Two Anti-Chicago Tales from the Emerald City

I was proud.

I had successfully and independently navigated myself from gate A15 to baggage claim 11, found my hefty piece of plastic luggage and walked what seemed like miles to the Light Rail. I purchased my ticket, without calling for help, got on the correct train and sat down, gazing out the window on this strange monorail-like contraption admiring the mountains and the trees, wondering if there was any possible way I looked like a local.

A young family, eagerly heading to the Mariners game downtown, boarded at the next stop and sat in the seats surrounding me. I gazed out the window at the mountains and the trees and wondered if there was any possible way I looked like a local. I tried not to emote with every surprising thing they said as I shamelessly eavesdropped into their conversations.

Expectedly, their conversations moved to favorite baseball teams. An all-too-common slam on the Yankees is followed by a subsequent hatred for the Red Sox, teams that are despised simply because they win. Then, in a far too mocking tone for my liking, one of the young boys, somewhere between 7 and 10, retorts, "Yeah, my favorite team is the Cubs."

A chuckle emerges from the mouths of all 3 adults in the group. The other young boy, who at 5 or 6 is too young to understand sarcasm, responds, "But they haven't won a game in over a hundred years! They're terrible!" Smiles and laughters escalate, as everyone gains a bit of confidence in their mediocre baseball team. I gaze out the window at the mountains and the trees and wonder if there is any possible way I look like a local. I try not to emote with every surprising thing they say as I shamefully eavesdrop on their conversation.

----

It was the wrong bus. Tara was mostly certain of this fact, but Ben trusted google more than he should. We boarded the 17 and Ben stopped to ask if the bus would turn into the 2. Tara and I could not hear the driver, but judging by the long response that followed this question, it was obvious that the bus would not be morphing into a different route.

It was a cold Seattle night, and at 11:30 pm, the crowds were intriguingly bizarre. A rambling man complimented Ben's coat, a woman with a Jersey accent vocalized the question we all had in our heads.

Only 4 people boarded the 2. The three of us sat in a cluster, and the lone stranger sat directly across from us, looking us over and fiercely maintaining eye contact whenever we gazed back in his direction.

"It's warm on here." I said, making small talk mostly to myself.

"It certainly is."the lone rider retorted. When I looked shocked at his response, he mistook my surprise as a request for explication and continued, "What? It's nice. I like it warm on here."

I nodded and smiled, looking back at Tara and Ben for reassurance that this city was as crime-free as Tara believes.

The stranger takes these exchanges as an invitation to attack political leadership and begins a twenty minute attack on Obama. As three Obama voters, we were amused by his ignorant attacks followed by the occasional reference to the Wall Street Journal he had found on the floor for validation of his position.

When we became less amused with his insults, he became more belligerent.

"He's from Chicago! Nothing good comes from Chicago. It's one damn corrupt city."

Ben laughs and glances over to me. "Now that's true," he says, "People from Chicago are nothing but trouble."

I smile. So this is what people think of my city.