Coming Home, Via Chicago

It's my last day in Cambridge, and at 6:55pm I will be in the air bound for Chicago. OK, I shouldn't get ahead of myself here. I have the uncanny ability to delay any flight I'm on, ESPECIALLY flights to Chicago. So even though my landing time is 8:42pm, I probably won't actually land until well after 10pm. It's a science.

Last night I helped Bighead move and we were awesome. We did it in about 2.5 hours, not counting the big furniture we moved the day before. As a reward, we went out for a delicious beer afterward. I'm going to miss my beloved UFO. Is there anything quite like a wheat beer in summer with a twist of lemon? I don't think so. Tonight after I get in I plan to immediately stop at Al's #1 Italian Beef for an Italian beef covered in hot peppers, and the bread dipped in the juices. Afterward, I'll go directly across the street to enjoy some Mario's Italian Lemonade where a gracious Mexican (no, not many Italians are actually left in the historic Italian neighborhood) will serve me a cantaloupe lemonade. I cannot explain to you the magic of this delicious, shaved ice concoction made only of the purest ingredients and freshest of fruits. Most amazing is the way that the cantaloupe and lemon flavors blend in order to help rid the flavor of the cantaloupe from its more garbage-like tones. (In case you don't know, cantaloupe tastes vaguely of garbage...especially if it's a little ripe.)

Then we will drive home on the Skyway past the steel mills where my nostrils and lungs will jump for joy with the return of the aroma of hard work and pollution. Honestly, I haven't drunk in these odors in quite a while. Then we will wind our way into the sleepy suburb of Hobart where I will retire to the luxuries of satellite tv and my new computer with which insurance has replaced the stolen one.

Last night I finished "American Pastoral" and although I loved it, I couldn't help feel extremely let down by the ending. About fifty pages from the end I realized that Roth wasn't really that interested in wrapping things up, so we wouldn't hear about future interactions between the protagonist and his daughter, or her death, or his, which are all spoken of in the first section, so I haven't ruined any spoilers. In the last three pages, it looked as though we were on our way for a crash landing, but it turned out to be a clever, mind-ruse, which was quite upsetting. I must say that he didn't take the easy way out, but I'm kind of upset that so much of the future of these characters' lives was left hanging at the end. We're talking no resolution whatsoever. I'm still trying to construct their past futures in my head, getting nowhere, which I guess is a good thing, but it's also very upsetting.

And all this means one thing...I need to finish Moby Dick. The second half is next in the book queue, so there's no way around it. I've already procrastinated by plowing through four books in my time here, and the moment of reckoning is at hand. Honestly, people, have you ever known me to read this much? It's bizarre, but I think my moment of castellano captivity in Spain awakened my love of the English language and literature. That's not to say that I don't miss Spanish...a LOT, but it's so much more satisfying to read a book in your native tongue.

The ipod is charged, the bags are packed, the lunch is eaten, and now I'm settling into a few hours of delicious tv time before returning to the Crossroads of America, which may seem like an odd slogan for a state as sleepy as Indiana, but if you've ever been in Indiana even for a little bit, you know how easy it is to leave it. There are just about a million interstates all intersecting, making it perfect for leaving, which I will be doing in about three weeks. But in the mean time, I will be basking in the understated, pastoral beauty of dunes and cornfields, as well as the mighty brawn of industrial steel. Oh, not to mention trips to Chicago, where I'll hopefully be seeing my first place Sox getting over their losing streak and becoming a major playoff contender. And the Gary Southshore Railcats, because honestly, is there anything to compare with independent minor league baseball? Methinks not.