One of the great things about my Thanksgiving trip was the revelation that I could take a train from Grand Rapids to Chicago. Any time I plan a trip, I always check the Amtrak just in case. Just in case it’s cheaper, or easier, or just plain better than a TSA patdown or a full day in the car. And it never is. Like, NEVER.
But this time it was! I could take a train directly from GR…no transfers! The train station is right off of the highway, which is a straight shot from where I live! The train takes 4 hours…less than an hour to get to the train station…this is not looking like a bad alternative to my 4 1/2 hour drive to my aunt’s house in the ‘burbs in unpredictable holiday weekend traffic! And it’s under $100!
Beside the not-having-to-drive factor, and the comfy-seats-with-lots-of-legroom factor, and the not-having-to-be-there-2-hours-early factor, and the fear-of-heights factor, the best thing about taking the train is that I officially had two things:
1) an excuse to hang out downtown for an afternoon.
2) an Exit Strategy when leaving town.
Regarding #2…I dearly love my aunt and uncle. But the Princess is VERY bad at hiding her disappointment. She thinks she is very low-pressure, but as soon as the last day of your stay arrives, it’s all, “do you want to come to church with us? We were thinking we’d go out to breakfast after. Don’t you want to stay for dinner?”
She has a hard time letting go.
Enter, “My train leaves at 5:00.”
This is substantially less negotiable than, “I want to hit the road in time to get home in time to do such-and-such” or “I want to beat the traffic.”
Regarding #1…I also dearly love the city of Chicago. And hadn’t been there in almost 2 years. I would move there in a heartbeat.
And I LOVE eating there. Hot dogs and pizza to haute cuisine, and absolutely everything in between. I now have a good reason to…<drumroll>…HAVE LUNCH IN CHICAGO.
Whatever. If you lived where I live, you’d be excited at that prospect too.
Perhaps most importantly, Chicago is home to Rick Bayless, one of the only celebrity chefs at whose temple I actually worship. I love the man, and I love his food.
So I send an e-mail to the local cousins. Say that I am taking the train into town. Ask if it’s okay if I take a commuter train out to see them that night in their new lovely home that I haven’t seen yet. One writes back to say that she will bring her toddler out so we can have a lunch date and take the train home together.
THIS IS WHY I LOVE MY COUSINS. Truly effortless social planning.
While I’m waiting for their train to get in, I take a wander through the French Market…and WISH it were going to be open on Sunday so I could pick up some things to take home. (I’m not going to haul charcuterie around the Midwest in my luggage when I am headed to homes with fridges already stuffed to capacity.) Because I am deprived, I pick up a couple of pastries and some macarons. The pastries are meh (but WAY better than what I can get at Meijer), but the macarons are actually rather good. I am a happy camper.
On the way back to the main train concourse, a random dude on the street stops me to quietly let me know that there are…um…strings hanging between my legs. I explain that those are just from my scarf. He is suddenly very embarrassed, because he thought they were…I’m sorry, what, exactly? Did he think that I had some sort of turbo tampon with several pieces of YARN coming out of it that was actually escaping from my pants of its own accord?
(Seriously, based on his level of embarrassment when I clarified the situation, I think he thought it was some sort of alien feminine hygiene product trying to crawl out of my crotch. I shit you not. But he still had the balls to let me know. Thank you, crazy courteous stranger.)
While waiting for Cousins’ train, I decide this is the time to buy some Garrett’s popcorn. (If you haven’t had it, then you DON’T KNOW.) Unfortunately, they are having production issues. Namely, it will be 15 minutes before they have caramel corn. Which is a shame, because all I want is a small order of the mix. This would be a mix of caramel and cheese popcorn. Like I said…you DON’T KNOW. It’s one of Oprah’s Favorite Things, and you would be too if you contained that much butter. So I leave. And come back. Behind a woman who orders three giant bags of caramel corn. You know what that means? 15 minutes before they have caramel corn. BITCH. Note to self: NEVER. GET OUT OF LINE. NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOUR SHOULDERS ACHE FROM YOUR LUGGAGE.
I get up to the head of the line. I can SEE more kernels in the bin than I need for my tiny order, which is only half caramel anyway. I ask the guy if I can please have what I want. He says no. I say fine, just give me cheese, with the saddest, most resigned sigh you can possibly imagine. He thinks better of his response, saying he will give me as much caramel as he can, and somehow I wind up with a medium order, perfectly mixed. Can we say, “Wahooty was right”???
After my cousin extracts herself from the bizarre automated doors at the platform, we make our way to lunch, braving the sleet to walk 20 minutes with a stroller filled to capacity. Read: Cousin keeps her eye on the road and kid, I keep eyes akimbo for scattered mittens. Luckily, Frontera Grill is toddler-friendly – they have crayons, and should you ever go there, take a kid because the kid’s order of guacamole is the perfect appetizer for two adults for only $2.50.
(Said toddler is impossibly adorable, btw. Rather than eating the guac, she dipped chips and handed them to us. At one point, I ducked my head under the table looking for dropped blueberries, and looked up to realize she was mimicking me perfectly from her booster seat. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she was helping, goddammit.)
Despite our desperate pleading with the cabbie, we miss our train out to the ‘burbs by about 5 minutes. So we pack ourselves into the next train, which doesn’t leave for half an hour (no small feat with said toddler, stroller, and all of my luggage and..um…how exactly did I amass this many snacks, anyway?). Cousin gets a call from her husband (who is my actual, biological cousin) and suddenly decides she needs to run out and pick something up for me before our train leaves.
“<Husband> just had a GREAT idea for an anniversary present for you.” (I first met her on one of those long-ago days-after-Thanksgiving bar nights, a few years before she married into my family, when she was just the “awesome, awesome girl” my cousin swore he wasn’t serious about. Sucker.)
The Awesome, Awesome Girl returns with a cold tallboy of Bud Light.
“<Husband> and I like to drink a tallboy on the train home on Fridays.”
What can I say? We are Classy Broads.
I arrive in the ‘burbs toting an empty tallboy of crappy beer.
I am Home.
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