I was invited to a party in Chicago. Not wanting to drive I got a train ticket and booked a room at the LondonHouse a block from my friend John’s apartment. You can see his building to the left there. This was taken from my hotel window. What a view!! The party was fantastic. I didn’t know a soul (except John) but everybody was friendly, fun, interesting. It was the kind of party in the life I’d always imagined for myself. Fine food, excellent wine, snappy repartee, over at 9:30.
I left the party and walked back to the hotel in the fine spring weather feeling happy and satisfied, buoyant even. Until I walked past the buzzkill of the Trump hotel with about 15 creepy people outside vaping and 5 or 6 gigantic black Escalades double parked in the street. Which briefly dampened my mood.
In the morning I got to Union station, boarded the train and got a seat in the quiet car where I settled down for my ride back. We didn’t leave on time though. In fact we didn’t leave at all. After an hour and a half of apologizing and expressing deep sorrow and thanking us for our patience, they told us to get off the train.
After another hour and a half of sitting in the waiting room with a lot of disgruntled passengers—listening to endless apology announcements, thanking us unnecessarily for the patience none of us had—I began to investigate other methods of getting back eventually deciding to take an Uber. In the car on the way back I got a text that the train was indeed canceled. In case I hadn’t figured it out by 10:30 that night in an effort to rouse me from sleep, they sent another notice of the cancelation.
I hate travel.
Re travel and you:
“if you didn’t have bad luck, you wouldn’t have any luck at all.”
I’d prefer the no luck thing.