The Kids Aren't The Same

My neighbors across the hall are students from Saudi Arabia. Siblings, in fact, I learned on chatting with the brother one morning having stopped while walking in different directions to acknowledge each other's existence. The sister and I had bumped into each other repeatedly in the morning, as her commute schedule matched up with Ryu's early walk. They both were students but not at Loyola. I asked both - at different times, as I rarely saw them together - about coming over to my side of the hallway for tea. Both said yes. They turned out to be really lovely young people. The sister is in an advanced program studying respiratory therapist. The brother is studying English at an immersion academy. Both were/are fans of Japanese animation. This fun bit of personal trivia came out of the brother noticing the Sailor Moon art books on my bookshelf. I admitted to them that anime fans from Saudi Arabia had never occurred to me given the kingdom's, uh -- distinct, perspective on ...

The Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) has a campus in Chicago. Who knew?! I saw an announcement in Facebook about a public lecture being held there in a few weeks. The topic was the Spanish exile to Mexico after the defeat of the republican government in Madrid. This was strongly relevant to my interests of 20th Century Ibero-American history. Javier joined me at the event, despite his relative disinterest in the topic. The lecture presented us both the opportunity to dress up a bit and perhaps meet interesting people. It would turn out that only the first part happened. The lecture material was pretty interesting, though the presentation itself put one to sleep. Reading a powerpoint presentation ought to be prohibited outright. Powerpoint makes everyone doze off, keeping themselves awake by looking at their phones. Someone at Microsoft should develop a anti-Powerpoint. Anyway... I felt proud for understanding the vast majority of what the lecturer was saying. It was all...

I was sitting at the very back of the Eastbound 80 bus, tapping the "Refresh" button on the liveblog service of El País every minute of the Spain - Russia game. I would have watched the match at home but had committed to serving at the 8a service at St John's. So there I was on the bus, having fulfilled my minor responsibility to the flock, following this global game at the same pace as a Spanish sports writer would type. Around the time the bus passed California Ave, I noticed a guy sitting alone on the opposite side of the bus looking closely at his phone. More to the point, looking closely at his phone showing the Spain - Russia game. No connected headphones. He seemed to be in his late-20s, wearing casual clothes for a muggy Sunday morning in Chicago. It was his hat that sealed my intention to stand up and walk over to him: it had the Venezuelan flag. The odds were pretty good that the guy spoke Spanish. As the bus made another stop, I took advantage of the opportun...

I sat down with Josh and his girlfriend Bridget - whom I was meeting for the first time - and told them in the plainest terms that the best part of my day had already happened. Whatever was about to happen couldn't compete. It was a good conversation starter. We had agreed to meet that evening for a drink in Andersonville - a happy neighborhood that sits happily between our respective ones.  I had left Rogers Park early and on foot in order to get both exercise as well as to sit reading for a while. Of course I forgot to bring anything to read, so walked along Clark Street looking for something. The box holding Chicago Reader magazines was empty, as was the next one. Not great for my attitude. The weather was cool, overcast, and suggesting rain: typical of this June. This is Pride Week in Chicago, something easily forgotten given the tiresome Autumn-like weather interrupted by a handful of days of choking heat. Irritated with myself, I strolled around looking through store w...

It's June 2018. Last weekend, the weather was absurd -- which is to say that it rained for days and, when the rain abated, low temperatures and fog took its place. That's the weather we had during my mom's visit to Chicago. The visit went well until it did not. Visits from mom fit that general description: they go well until they do not. I'm tempted to give my side of the experiences, to lay out an argument that absolves me of any blame, to make a tortured explanation of why the maximum duration of an uneventful visit seems fixed at three days. But I won't do any of that. I will, however, say how terrible it felt to walk away from her without saying "I love you." We made it to Union Station a good amount of time before the train departed. I found the lobby, confirmed the departure situation with an attendant, then sat mom down in a seat close to the door through which she and the other exiles would board the machine back to Michigan. After explaining the t...

Stuff I wrote many years ago:  https://battersea-nonsense.blogspot.com/