with definite pride, “yeah, I’m from Chicago.” So I guess, as the saying goes, the grass is always greener. Or maybe in this instance, the lake is always bluer. It just takes a good road trip now and then to remind yourself, which side are you on?
No comments:
Post a Comment