Tracing Other Places

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum And Other Adventures In Boston

Salem: Nathaniel Hawthorne’s House

An Afternoon At The ICA

Salem: Snow And Witches

August 4, 2015

Salem: Nathaniel Hawthorne’s House

A sunny day brought out the best in Salem.

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Having grown rather tired of rainy Boston, and cities in general, it was refreshing to discover this quaint little town, only a short train journey away.

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I spent much of the morning exploring the snowy streets, and visiting the slightly disappointing Witch Museum. Off season much of the town’s attractions were closed, leaving only Nathanial Hawthorne’s House left to explore.

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Although I’ve heard of the famous author, I’ve never read any of his books, but, being fascinated by the concept of a house museum (I’ve visited several such places in the UK) I was keen to find out more.

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The house/buildings were typical of New England – old, aesthetically pleasing affairs. The house pictured below was even cut in half and brought here from its original location, so as to complete the museum complex, and preserve the author’s birthplace and home. The documentary photographs (on display inside the museum/house) are incredible.

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Entrance to the house covers a tour – our guide was excellent. The house had a long history prior to Hawthorne’s occupancy, having been owned by sea captains, and subject to numerous modifications (before its seven gabled existence, upon which one of Hawthorne’s novels is based, and named after). It was fascinating to learn about the reasoning behind the decoration and architectural choices, ranging from the practicalities associated with keeping rooms warm to the latest styles and aesthetic trends.

Indeed, if anything this tour, complete with a tiny secret staircase, revealed houses (and homes) as fluid, adaptable structures; conversations with their owners and now, petrified and preserved to tell a story. The transition from home to museum is certainly a strange one, dealt with in multiple ways. Take the Bronte Parsonage Museum – very museum-like and with plenty of original artefacts, contrasting with Elizabeth Gaskell’s House in Manchester – much more interactive and home-like, largely containing reproductions and imitation artefacts. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s house strayed closer to the former, although the staircase was a nice interactive touch.

Had I been a fan of the author, or have read his books, no doubt I’d have gotten much more out of the museum. Nonetheless, still an enjoyable experience.

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After admiring some more of Salem, I finally made the snowy, but picturesque train journey back to Boston.

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Once again I found myself back at the hostel, huddled over a map, trying in vain to find cost effective ways to explore the city on my ever-looming final day – not only in Boston, but of the trip itself.

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See also:

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum And Other Adventures In Boston

An Afternoon At The ICA

Salem: Snow And Witches

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July 28, 2015

Salem: Snow and Witches

Whilst staying in Boston, I now regret failing to explore more of New England.

It was a mistake to stay in the cold, rainy city, when so many interesting alternative places lay just a train journey away.

Massachusetts is full of fascinating histories and places – I’m particularly gutted to have missed out on the Edward Gorey House, and that of Louisa May Alcott. Nonetheless, Salem was a good choice for my only trip beyond the city.

The clouds had cleared and the sky showed through – the leftover snow became blindingly white, and as the train from Boston approached Salem, the scenery became increasingly wintery. Still sunny, but heaps more snow.

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Salem was such a quaint little place – quiet due to it being off season, but boasting some lovely buildings and eccentric features.

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The snow was deep in parts, but unlike the dirty heaps on Boston’s streets, much of this was pure white.

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There was even a galleon of sorts (or is it a schooner – I don’t really know much about boats!) moored at the nearby harbour.

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How lovely this must be during the summer.

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For such a small town, Salem boasts plenty of attractions and quaint little shops. Witchcraft is of course a dominant theme; unsurprisingly the town has capitalised upon its notorious history, but aside from a cheesy pirate museum (sadly closed) and scary waxwork exhibits, there’s also the Peabody Essex Museum (also closed – I made the mistake of visiting on a Monday) and plenty of heritage to explore.

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Like Boston, Salem is characterised by its historical buildings.

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And of course, the infamous witch trials.

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Perhaps naively, I’d expected greater things from the town’s Witch Museum – the town’s legendary past had led me here out of genuine interest, but dramatic hyperbole and sensation seeking dominated over serious consideration and discussion within the museum.

There were two parts to the experience – a flashy show in a huge hall with talking heads and figures, followed by a small exhibition examining the moral panic surrounding witchcraft in the town’s not so distant past. So much more could have been made of the exhibition – it raised some interesting questions and starting points, but failed to develop any beyond the immediately obvious.

One of the issues that interested me most, was how single (often older) women, once respected for their status as midwives and medicine women, became demonised. Likewise how femininity became associated with mystical forces and feared. There was also Salem itself – a small, isolated town, and the culture of fear amongst settlers still struggling to maintain a safe and prosperous living in the so-called New World.

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It was such a shame that most of the other museums in the town were closed when I visited. After coming all this way, I was determined to see as much as I could, and the only other open attraction I could find was writer Nathaniel Hawthorne’s house. It was here that I was to head to next.

See also:

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum And Other Adventures In Boston

An Afternoon At The ICA

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July 27, 2015

An Afternoon At The ICA

St Patrick’s Day is huge in Boston, something I didn’t realise or expect when I initially arrived in the city in the early hours of a cold dark morning in March.

The following day I was torn – should I wait in the rain for the celebratory parade, or take advantage of a quiet period to explore the city’s Institute of Contemporary Art?

Much as I’d have liked to have seen costumes and floats (is that what St Patrick’s Day parades in Boston consist of?) the prospect of getting wet and being jostled by crowds led me to seek refuge in the dry, warm company of contemporary art. A decision I by no means regret. The ICA was fantastic.

As an artist, it was important, during the trip, to experience some of the world’s best contemporary galleries, given that, due to my unfortunate career choice (!) I’m unlikely to be able to afford such venture again in the near future.

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Overlooking the marina, the gallery enthralled me with some fascinating art, including the then exhibition When Stars Begin To Fall: Imagination And The American South.

Admittedly the title did not pique my interest initially, but the work itself did. There was a huge variety in terms of form, subject matter and perhaps, subjectively speaking, quality. Painting, photography, film, performance – all had a home here, brought together by a shared interest in the American South. The highlights for me included some incredible head sculptures, carnivalesque in their playful distortion of features, but also movingly human at the same time. And of course Kara Walker never disappoints – her visceral yet shadowy animation explored some very dark narratives indeed, much to the bewilderment of two young boys who were watching it in front of me.

Another highlight was an immersive sound installation – Sonic Arboretum.

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These strange, sculptural contraptions played with eerie haunting melodies, conversing with themselves and one another – gramaphone-esque trumpeting forms, like flowers growing in a bare white gallery.

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Near the entrance I spotted a beautiful site-specific piece – an epic cascading painting of sorts, drawn liberally across the tall walls; the patterns dancing with reflections and shadows, cast by the nearby windows.

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Outside the bad weather continued, and unsurprisingly, very little was happening in the marina.

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Had I been able to spare the dollars, it might have been nice to sample some local seafood.

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Or visit an independent cafe.

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Instead I bought my tea from Whole Foods – yummy and surprisingly affordable.

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Eaten in the hostel kitchen.

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With some complimentary green tea.

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Another perk of HI hostels in the USA – free tea and coffee throughout the day (although not in San Francisco for some reason – but their coffee, arguably, was by far superior and worth paying for).

Finding myself a cosy chair in a corner for the evening (the Boston hostel was full of cosy nooks and crannys, plus handy plug sockets!) I browsed weather forecasts and places to visit.

Eager to be inspired, I had a brainwave – why not pay a visit to nearby Salem?

See also:

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum And Other Adventures In Boston

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July 26, 2015

An American Cambridge

Winter’s cold embrace continued to stifle Boston on my second day in the city. With the ever-present threat of rain, a long walk to see Harvard University was not appealing. Instead I relented and bought a metro ticket to Cambridge.

I imagine that this part of Boston looks enchanting in the summer.

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There was a certain charm even in winter, but the dull sky and dirty snow dampened things somewhat.

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All was very quiet – an occasional solitary student and/or dog walker aside, I was alone in exploring the grand university buildings. Certainly reminded me of my own university experience back in the original, British Cambridge – a sense of being overwhelmed by a towering history of academic excellence….and, as a result, feeling rather out of place.

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Not everyone who attends a top university becomes placque material. I’m proof of that! Moving on…

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There is certainly a magic in being surrounded by old, grand buildings; imagining seeking refuge in immense libraries – top academic institutions invariably have spectacular libraries.

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And bookshops. I wish I’d sought out more bookshops and libraries on my trip.

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Still, unlike Cambridge back home, its American namesake lacked the same Harry Potter-esque wonder. It’s a ‘newer’ university (although still ‘old’ compared to most) for one thing.

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Finding little reason to stay any longer in snowy Cambridge, I returned to the subway station. From there I made for Bunker Hill, getting rather disoriented after alighting at a rather grim stop near a huge bridge.

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Ironically the biggest highlight of my morning involved finding a supermarket and buying food. After surviving on mainly bread, cheese, yoghurt and chocolate throughout the trip (and sometimes stranger things in Japan), it was wonderful to finally have some choice and familiar staples to eat.

Boston was quickly aligning itself with Chicago in my mind. Both places, with their freezing temperatures and truly rotten weather, were making it challenging to enjoy the end of my travelling experience.

After visiting so many spectacular, inspiring places, and experiencing moments of true bliss and contentment, it seemed a pity to approach the end of the journey on such a cold note. On the other hand, this made the prospect of going home much more appealing than it had been earlier on. After all, travel can’t all be glossy Instagram-able glory – some of it is just a lot of trudging around in the rain, trying to figure out what to do. In this sense I’m glad I never spent too long in one place…

See also:

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum And Other Adventures In Boston

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July 17, 2015

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum And Other Adventures In Boston

Faced with a rainy start to my Boston stay, I sought refuge in one of many of the city’s museums.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum showcases an impressive collection of art and artefacts, accumulated by Isabella Stewart Gardner – a noted patron of the arts. Gardner began travelling and aquiring art following the tragic death of her only child – a son who died from pneumonia at the age of two. She spent three decades exploring the world with her husband Jack, and subseqently shared her discoveries, now housed at the museum. In her will, alongside donations to various charitable organisations, Isabella specifically outlined her vision for the museum, which now continues to preserve her legacy for future visitors.

This noble venture sounded great in principle – the range of materials on display was impressive, but for me it was all a little too crowded; I felt as if the individual pieces didn’t always have space to breathe.

The architecture of the building deserved its own share of the limelight, but perhaps at times also distracted from the accompanying exhibitions and individual museum pieces. A sort of cultural and historical overload perhaps.

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I couldn’t help but be reminded of my visit to Alcazar in Seville – strange to see bits and pieces of my trip appropriated in other, geographically distant places. Indeed, the museum architecture took inspiration from a multitude of historical and geographical locations.

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And of course the ubiquitous selfie invitation.

Why is it necessary to take selfies everywhere? Are places themselves no longer enough?

To be fair, photography was not permitted in many parts of the museum, so it was reassuring to know that the courtyard was exempt from said restriction.

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One thing that occasionally distresses me at museums and galleries is hearing well-meaning but domineering parents instruct their children on each piece on display. Some of the most creative and wonderful interpretations I’ve heard offered inside cultural institutions have come from children, and it is crushing to witness them being told what something is or means, before they’ve had a chance to figure out their own interpretation.

I only mention this because I observed it in action during my visit, I’m all for education and the sharing of knowledge, but shouldn’t this also be coupled with some space for imagination and mystery?

Rant over. I must admit I felt uncomfortable in the museum – it was filled to bursting point, and many visitors were rude – there was a surprising amount of pushing and shoving. I can imagine that the beautiful courtyard would be tranquil on a quieter day (it was a Sunday), and that even the rooms, chock full of art and decoration, would have seemed less claustrophobic without huge crowds to battle through.

To my perhaps uneducated eye, the collection seemed to closely resemble many that I’ve witnessed in visits to stately homes, palaces and more traditional museums over the years. The whole Grand Tour era, in which wealthy Western travellers toured European cultural sites, and later, the more exotic pilgrimages made to the East, the Orient, and beyond, seems to have historically spawned particular types of cultural tourism and art collecting.

The museum deserves a more in-depth review, but I didn’t make enough notes to do this accurately. I was eager to escape the crowds, even if this meant braving the rain for a while, taking the opportunity to explore more of Boston.

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I must admit to have been intrigued by the Tea Party Museum (I encountered it briefly in passing) but was unwilling to gamble on another large entrance fee in the same day. Like the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the attraction was surrounded by queues, and would undoubtedly have been busy. Loved the historical sailing vessels outside though – there were two!

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Instead I visited the Fire Museum; a smallish building filled vintage fire engines, museum pieces and burly men discussing the dangers of fire (and military service experience).

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There were some nice pieces – not just the old engines, but also some charming models, historical uniform examples and plenty of paraphernalia.

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Outside the rain occasionally let up, running rivulets along seeping piles of sodden snow.

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As usual, an impromptu walking tour offers plenty of unexpected insights into a city, missed when travelling by subway or bus.

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Unexpected art, for instance, and, perhaps more surprisingly, Primark. When did Primark come to the US?!

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I had hoped to walk the Freedom Trail, but as my leaky boots filled with water, I realised that this, and the rain, would make things a little impractical.

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When I planned this Boston visit, I imagined visiting green parks, walking along the river and admiring the historical parts of the city. Instead I found it, like Chicago, buried deep under the grip of an unusually late winter spell.

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I climbed Beacon Hill…

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…and dodged puddles of sludge on Boston Common.

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Then a little adventure when I got back to the hostel.

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My unseen roommates of the previous night had all but disappeared, except one – an aloof girl who ignored my tentative smile upon entering the room.

Shortly after my return, a trio of waspish St Patrick’s Day revellers trooped in, wearing elaborate (and revealing) costumes and make-up, their luggage housed in designer bags.

They passed a condescending look at me and my plain clothes, before getting pally with Roommate Number 1. This was quite unlike my other hostel experiences – even in the less desirable hostels, I’d rarely met roommates who were unwilling to part with a smile or a hello. Perhaps I wasn’t posh enough for Boston?

Later the strangest occupant arrived – an older lady, who seemed a little out of things – after uttering a few strange comments, she went to bed. The other girls left, and I took a shower in the shower room outside. I then returned for an early night. Shortly after nodding off, I was woken by the sounds of people talking, then hurriedly exiting the dorm. Then the smell – at first I thought someone was eating something strong smelling, then as it got worse, I slowly realised the horrible truth, and made a fast exit myself, bumping into one of the hostel staff, who had seemingly been alerted to the situation.

I felt sorry for the older lady – she evidently had problems of some sort, and was not quite aware of what was going on, but it would be impossible, not to say unhygienic, to stay in the room. Fortunately the hostel organised a new room. This one was overheated, but the roommates were friendly, and it was clean.

See also:

Amtrak: Not Fit For Purpose?

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5 Comments

July 10, 2015

Boston’s Icy Welcome

Hostelling International provided my accommodation in Boston, just as it had in Chicago and San Francisco. As a hostelling chain, I cannot fault them.

Clean, comfortable accommodation, more hotel like in some respects, with a free buffet breakfast and all kinds of deals and activities on offer. Better value for money than the UK YHA any day.

It was a relief to arrive at my Boston hostel, in the early hours of the morning, after a nightmarish train journey the previous day (and night). Amtrak had kindly provided (sarcasm) multiple delays on what was already a long journey, and their failure to provide adequate refreshments on board had left me eagerly anticipating a delicious complementary breakfast at the hostel.

As a chilly dawn broke in Boston, I fuelled up on caffeine, bagels and porridge at the buffet, making myself a cream cheese bagel for later.

Boston was freezing. The sky was clear initially, so I set out for the river, marvelling at the huge piles of snow I encountered along the way.

Architecturally this was a huge contrast to Chicago. The buildings were much older, many with a European flavour. Less industrial, and with a smaller, more intimate feel. Aesthetically much of it was more pleasing to the eye.

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However, like Chicago, the nearby water (this time a river, rather than a lake) was frozen solid. As was everything.

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Boat huts and small piers hinted at a very different riverscape during the summer…

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…as did the numerous outdoor benches and buried gardens along the Charles River Esplanade.

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At this early hour the riverside was all but deserted.

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Except for the occasional group of runners, braving the ice. I say runners rather than joggers, as these swift figures connoted student athletes rather than casual joggers. Boston is a little like Oxford or Cambridge (without the long history) in that it hosts some of the world’s top students and academic institutions – Harvard, Berklee College of Museum and MIT are all located here, plus many others in the vicinity. Part of the city is even named after Cambridge. Having spent three years living and studying in the UK version, I can testify that Boston’s namesake is quite different.

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In spite of its highbrow reputation, Boston still made me laugh – with its signs.

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However, like Chicago, winter had coloured the city and uninspiring mix of whites, browns and greys. I didn’t realise until the end of my trip, how powerful the seasons and the weather are in shaping a visit to a place – the lingering winter, the lifeless trees and the freezing temperatures all subdued much of both Chicago and Boston.

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No matter I thought, a museum or an art gallery would bring some colour into my experience of the city – so I headed towards Huntington Avenue, where several such institutions were located.

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Little did I realise how phenomenally expensive Boston’s cultural institutions were. With limited dollars left (this being my final destination of the trip), I had to choose, and so I opted for the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Alas the museum didn’t open for another hour, and rain was beginning to fall.

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All too aware of my leaky boots, I sought refuge (and yet more caffeine) in a nearby coffee shop.

See also:

Amtrak: Not Fit For Purpose?

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6 Comments

July 9, 2015

Amtrak: Not Fit For Purpose?

After ditching New Orleans for Chicago, I failed to find an affordable flight to Boston from the latter. Instead I booked a long distance Amtrak train, thinking that this might be a good way to see some of the countryside, and a chance to fill in some gaps in my travel diary.

The journey began with a late night walk down to Chicago’s Union Station. The streets here most certainly did not feel safe (especially at night), but fortunately the station was only a few blocks from my Chicago hostel. The station was a grim, cramped place – full of people with suitcases and such, many waiting for the same, long train journey as me.

As the appointed departure time approached, station staff herded all passengers into a tiny waiting area. There was insufficient seating and many were left standing. The departure time came and went, and still we waited. Little information was given; no reason for the delay, and the staff, far from being apologetic and courteous, were rude, obnoxious and unhelpful. First one hour, and then another, slid by.

Finally staff told us that we were waiting for a replacement engine to arrive from the depot, and then finally, over several hours late, we boarded the train at close to midnight. Whilst the long delay made me angry, it was the lack of information or apology from staff that really frustrated me. This can make all the difference when problems occur.

Once onboard, I found the seats to be comfortable enough – plenty of leg room and I even managed to sleep a little at first. My neighbour was a Chicago native, travelling to meet family in Springfield, one of the stops before Boston. Like many of the passengers he was friendly, and we enjoyed sporadic periods of conversation across the journey. He offered me a different perspective on the city. His obvious fondness for Chicago made me feel somewhat guilty for disliking it.

The scenery that accompanied the journey was, to say the least, uninspiring. Mostly snow, bare branches, and later, dull industrial expanses. So many bleak, barren places. I’d hate to live in the middle of nowhere, especially in this kind of landscape, and yet we passed isolated houses, swamped by snow. Naiively, I’d envisioned dramatic panoramas – lakes, forests and such, but clearly my knowledge of US geography is lacking; or winter does not show Illinois, Indiana, Ohio and New York (the state not the city) at their best.

There were occasional glimpses of the massive, but frozen, Lake Michigan, and even a sign or two for Niagara Falls (the route passes close to the border with Canada), but nothing that excited or inspired me.

There was no WIFI on board (not any my phone could detect anyhow), and the dining car had a tiny supply of heavily overpriced snacks. I was glad I’d brought provisions from Whole Foods beforehand, but had soon scoffed them all out of sheer boredom. Every few hours or so we’d arrive at some seemingly remote station, and eventually the train filled up. The train seemed to be moving at about 1 mile per hour and often made temporary, seemingly meaningless stops between stations.

I alternated between conversation, sudoku, and flipping through travel photos on my phone. How I craved a good book (or several) on this journey!

As darkness fell once more, we arrived at a station, but this time didn’t leave. For ages. Another delay, another wait for another engine from another depot – by this point I realised we’d not reach Boston before midnight (we were supposed to be there by 9pm). I was worried that my hostel bed would be given away. Thankfully I got a signal for long enough to be able to call them – a rude woman on the other end told me that they’d hold the bed, although snapped at me when I asked to double check this.

It felt as though I’d spent a lifetime on the train, escaping my carriage only once to buy a milk from the limited (and expensive) supplies in the dining cart before it was taken away (the train split at Albany so that the dining cart half could go to New York – Boston-bound passengers were left to go hungry).

In the closing hours of this neverending journey, the train staff finally offered some complementery refreshments – some sickly unhealthy snacks, but welcome nonetheless, along with a miniscule bottle of water. Why had these not been offered earlier I wondered? And why had there been no updates or information about our predicted (late) arrival times?

There was some confusion in Boston; on the map I thought that North Station looked closer to my hostel, but I should have stuck with my original ticketed stop – South Station. When I emerged from the station it was even colder than Chicago (due to heavy snow in the weeks preceding my visit; you could see the snow piled high on either side of the roads), and I first went down the wrong street in the dark, before discovering that I was at the wrong end of the right one, hundreds of addresses from where I needed to be.

Whilst Boston didn’t feel quite as scary and intimidating as Chicago, there were plenty of drunken revellers about – St Patrick’s Day was fast approaching, and apparently this is huge in Boston. So, lots of partygoers.

Following a long trudge through the snow, cursing and stamping along the way, I reached the warmth of the hostel (around 1am/1:30), tripped over in the dark trying to get to bed without disturbing my roommates, and got very little sleep. Nonetheless, I was relieved to have escaped the train, and to have finally arrived. This was the first and last time I will ever use Amtrak (they finally emailed over a month later offering a measly low value voucher as compensation – as if I’d risk travelling with them again!).

I thought British trains were rubbish, but this took the concept of bad service to a whole new level.

See also:

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3 Comments

July 8, 2015

Colourful Flowers And Chinatown

Overall, Chicago was not my cup of tea. However, I must applaud it for embracing the arts, and celebrating botanical beauty.

The MCA was superb, as was Jane Addams Hull House Museum; and the Lincoln Park Conservatory bowled me over with its fantastic flowers. The Botanical Gardens were a little lifeless during my wintery visit, but pictures from other seasons suggest an incredible show. Even the slightly disappointing Skokie Northshore Sculpture Park suggested a valiant effort to bring art into more obscure corners of Chicago.

After a rather long winded hike from Skokie to the nearest metro station (turned out to be miles away), I once more sought out nature – I was excited to find that Chicago was awash with conservatories – one at Lincoln Park, another at the Botanical Gardens and a further example at Garfield Park.

My metro (subway? inner city transport?) day ticket gave me the chance to experience plenty of teeth rattling journeys across the city that day, much of them on elevated rails travelling above, rather than under the ground. As the weather was once more cold, I eagerly anticipated the tropic warmth of a conservatory.

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Upon entering I was struck by a mesmerising display of yellow umbrellas, suspended high above the plants. Not only is yellow my favourite colour, but the umbrellas were, for me, a fond reminder of rainy Northern England.

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Once again, another free conservatory – brilliant to have free attractions in a US city like this, considering how expensive the country can be for visitors (and no doubt residents also). Furthermore, the flowers did not disappoint – colourful and exquisitely arranged.

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After enjoying more flowers – conservatories and botanical gardens (plus unusual trees) became a dominant, and unexpected theme during my six week trip – I ventured out once more to wait on the chilly station platform.

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Chinatown followed – such places intrigue me.

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I’ve never been to China, but I often wonder, are Chinatowns more stereotypically Chinese than China itself? Or do they just appear this way by virtue of contrast with their surroundings?

On a related note (perhaps) I find that being abroad makes me feel very British, a feeling I don’t experience much at home. Being away from home, makes one more aware of national characteristics and patterns. Japan in particular being a good example of this.

Whilst there I felt absurdly tall and fair, but also scruffy – particularly in Tokyo where everyone was immaculately dressed. In Italy I felt very pale, meek and quiet. In the US I felt very reserved, but not unduly out of place. I also felt obscurely excited/relieved to encounter things I associated with home. Like the umbrellas, bread in Japan (hard to come by) or an the work of a British artist in a foreign gallery; and perhaps more shamefully, global chains like Starbucks (which isn’t really British, but nevermind).

When I first arrived in Japan, it was comforting to order the filter coffee I get from time to time back home. Cheap and with a free refill, the value for money (rather than the dubious taste or company ethics) lure me back there. That bland, anonymous sameness of global chains can sometimes be oddly comforting, much as it’s nice to visit local, independent places.

Back to Chinatown – architecturally interesting, and much more vibrant than much of central Chicago.

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Splashes of colour and decorative features made this area feel more welcoming somehow, and I spent a long time enjoying a wander around a gift shop. Its wares were fairly predictable, but this doesn’t take away from their novelty or interest.

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This was my last day in Chicago, and whilst the stay had been so-so, I was glad to be moving on. I grabbed some supplies from Whole Foods, anticipating the hunger and boredom that would characterise a long distance train journey – around 25 hours in total to reach Boston. As darkness fell I snuck back into the hostel common room (in spite of having checked out already) to count down the hours before a late night visit to Union Station.

See also:

A Change Of Heart And Mind

Chicago: Not As Expected?

A Long Walk North

Contemporary Art, Chicago Style

Jane Addams Hull House Museum

Winter At The Botanical Gardens

Skokie Northshore Sculpture Park