I have been moved into the new apartment for just over thirty hours, and it's strange how completely different to Seattle Chicago has been so far. My neighborhood is small and relatively quiet, about halfway between where the hipsters used to be and where they are going. Walking down the street I see a lot of families and young couples with dogs. I am, at least, pleased to be far from the high-volume hubris of the city's businessmen--I never could stand to hear businessmen talk about themselves and the money that they make, and, at least so far, I have met people my own age. For the most part, I've kept to myself the past two days, and in this way the reticence of the big city suits me: when I feel like interacting with other people, I go to the local coffee shop for an iced chai (the best I have had--ever) or to the organic greengrocer, but for the most part, I am left in peace to read my book.
I did have an interesting interaction with a cab driver last Thursday, however. For whatever reason, I seem to be the person who gets the pit in the slice of cherry pie, the eggshell in the brownie--and the craziest of cab drivers. In Seattle, for example, I once caught a cab outside of the opera house and, leaning over to the open window, asked the driver, "Are you free?" "Thanks to Mister Lincoln, yes," he replied. Well. Yes, please, let's have a discussion about the history of slavery to go with my overpriced twenty-minute drive back to the north side, please. Other drivers have attempted to engage me in conversation as I sat in the back seat, attempting to impress me with their knowledge of the local music scene once they learned I was a musician by trade, once even during a 4 a.m. ride to the airport. But, oh, this one--she wins the award for Craziest Cabbie, because at the conclusion of this taxi ride, I ended up with a religious tract.
The main point of this story, I will say at the outset, is that I should just learn to shut up, because that is when the crazies descend. I got in the cab. She asked where I wanted to go. I told her. She had no idea where it was, so I, with my limited knowledge of the outer neighborhoods of Chicago, attempted to explain it to her. And then I noticed that she was playing an Evangelical sermon on her radio. Oh. God. Here is where BS becomes an idiot:
BS: Um, who is the speaker?
Driver: Oh, that's Pastor Chris! He's an inspiration.
BS: Oh.
Driver: When he preaches, the dumb speak, the blind see, and the lame walk. [She proceeds to detail the miracles performed by Pastor Chris, and proselytizes to me on the subject of speaking in tongues] Are you a Christian, ma'am?
BS: Um. Yes?
Driver: What church do you attend?
BS: Well. At the moment, none. But I'm a member of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America, and attend whenever I can. [this is, true to my name, BS--but there was no way I was admitting to this woman, who was swerving in and out of Chicago traffic, that I don't believe in a Hell]
Driver: Jesus is coming back, you know. Very soon.
BS: Um.
In the end, I was lucky to escape with only the added burden of the thickest religious tract I have ever been given--actually a daily devotional from last year, but, as my driver assured me, "The word of God is eternal." [Disclaimer: I am not actually an immoral, godless heathen, but I also do not appreciate being witnessed to by someone whose job is to convey me from Point A to Point B in the shortest amount of time possible. If that makes me a terrible person, I freely accept that label.]
And, oh, I meant to write a bit about What I Am Reading Right Now. So here's that:
A Feast For Crows! The fact that I am tearing through this book even though I like it so much less than the previous three volumes of the A Song of Ice and Fire series (A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords). This is partially due to the fact that this book and the next volume were originally meant to be released as one, but the plot and characters got away from Martin and he decided to separate them geographically. It's a cool idea, but all of my favorite characters were relegated to the fifth volume. Nevertheless, there's a satisfying amount of crazy included in A Feast for Crows by virtue of Martin's decision to allow a character who is very possibly insane to dominate the narrative. I'm purposefully not giving away any plot points because I don't know anymore what is important to the larger narrative and what isn't--so, dear readers (all, what, four of you?), please read this series. Please. I would love to talk about it with you.
But, God, I feel dull tonight, and my thoughts are scattered. More thoughts on the adjustment period later.
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