Here in Chicago, we have a river that founded the city, that the French wrestled away from the Indians, that snakes its way through the northwest side of the city like a wild L line (something like a cross between the Green and the Brown). If you were smart, you'd commute downtown on a kayak to avoid the Dan Ryan, but only if you liked perspiration in the summertime and icebergs in winter.
Emerging from a brain-numbing conference call from the Harbinger office, I was biking across the Montrose Avenue bridge when I happened to glance to my left and saw what I thought to be the prettiest sight of the day. On yet another sunshiney spring day, the Chicago River was still, calm and reflective, kinda hanging out with blue skies and white clouds and quite obviously, it did not have any conference calls scheduled at all. There were houses whose backyards led out to the river, and people tied up rowboats to their little piers.
In a way, it reminded me of the backwaters of Louisiana, where my mum and I once toured the bayous in a bateau. You could hang out there for days and no one would bother you, because they wouldn't want to and couldn't anyway -- how would they find you?
"Honk!" went one car to another on that crazy Montrose street, and I continued on my way home.
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