We wake at 6am to a bedroom of bleary morning light. The District Line rumbles past my window; the radio alarm shrieks into action. Up, dressed, on the tube to Heathrow. It’s Hattie and I and the promise of an adventure, just beyond Gate 29. Plane food is worse than I remember (although I still love the stuff, it must be a nostalgia thing) and I find it impossible to sleep. Chicago comes quickly though, and it’s theoretically lunch time again. Security is as usual – inexplicably terrifying. The Mexican man in front spoke no English but was desperately trying to explain his job to a merciless officer. “Window fitter!” I wanted to shout, “he’s a window fitter!” In hindsight, he might have been a carpenter.
The train shows glimpses of the city beyond the lake. Then it’s our stop and we’re tumbled out onto tree lined avenues and patch-worked houses. The hostel is among them. Bags are flung down, shoes changed and the pizza search begins. It ends with a heaving pizzeria and a deep pan pie knuckle deep with cheese to eat at the hostel. On the walk back the train clutters, rattles, chokes above us; churning the air of the Windy City on a still September evening. Shortly after, I make a life altering discovery: I don’t like Chicago pizza.
To The Table 