Orphans and oligarchs

Travel writing is wearisome. One constantly hears about high-class restaurants and higher-quality tourist traps. One hears about where to sink one's money and where not to blow it, all accompanied by glossy photos of hopelessly photogenic people smiling their smiles around the world. There is not a cloud in the sky or any atmospheric haze, ever. So, instead of describing my vacation, I'll focus on what was its seamy underbelly thereof in the form of stories you'd find on the back of a postcard.

The Orphanage: As I walked the collonades of Chicago's waterfront, observing the pleasingly postmodern curvy and reflective architecture, I was approached by a man. He spoke to me, a little too passionatley, about the house he works at, and how someone is trying to shut them down. He was selling postcards to raise money for their defense fund. I comisserated with him, related to hime that I, too, am familiar with social work and wished I could help him but that I had no money on me at the time. I asked where this place was, intending to take a look at it if at all possible. (I did not get around to it.) The contrast was reason for brief pause: this semi-ragged and obviously harried man flitting between tourists here to look at reflecive spheres or bastardizations of Roman amphitheatres.

The Museum of Scam Art: I'll admit it right off: I got taken for a sucker. They managed to scam me. Who? Two young gentlemen in front of the hotel. The scam runs thus: they grab the sucker and begin shining their shoes, sweettalking them the entire time. The sucker is to believe that this is some sort of promotional giveaway or such. Halfway through sweet-talking, it becomes established that the cost is $8 per shoe ("plus whatever you want to tip me", said he). By this point he's shining your other shoe and there's no way to stop them. At the end, he says "did I say eight? I meant eighteen". by this point our scammers have switched from obsequiousness to an air of suppressed brutality as the sucker hesitates, taken aback by this outrageus demand. They apply standard psychogical sales pressure. Eventually, the sucker gives them something and walks off in a daze. I asked for change back, and my shoe-shiner said he had no change even though ten seconds before he clearly repeated that he had change. If this sounds ridiclous, it is in retrospect, but I'd like to point out the brilliance of the scam: the scammer has actually performed a service, and it is expected that one should pay them, so the customer feels trapped. On other days, I saw shrewd businessmen and seasoned travellers taken in. They all, like me, pulled out their wallets. Luckily this scam has a steep learning curve; I'll never again be taken in by it. But I felt violated and emptied of all pride for a long time, not least because I gave those assholes $20 and nothing to the orphanage man.

MLK: Still dazed from the shoe-shine scam, we (my brother and I) had ourselves a hell of a time on the elevated train ("the El" or "L train", colloquially). After wasting somewhere in the neighbourhood if treefitty ($3.50) on getting on the wrong-direction platform, we finally boarded the El going the right way (towards a museum that was part of the standard touristic superstructure of most trips). The only problem was that I had misread the map (probably because my eyes are in some stage of deterioration--not enough Vitamin A or precursors thereof) and instead of getting off at 57th street, where the museum was, we got off at 37th street. We looked around: this did not seem like the sort of neighbourhood to house a museum. It was, and I say this very reluctantly, the ghetto. Low-rise brown nondescript buildings littered the streets; tufts of crab grass fought for dear life; the cracks in the sidewalks seemed to have not been repaired in decades. Old decrepit men walked around looking as broken as the broken saplings and scratched-out bus maps that decorated the street. Young boys rode around on bicycles, some pointing at us in conspiratorial ways. I had not caught onto my mistake yet, so we proceeded deeper and deeper into this gutted neighbourhood, past the police stations, past the half-assed consctruction work, past the flocks of gang colours. I had never so actively thought about the possibility of my death. After catching my mistake (after which I let loose with the worst cursing I knew, drawing more attention to us and the fact that we were lost, clueless tourists) we tried to hail a cab, except no cabs went here. It would be an hour and a half until I stopped being jumpy. In a way (of course, after the fact) I'm glad I saw just what wealth disparity America generates.

Photography: I bought no postcards, but I did have a digital camera. My favouriste shots were ones of buildings surrounded, positively steeped in haze on our first day. I think by this point it's pretty obvious I try to not go in for the tourist mony-grabs. But I also realized such things are inevitable. One must take the fuided tours; one must wait in line with obese Nebraskans; one must force oneself to do nothing upon hearing evolution-bashing in, of all places, a science museum. To be a tourist is tiring and shallow, but to try to blend in on one's first visit is just stupid, as I came to realize in the ghettos. Sometimes, one has to flock to safe venues.

Consider: "If you love something, you hold onto it until your arms are wrenched from your sockets... and then... then you put it in a scissors hold."