The first time I took the El to Midway Airport was only the second time I’d flown alone. My mother had sent me money to take a cab, which was, in a strange way, an incentive not to; I knew that when I came home and told her I hadn’t spent it, she would let me use it to buy a CD or two. Of course, the astute thing to do would have been to tell her I had actually taken a cab, allowing me to reap a generous sum whenever I come home. Now, thanks to my damned honesty, I end up three bucks down each time I fly to Kansas.
I keep taking the El anyway, though, and not just for the view in the Loop. The long ride to and from Midway (about 90 minutes — closer to an hour when the purple line runs express) is an opportunity to read, to think, or even take a little nap.
It’s also a good time for people watching. Every part of the El has its own kind of passengers. The orange line’s are a mix of those headed toward the airport and the mostly Hispanic residents of the neighborhoods surrounding stops with names like “Pulaski.”
The pilots are the easiest to spot. They nearly always sit by themselves, their airline caps propped on the handles of their rolling suitcases. I chatted with one of them last week: Zach Briner, a pilot with United Airlines. Briner lives in Lincoln Park, but his flights are based in Denver. He takes the El because it’s cheap and it gives him a chance to sit and rest, he said. He sometimes talks with other pilots and flight attendants who, he agreed, stick out.
“You can always tell by the luggage,” he said.
Briner said he’d never stopped anywhere on the orange line besides the airport. But after this globetrotter took to the skies, I was going to venture where he had not; I was going to get off midway to Midway.
My first stop was Kedzie. I suppose I expected to be greeted by charming ethnic restaurants or markets or something, but all I found were steel works and auto shops (“if it’s corrugated, we make it!”). But I wanted local flavor, so I walked farther. All I found were Raul’s Bar and Grill and Nicky’s Hamburgers, two restaurants that didn’t seem like they were expecting anyone for lunch.
A few stops later came Ashland. The stop was perilously located over a river and between two highways. I could see church spires from the platform, though, so I thought I would check those out.
I stumbled around for a few blocks, passing old office buildings with elaborate stonework, a small house whose entire back wall was dominated by a White Sox logo, and a giant Pepsi bottling plant. I even encountered a sculpture of a horse made entirely out of twisted car bumpers. There was no plaque or sign to explain its origin, and the trees had grown up around it in such a way that it seemed it was trying to pluck fruit from them.
Finally, I found the churches. One was the Church of St. Mary of Perpetual Help, a building with a large green dome and a wrought iron fence. Nearby were also the Monastery of the Holy Cross (Benedictine Monks of Chicago) and the Ponierski Chapel, which I took to be a funeral parlor. However, the buildings being locked and my stomach being empty and secular, I moved on. Halfway to the stop I happened upon one restaurant that seemed to fit the bill: Goodie Tacos, which offered quesadillas and Polish sausage. A sign on the door said the proprietor would not be back until 3 p.m., and I couldn’t wait that long. I caught an inbound train and headed to my last stop. On the the way back I took photos of freight trains, factories, old bridges and abandoned industrial equipment, and wondered if these things only fascinated me because they were foreign.
I finally found a restaurant at the Roosevelt stop, Room 12. The food was good — I had a burrito filled with eggs that came with hash browns — but the place felt intended for people like me and other Northwestern students, probably headed for the nearby Field Museum rather than points beyond. The music was techno, the chairs were modern and pastel-colored, and there was a Starbucks across the street. I left very sated and a little sad.
