Chicago slipped by the train window last Friday. Corn fields turned to suburbs, then tenement houses and warehouses topped with razor wire. Then tall buildings that blotted out the sky.

We got off the train and hailed a taxi for the Chicago Art Institute, Cindy and my sister Kathy and me.

The cabbie, a guy about my age, figured me for a tourist right away. I donít know how he saw that so quickly. Perhaps my mouth hung ajar a bit too widely, trying to take in a city Iíve read about my whole life but never quite managed to visit.

ìWeíve been planning this trip for 25 years,î I said. ìWe had to sell our house and newspaper first.î

That got a laugh, although Iím not sure why. It was true.

Nine dollars later he dropped us off at the steps of a huge building guarded by huge lions on a huge boulevard lined with huge buildings. I guess that sums up Chicago for me. It not only has broad shoulders, it has huge broad shoulders.

For the next six hours we wandered the halls of the Art Institute. It was amazing seeing works of art that are icons, Picassoís guitar player, Remingtonís bronze cowboys, right there in front of us.

Cindy and Kathy drifted off, and we each got lost in our thoughts amidst a thousand years of oil and canvas and genius.

A group of middle school students came pouring through the rooms, notebooks in hand. They giggled at the nudes and made fun of the abstract paintings. One of the teachers stood in front of a huge canvas covered with blotches of ink, mostly black and white, with with some subdued other hues, like red, yellow, and orange. He pointed out its energy and subtle color. I wanted to follow him, hear what else he had to say. I wanted to tell the kids, ìListen to him. You guys donít know how lucky you are to be here right now.î But I didnít, of course, and kids being kids, it would not have done much good.

After two hours it became too much for me. I couldnít appreciate any more. So I tracked down Cindy and Kathy. We regrouped at a Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition, then had lunch in an open courtyard. We needed the break.

Cindy asked if I had seen Two Sisters by Renoir. No, I didnít think so. How about the Paris Street on a Rainy Day by Caillebotte? No. So she took me back upstairs. I had missed two entire rooms of impressionists! Looking at the Two Sisters with Cindy was the highlight of the visit. I wonít bother trying to describe it. It was too pretty for words.

We walked through nearby Millennium Park after that, and looked at a sculpture called Cloud Gate. Kathy calls it The Bean. Itís a gigantic (huge) round shape that is coated with steel that reflects the sky and buildings and people in front of it. I didnít want to like it. It looked too dumb. But it was fascinating. You could see your distorted self emerge from the crowd, see yourself wave foolishly, see yourself take a picture, which many people were doing.

Then it was back in the cab, where we heard about the 10th foreign language of the day, this time Hindi, I believe. Cindy and I wandered down the sidewalk a bit to Union Station, where I started talking to a guy in a blue coat who asked if we needed help. How could he tell I needed help?

ìYes, can you show me where they filmed that scene in The Untouchables where the baby carriage goes down the steps?î

He had probably heard the request before. He pointed out a big building about two blocks away. ìRight there it is sir. By the way, I donít actually work for the train company. Do you have any spare change?î

I didnít have any change, so I gave him a dollar. I know I did not need to do that, but I did. Cindy had disappeared by this time. She doesnít like to be seen with me when I am doing my Country Bumpkin impersonation. I wandered down the sidewalk, past half a dozen other panhandlers and musicians. No money this time, sorry. Then it was back to the train station, and onto the train for a thoughtful and contented ride back to Kathyís house a world away.

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