Take the bus to Boystown

This ad was on the side of a CTA bus. Meow.

Our internet has been out for three four days. It’s been very good for getting lots of packing done, but bad for morale. My favorite part is when the sadistic hold music lady at Comcast suggests, perkily, that you, “Check our website to find out when your internet will be working again!” Going postal is so 1994. Now, we go Comcast. Posting from an undisclosed location with wifi and caffeine. 

My second Chicago apartment was a condo that my parents bought before the real estate crash. I rented from them with two roommates and a beta fish named George Michael Bluth. There was a small banana stand next to his bowl.

The apartment building is nestled between the lake and Boystown on a leafy street. This might lead you to believe that I did a lot of exercise along the lakefront or hung out in a lot of gay bars. Neither of those things, sadly, is true. Instead, I ate a lot of noodles at Joy’s and was fond of skipping past Halsted and heading into the thicket of Wrigleville to tangle with bros in striped shirts.

Alas, this is not going to be a post about that. It’s going to be about the bus.

Have you met people in Chicago who don’t take the bus? They say, “Oh, I prefer the train.” Maybe you were at a party after taking the 50 or the 36 or the 66 or the 9 and those people said, “Oh, I never take the bus. I hate it. Ew.” Those people either:

• Live in a rut carved out by the Red Line and have never been west of Ashland.
• Really like walking. Or riding a bike.
• Have an extravagant taxicab budget.
• Own a car.*

Of course we all prefer the train. It’s faster and usually less claustrophobic than the bus and generally doesn’t make me car sick like the lurching of an articulating 66 that barrels along Chicago Avenue then slams to a halt every 50 yards.

I prefer a lot of things. But until the El starts making loop-dee-loops through larger swaths of the city (that would be dreamy), taking the bus patiently, intrepidly, is essential. And, for the bus haters, a lot of people don’t have a choice. I didn’t have a car in 2005, and that condo was a long, cold walk to the train. And so, I have earned the right to tell you what I've learned on these hundreds of bus trips, such as:

• How that girl’s date went last night as she explains each detail at top volume into her Bluetooth.
• What kind of soap the guy next to you used this morning. If you're lucky and soap was used. 
• What the high school kids are into these days, including the most insulting insults and the music being amplified from their cell phone speakers.
• What Little Cesar’s smells like in a confined area.
• How many plastic bags (hundreds? thousands?) a tiny old woman can smoosh onto a giant, overflowing cart and drag onto the bus.

Sometimes living in the city feels like being hazed. And then, other days, you're riding on the bus and ridiculous things are happening and you've become numb to them. Just remember to bring your headphones.

Next up: Winter in Wicker Park.

*Or, they are terrible people.