mychai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I had a witty title last night, but I forgot it. (JP Note: This entry was actually written last night at around midnight, but when I posted the "add entry" button, nothing worked. And I pressed the button a million times. Silly things, those buttons. After repeatedly saying naughty words I normally reserve for people who say naughty words to me, I decided to save this entry to a file and post when I got home from work. Here I am. And here you are.) Work. It's the worst thing about going on a vacation, really. It is coming back home, tired and a bit stiff from your ride back into town, and the first thing you have to do upon returning is to set your alarm clock for 5:00 in the morning. My return was especially a sore one. If you recall, my one full night in Chicago saw me playing hacky sack while listening to different blues bands. I think this is what made my last morning in Chicago absolutely miserable. Let me explain. The hostel in Chicago gladly will let you borrow an alarm clock from them. They are quite liberal with a lot of their items, especially since you have to give them a $5 deposit on everything you borrow. They give it back when you check out, but $5 to a traveller staying at a hostel translates roughly into one less beer at a blues festival. I set my alarm for 6:15am on Friday morning, and I put the bastardly piece of electronic wonder right by my ear as to wake me up after only one or two buzzes. Nothing worse than pissing off a room of Brits and Germans at six o'clock in the morning. At exactly 6:15am -- and thank God electric alarm clocks are quite punctual -- I get a wake up call from a really good dream that involved, coincidentally, a set of British and German girls. I think they were twins, but in hindsight, that seems kind of silly if you ask me. Regardless, it was a good dream. I woke up. Pressed the "off" button. Sat up. And then I suddenly realized that all evil great and small had nestled soundly in my back. It took me a good 15 minutes just to get out of my bunk. Being on the top bunk didn't help at all. I soaked in the shower as long as I could. I even pumped up the hot water to a point where I was red as a lobster. When I stepped out of the shower, people turned their heads just to look. And not in that way. To say I was miserable would be an understatement. I got ready (slowly), and I packed what was remaining of the things I hadn't packed the night before. I walked down to the lobby (hunched over like Quasi Moto), turned in my key card and alarm clock (got my $5 back), and left. And I walked. And walked. Until I realized that I had been walking the wrong damn direction. I ended up asking a bum for directions. I decided at that moment that fulfilling a standard Chicago tradition was not in the cards for me: Lou Mitchell's. What normally takes me 15 minutes to walk from the hostel to Union Station took me about 35 minutes. Partly because it was taking me so long to cross a road due to pain that a Boy Scout came once and helped me across. And partly because I was half-way to Pennsylvania before I realized Union Station was the OTHER way. It was 7:30 when I made it to Union. My train didn't leave for another hour. But I decided to sit in the incredibly uncomfortable wooden benches in Union and write post cards because that is the best thing one can do when doubled over permanently. So, for an hour, I wrote post cards. Yours is in the mail. Be expecting it any day now. When it was time to catch my train, I stood up from the incredibly uncomfortable wooden bench and took a while before I could take a step. I have pulled muscles before. I've had muscle spasms. But this kind of pain was like the spawn of Satan growing from my spine. I got on the train, braced myself, and woke up somewhere in the middle of Illinois. So, I am back home. After living off of nothing but Alieve and orange juice over the last 3 days, my back is finally getting to a point where I can actually look up without wimpering and crying. If you haven't guessed, I am a big ol' ninny when it comes to the whole "getting sick" and "experiencing pain" thing. Once, when I was in second grade, I had to go get some blood removed without any of my consent. When I was that age, I was experiencing some major blood sugar issues, and I had to get blood taken regularly. This particular February morning, I decided that I'd had enough. These damned doctors weren't going to take *MY* lifeblood without me having a say in it. Yada yada yada, they still took my blood. But not after having -- and this I am proud of -- not one, not two, but FOUR big, black nurse guys hold me down to get it. I was bound and determined not to be stuck. Bastards. Well, I need to go to bed. Long day tomorrow. I have work at 5am, and I predict I will have a rather long, tedious meeting with my recruiter after that. Turns out they do a credit check before going to MEPS. Did I mention that, when I moved up here, I only had $500 in my pocket. Have you ever moved to a completely new area of the country? Costs a bit more than $500, don't it? So, yeah. Long, tedious meeting. Don't worry. I'll tell you how it goes. One last thing: Did you see I was published on my very first commercial website? Go to: Http://www.Hostels.com and look under the tag that says "Windy City." Here is the quote in case you are too lazy to go see for yourself: "Five months later, and I still think that my trip to Chicago, though relatively short, was a life-altering journey into a daring, new world for me." For a rich and real take on what hostelling is like, sink into Diurnata: A Journey into Chicago --a well-written journal by Jon-Paul Brown. |
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