You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Boat rides in the middle of a gale force wind.
Imagine a cold dreary day full of wet rain and gusts of frost bite. Now imagine this painful experience on the top of a tour boat going 15 miles an hour along the Chicago River.
This is my most recent crazy vacation experience.
It was like Alaska in January with art deco. It was frozen Tundra with Bloody Mary’s.
All I can figure is I was trying to re-write the rules of tourism.
Usually I’m a beach and sand and exotic drink with an umbrella kind of guy. But on this frigid October afternoon, I feel more like Admiral Byrd looking for the North Pole.
I climb aboard the tour boat moored at the base of the Wrigley Building.
The architecture is spectacular and the city clean as a cat’s paw, but the cold is encompassing, almost nauseating, as it grates on my skin like claws on a blackboard.
I look up and see the sign on the ticket book. It reads: Wendella Tours, a part of Chicago since 1935.
It’s hard to read that sign, because the wind is blowing the rain sideways into my pupils. It feels like tiny moisture daggers poking me in the side of my brain.
Adding more misery to the mix, the temperature, it’s an ice box like 39 degrees.
My buddy says; “Come on, it’s Chicago, it’ll be a great way to see the city, from the river. “
Spoken like a true drunk who has obviously been to one too many Irish taverns.
Initially, I don’t like the sound of his request. While walking the street, I must have told him NO at least 3 different times. I tell him NO in three different languages, in three different time zones.
“Come on it’s a scenic tour of the city with a history lesson about architecture,” he says.
I shake my head looking for the next adult beverage vendor.
I’d rather watch a homeless man shine a pair of work boots with spit and a paper napkin.
My idea of a city tour is lower my head into the wind and trudge down Michigan Avenue. As soon as it’s humanly possibly, the plan for me, duck into a pub for a quick pint of ale. And trust me, we did that, early and often.
And it was delightful. A warm and balmy 72 with the fire crackling behind the bar and ESPN burning brightly over it.
But my pal wants the full Chicago experience.
“Come on, let’s do the architectural river tour,” he says again in between sips of a Rolling Rock adult beverage.
No I say again in Russian as we exit the warm and balmy pub heading into the cold, icy wind of a premature winter’s blow.
As we make our way around the corner to Wacker, I take in the hustle and bustle of a Thursday afternoon in the Windy City.
Citizens are bundled up like human prophylactics, covered head to toe with hoods and scarves and rubber boots.
The apparel is post Armageddon America with a designer price tag.
I stare at the black and brown and grey covered zombies dodging traffic and waiting for crosswalk signals.
Is that a man by the bus stop? Is that a woman with the cute butt by the fountain. I sure hope so, I think to myself.
One after another, drab colored, winterized bi-peds bolt past me.
We stop to look at the sultry statue of Marilyn Monroe. She is smiling and sexy. It’s the famous pose of her in the white dress over the subway grate.
Her skirt is sailing into the windy, gloomy sky, and she is working feverishly to push it down.
Oh my.
I watch as tourists take pictures from below and beyond.
It’s not many statues that make me blush when I look up their dress at their monstrously large panties.
As I look at this crazy landmark, I try to feel my feet. They are numb, my toes stinging like standing on dull razors. I am shivering. Even though my jacket is zipped up – like I am some kind of crazed stay puff marshmallow man – I am wet and chilled to the bone.
“Come on, let’s take the tour,” my gigantic friend urges again, fueled by a combination of boredom and booze.
We circle like ice sharks from Dearborn Street to Wacker drive, looking for something distinctly Chicago to do.
Eventually, he wears me down and I say yes in English.
So now we are on the boat and I’m feeling energized. The river is green, fueled by a strange assortment of scum and algae.
I am pleasantly surprised they have a full bar below and I immediately saddle up to the stool and order a couple of bloody’s.
“Extra Olives?” the cute boating bartender says.
“Of course,” my gigantic friend bellows amidst the shutter click of 11 Japanese tourists who find everything on board somehow photographic.
“Break in case of fire.”
I swear the tourist is video taping the fire extinguisher.
Fueled by our first sip of delicious Vodka and celery, we brave the elements, climbing the stairs and standing on the top of the deck.
It’s an aggressive choice.
The wind is blowing steadily at 30 mph. The rain is coming sideways between the art deco universe towering above us.
As we shove off, I feel a buzz of excitement.
The tour guide is knowledgeable and funny. His accent is pure Chicago.
He tells us who built the buildings around us and how old they are. He tells us about Mrs. O’leary’s cow and her barn and the fire that burned down most of the city. He tells us about the Sears Tower now being the tallest building in North America and how much Donald Trump charges for the penthouse in his river side edifice. He tells us how the city once pumped its filth into Lake Michigan prompting anger from Grand Rapids and Green Bay and many other lake side cities. He tells us how the city blocked up the river and created an engineering feat by literally running the river the other direction to St. Louis.
“We send them our dirty water,” he says smugly. “And they send it right back to us,” he says winking. “It’s called Budweiser.”
I laugh out loud. A blast of hot steam explodes from my mouth.
After a while, one green reflective building looks like the next. By the time we get to the split and the island, the only one in the Chicago River, I say to my gigantic friend, “I gotta go downstairs.”
“I’ll go with you he says looking a little like frozen chum skinned off a winterized Yak.”
“Hey it’s cold up here,” the the tour guide says through his microphone, his umbrella turning inside out for the third time.
“Why don’t we all go down below. I can finish the tour from there.”
Even the camera toting Japanese tourists nod, looking for more fire extinguishers to video tape.
Our pretty boat bartender spots us and asks if we want another round.
“Of course,” I respond.
I remove a few layers and look out the windows. I can see the buildings and hear the announcer and enjoy the rest of the 75 minute tour with feeling coming back into my extremities.
All in all, it is a fun tour. Educational, time consuming, and chock full of much needed Chi Town chutzpah.
As we climb the steep staircase that leads to the surface street, the wind once again fills my hood.
“Back to the hotel now?” I say, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
“Yes,” he says in the only language that counts.
“Hey,” I say pounding him in the side of one of his ham hock arms.
“Thanks. That was cool. Thanks for making me go.”
He laughs and points at the Marilyn Monroe statue across the street.
She is smiling and her skirt floating ever so suggestively above her thighs.
She doesn’t look cold at all.
That was a good 2nd City kind of day, I think to myself.
And that is crazy.