The bus pulled into Union Station and the guy sitting two seats over seemed surprised we were going into the parking ramp instead of circling around front. Forgive him, he was from Chicago. I couldn't figure out if he was with his mom or girlfriend, but he was a big man. Big and sweaty with a Cubs jersey plastered onto his wet back and a bracelet made of baseball stitches on a strip of white leather. I followed the couple and a professorial man, who creepily smiled to himself every few minutes and who wore wide-rimmed glasses without irony and a t-shirt with a Mayan ruin neatly centered on his chest, out of the bus. Everyone exited, save for a group of girls, probably late-teens or early-20's, who inexplicably remained on as the bus idled in the parking garage. Maybe they had plans. But probably not.
Walking through the cavernous, ornate-to-the-point-of-parody great hall in the station - really a glorified mall with trains, I dodged a family whose mom stood taking a long camcorder shot of her husband and son standing disinterested by the sunglasses kiosk. They had a priceless look of ennui and embarrassment. I wonder if they were secretly being ironic and just wanted to go back to the hotel and laugh at the responses of passers-by no doubt looking at the family askance, like me. But probably not. The kid was standing as if praying for some deity to take him out of his misery. Struck down right next to the sunglasses kiosk. A valiant way to die. Actually, I see a lot of teenagers with this look around town. Especially ones on Segways.
Passing through the front doors and enjoying the same view of the Capitol as Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, I was grateful for the warm temperatures and low humidity that remind me of Minnesota in May. Setting off for the 12-block walk back home, I had the ill fortune of walking behind a gentleman, mid-20's, wearing too short shorts and a t-shirt with an unnecessary undershirt, who began to smoke a cigarette. I don't mind people who smoke - just don't do it when I'm downwind of you. And don't do it jauntily. You look like an asshole.
Soon the unhip smoker was nothing but a distant memory, turning off to ruin other peoples' afternoons with his smoke and white thighs. I had the sun at my back and it felt reassuringly warm on my neck, slow cooking my skin. The sidewalks are brick and it's a nice touch when done right. The sidewalks all start out nice enough, but as you get further and further east, they lurch upward dramatically from tree roots stuck underneath. As if they too want to pull up their roots and move out of the neighborhood. Sometimes I don't blame them.
I try to walk on the right side which is in the shade during late-afternoon, but soon cross to take advantage of a green light. I try to make my walks efficient, though the left side made me sweat. In the distance, a mother and young daughter meander down the undulating sidewalk. A few blocks and I catch up. They walk past two men standing near the sidewalk fence, drinking a beer and enjoying the afternoon. The mother gropes for her offspring's hand and herds her to the far side of the path, away from the "dangerous" men. The men don't seem to mind, if they even notice. They make funny faces and bounce on the balls of their feet as the young girl, as I knew she inevitably would, turns to smile at her fellow afternoon revelers. Her mother shoos her on.
I give a half-smile to the men and the mother and daughter as I walk by. Past the gardener listening to soft ambient electronic music as he tends to his future plentiful bounty. Past the churchgoers dressed in white, but as I realize upon approaching, actually white mixed with vibrant purple and green flower prints. It seems like every Sunday is Easter around here. No one is in jeans or cut-offs like back at home in my lax Catholic church. I continue, past the church still in service - the preacher passionately addressing his flock in gravelly, screeching intonations, met with tired "Amens" and "Yeses." Past everything that makes summer so great in the city.
I leave in less than a week. And as many good memories and times as I've had growing up in suburban Minneapolis, this slice of Americana has been something I'll never forget.
