A little over a month ago I planned my summer vacation with several goals in mind. Collected, I was going attempt to visit a good friend, two cousins, and my newborn nephew all in different cities. It was logistically possible but costs were going to be out of control. Then I remembered Amtrak, America’s last surviving long-distance rail transportation provider.
I flew to New York to see my good friend Knudey (see link to right). We absorbed very good gin mixed with the finest tonic and cucumbers while grilling in his postage-stamp backyard in Brooklyn. We then stumbled to a free concert in Prospect Park featuring the Cold War Kids (and six dollar beers).
The next day we attacked the city, wandering lower Manhattan (Ground Zero is worth a look, but needless to say is simply an enormous construction site at this point). Returning to Brooklyn in the same day, we toured the Brooklyn Brewery and for twenty bucks, sampled over six varieties of brew.
The following day, we rested our legs a bit and after a breakfast in Tribeca where we spotted Harvey Keitel across the room, made our way to Central Park where we played catch for three minutes before getting dumped on by walls of rain.
As I entered Penn Station to pick up my train to Boston, I looked back on New York wondering how such a place could exist. With such overwhelming humanity thrown scattershot across streets and avenues, I was happy to change my scenery. And as the train pulled away, I felt the need to return.
Boston was smaller. Boston was cleaner. My cousin lives ten stops from downtown Boston. I woke up, ate a small breakfast, walked out the door and didn’t look back for another six or seven hours. The city is likely the most walk-able city I’ve visited. I took the freedom trail (demarcated by a red line on the sidewalk) to Paul Revere’s house, the original Boston City Hall, and Sam Adams’ grave.
Looking at the city through the windows at the top of the Prudential Tower was an eleven dollar treat, but laid the city out very well visually. I walked up and down Newbury Street twice soaking up all the retail shops and really the culture that was pouring out of midday Boston on a Monday.
Ending the day with some authentic Boston Sushi and a glass of Harpoon (local lager) rounded out my time in Beantown nicely.
Chicago looked spectacular from the plane. I’ve been there many times before, but this time excited me because my new nephew would be waiting for me in Hyde Park. The blue line from O’Hare left something to be desired as after fifty minutes of grinding and squealing I got to the Metra tracks for yet another train south to Hyde Park.
And there he was, Edison Christopher Hedberg. A seventeen pound ten-week old (I know, he’s enormous!). After Edison feel asleep, Eric and I were invited to listen to some proto-rock at a dingy bar in an industrial park aptly titled “The Hideout”.
With two-dollar PBRs and Old Style cans littering the ground around our feet, we listened to some of the classics as the three-man ensemble including a string bass showed us where Rock comes from. The best part was when the enchilada man came around. A lonely entrepreneur, he produced plastic bags each containing six enchiladas and hot sauce from two coolers he carried around. We consumed the authentic Mexican treats in short order.
After waking up, I decided Hyde Park was getting too cramped. I called a good friend of mine from college who lives in Chicago and we met up for breakfast three blocks off the Fullerton stop in an old carriage house. We decided to get our baseball gloves and regroup for a game of catch in Lincoln Park.
At the park, I needed something to eat. The local grocery store recommended a deli across the street. It was a good recommendation as the eight-dollar sixteen inch sandwich I ate was not a bit shy of perfect.
After an invigorating game of catch in the sun, my buddy and I strolled downtown and had a drink at the top of the John Hancock tower. Looking over an expansive skyline against the lake, I just couldn’t help but think: I feel at home here. I’d just seen three major American cities, and the one closest to my heart was the one geographically closest to Minneapolis.
The train ride to La Crosse to attend my cousin’s ridiculously large Fourth of July party was a long one. The announcements kept reassuring a grumpy, but relatively small, group of passengers that we’d arrive by seven fifteen.
I greeted my cousin at the station at eight and promptly drove to my aunt’s house for some pizza. Stepping off the train was a strange experience when I realized how clean it smelled. No exhaust, human waste, beer, nothing but prairie grass.
The next day started with the sun. Then the boat, the lake, and more sun. Then fireworks, a fire, and restful sleep. A perfect Fourth. My cousin’s husband let me use his motorcycle the next day and I rode it a hundred and fifty or two hundred miles up and down the Mississippi through Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minnesota.
Arriving home was bittersweet as I stepped off yet another delayed train in St. Paul. I was happy to be back, but all those things loomed like work, life, etc. I managed to complete all four goals though and with a day to spare to catch up. All travel was under five hundred bucks. I lucked out this time.
How do I top this trip!?
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