Chicago

Chicago certainly fulfilled all our tv expectations.  Wandering around, you fully expect to hear people saying, "Hey buddy..." or "Say!!! What's the big idea???" or "What gives?" and to find yourself surrounded by little bowery urchins in flat caps playing stick-ball.

This didn't happen of course.  But it was easy to imagine.  Our hotel was in the Theatre District, where it is particularly easy to slip into daydreams.  It was called the Hotel Allegro and Caro had somehow managed to get us a deal on the price, saving us about $200 a night.  The result was that two scruffy backpackers turned up at an incredibly flash hotel, looking like two street people who have mistaken a 5-star hotel for a methadone clinic.  

Our ratty backpacks were swept away from us by a bellman who did that whole showing you around the room thing.  Caro and I felt like incredible frauds, I mean I TIPPED TOO EARLY and everything, damn it!  I gave him two measly dollars, and he had STILL TO TELL US ABOUT THE AIR CONDITIONING.  But it was too late, I had already shot my wad, tip-wise.  He certainly wasn't going to get another two dollars, merely for pointing out where the wardrobe was.

The Hotel Allegro - oh my word. It was the first room we ever had with not only a tv but a stereo. A mini-bar, a box of treats and an enormous bed complete with long tubular cushions.  Naturally, I immediately held one to my crotch and pretended to have a huge willy.  Some things just have to be done.

Chicago is The City of The Blues.  Apparently.  Look, I think New Orleans might have something to say about this, but since we haven't been there I'm not in a position to argue.  Nevertheless, they do have the House of Blues club and hotel (owned by Dan Ackroyd I believe) and with the Bluesmobile parked outside.  But there's music throughout the city, and murals of legends like BB King and Howlin’ Wolf adorn the sides of buildings.   

This was lost on Caro.  

For her it was The City of Shopping Opportunities.  I knew this because Caro makes lists of all the shops she wants to visit before she arrives anywhere, then marks them all on a map; then she hits the groovy shopping areas with the precision of a really fashionable smart bomb, taking out all the Gaps, Old Navys, Filene's Basements and Urban Outfitters while successfully avoiding the pubescent girl and old lady places.  

However, before she could truly enjoy any Chicago shopping moments, she had to have her hair done because as we all know if you go into a boutique with a hairstyle like a mangled Davy Crockett hat, the shop staff don’t take you seriously.  Naturally she went to the poshest salon ever, where she got the attention of about half a dozen different hair specialists.  I don’t think even Dr. Christian Barnaard had such a team around him.

Actually, I had a bit of a Hair Adventure in Chicago myself.  This occurred in a hairdresser's run by Russians.  I wandered in there asked for a head-shave at length number one.  The lady holding the clippers reacted like I’d asked him shaved off my penis.

"NOOOOO!!!" she shrieked.  "You CANNOT!!  Number ONE????  NOOOOOO!!"

I assured her I did indeed mean a number one.

"NOOOOO!!!  You are SURE???!!!  Surely you mean number THREE!!!???"  

She responded, using an alarming number in question marks.
I told her that I was a traveller and that it was far more practical to keep it short, but she wasn't having it.

"Okay - I shave you ONE AND HALF - okay?  One and half, then I show you."  She shaved a little of my hair and then showed me.  I indicated that this was fine, and she continued happily with this compromise.  We were fine for about 5 minutes and then her husband showed up.

"AIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!  WHAT YOU DO???  WHAT YOU DO TO THIS MAN HAIR????"

"HE TELL ME!!!  HE TELL ME DO THIS THING!!!"

There was then a lot of anguished Slavic shouting and arm-waving.  It was sort of like a Chekov play, only with less suicide and more styling mousse.  

I think the lady must have got her point across to her husband because he finally turned to me.  "WHY????  WHY YOU DO THIS THING???  YOU GET TO MY AGE - YOU KEEP HAIR!!!"

It took some time to calm the poor man down.  I was thinking of offering him my hair, if it meant that much to him.  Finally, the situation abated, I explained my motives and the wife continued her work.  On my way out of the salon she admitted, "You know, it look pretty good on you."  

So if shaved heads are all the fashion in Vladivostock this year, you know who to blame.

When I met up with Caro after her hair appointment she had American Hair.  It was HUGE.  There was so much product, styling wax and spray on it, you could crack eggs on that thing.  She looked as glamourous as a model, only without the hatred of pies.  The scary thing about her hair was that two days later it was still in exactly the same position, and I was started to wonder if it was really hair product that had been applied or model aircraft adhesive.