One Chicago Day

 A whirl.  A spinning, twirling, flitting whirl.  That’s what my year has been. 

Facebook reminded me this morning that one year ago I was on a train going to St. Petersburg, Russia.  One would think by then it would seem common for me to travel alone in a foreign country.  I should not feel a thrill of victory at my independence and ability at all.  Yet, there I sat thanking God for making me somehow have the skills to manage it all.

The image of my face in the train window came to me again yesterday on my way to Chicago.  I was meeting a friend to have breakfast and then head to the Art institute.  I had been told the impressionist works there would make my mouth water.

The comparison to the year before was continually walking through my memory.  I had gone to St. Petersburg, in part, to meet a friend.  We would visit The Hermitage, filled with breathtaking works.  I was reading Natasha’s Dance, a cultural history of Russia, at that time.  Internalizing the history of Russia while walking among its remnants was especially poignant for me. 

The conductor’s voice brought me back to present.  I am still sometimes surprised to hear the English language in unfamiliar public places.

The train in America is not a common form of transportation and so it wasn’t very crowded.  Mostly holiday travelers who, like me, didn’t want to drive to Chicago and pay exorbitant parking and tolls.  I spent much of the trip listening to two women behind me talk loudly about personal business – theirs and other’s.  A sharp contrast to the near silence and hushed movement of the Russian Rail.

Chicago’s Union Station rivals the greeting station in St. Petersburg.  Its marble stairs dressed up for Christmas were festive and welcoming.  The crowd was friendlier to a stranger, but that could be due to language and my own comfort level.  Perhaps if I spoke Russian I would not have felt distanced from the crowd of St. Petersburg.  Or perhaps it was the warm greeting of my friend waiting for me in the center of the grandeur of Union Station. 

We walked briskly from the station catching up on each other’s lives.  I always enjoy the company of my brilliant young friends.  I am sure they make me smarter just by osmosis. 

I was flooded with memories as we sat in the European café, Le Pain Quitodien, on Michigan Avenue.  The chain was a favorite in Moscow.  An easy meeting place.  “how about Le Paine at Park Kultury?’  “We could meet at Le Pain at Red Square and walk from there.”  “There’s a Le Pain near the Metro.  Let’s stop there.”  You could expect a good bowl of coffee, fresh bread and pastries and quick service.  It was not fast food, but always fast and fresh.

Like any good franchise, it was much the same in Chicago as Moscow or St. Petersburg.  The same coffee bowl, the same chocolate chip cookie stack at the pastry counter, the same salt and pepper shakers even.  It was good, comfortable, like finding an old friend in an unexpected place. 

The Art Institute felt somehow familiar, too.  Similar to The Hermitage, I was greeted by a long queue waiting for tickets.  However, the American version moved much more quickly, happily, loudly.  Within five minutes we were at the doorway to the collections. 

“Impressionists first?”  My friend asked.

“Yes, of course.” 

Monet, Degas, Renoir, Seurat beckoned us.  Swirls of color, light, dancers, flowers, absolute spring time embraced us.  I reveled in the joy of their brilliance.  At times breathing deeply as if I could inhale a moment of their greatness. 

Van Gogh looked slyly from the corner as if to question our questions of his use of colors and shapes.  “You don’t like it?  What?  You think blue instead of yellow for her face?  To me yellow was pretty, summery, light.  You can see it in all of my favorite pieces.  And why are you standing so long before the piles of grass?  I made those as a study.  Just a study!  They don’t mean anything.  Leave them behind.  Go, now, get out!” 

I was very surprised to find that I could recognize some of the artists simply by their works.  When had this happened?  This knowledge of art?  Where had I acquired this kindred-ness to the masters?  Was it at The Hermitage?  Tretyakov Gallery?  MMOMA?  The Garage?  The exposure to greatness had infiltrated and changed me. 

Phrases from Natasha’s Dance came to me as I noted Russian artists spattered in the Institute’s collections.  Especially true as I stood entranced before the Marc Chagall America Windows.  The blues, the lights, the peace, the breadth, the depth of the entire work pulled me in.  I was sorry he had lived through so much political unrest and discrimination.  I was selfishly glad the broad living had expanded his talents so I might enjoy them.

A boy of about 10 sat on the bench before the windows similarly captured. 

“Do you like it?”  I asked.

“Yes.”  He answered seriously.  He stood as though to leave and let me sit.

I continued.  “What do you like about it?”

He sat again and turned his head to take it all in again.  “The blue.  I like the blue the most.  And the small pictures.”

I nodded in complicity.  “Yes, I do, too.” 

“And the instruments.  I like the instruments.”

“Ah.  I see them, too.”

We continued comparing the big and small of the windows before us.  I could sense something special about this child.  An artist’s eye, a creative genius beginning.  He looked deeper into the art than most boys of 10 would bother.  He was patient to see the whole story. 

 A young girl came to sit beside him.  At first I think she was checking the conversation, making sure I wasn’t bringing some kind of harm to him. Then, realizing I was tapping into the young artist’s creativity, she smiled and quietly listened.  I wished later I had gotten his name.  I think I will see it written on a canvas someday. 

There were other such moments of awe as we flowed through the galleries.  Cubism, minimalism, impressionism, realism and a host of other -isms swirled around us.  My companion of the day is a brilliant musician who uses her talent as a teacher.  Her insight of the intertwining of art and music was fascinating.  We discussed the closeness of genres in Europe and America how music and art and literature reflect upon each other. 

After my friend left to catch her train, I roamed around alone for a bit basking in the city lights.  Much like I had done in St. Petersburg the year before, I sat at a Starbucks watching the locals.  Rushing home from work.  Stopping for a quick warm up.  Chatting together before going to some other event.

Last year it was a mall Starbucks which became my writing spot.  Amidst the glitz and glamor of holiday shoppers, I tucked into a booth while words fell from my hands.  Immersed in strangeness, it was still comfortably familiar.  I couldn’t understand their words, but their faces told the same story.  Love of family.  Joy of friendship.  Excitement of travel.  Weariness of work. 

As I considered my visage in the window of the night train I was glad for all of the living, stretching, breathing, learning.  I am thankful for a God who helps me to seize the day and allows me many opportunities.  I hope I am living as someone worth His investment. 

You may have seen a quick day trip to Chicago.  Now you know what was felt through this writer’s eyes.

Note to my regular readers:

Thank you for your support and encouragement.  For more pictures and insight, find me on Facebook - Kris A. Newman.  To order copies of The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or A Friend Named Jesus, please message me.

Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year!  Let's unwrap 2017 together!

- Kris

Dreamy St. Petersburg

I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it....     Emily Bronte

The Dream of St. Petersburgh

I dreamt I took a train to an adventure. My mind was filled with all the possibilities and `'what-ifs" I had always imagined.  I expected to see beautiful things, hear musical voices, see colors and textures and life I had not known before.

The train in my dream rushed through the darkness with only the occasional disturbance.  

I awoke to find myself there, at that place, the place I had dreamed of!  Surrounded by history and meaning, I walked behind my knowledgeable guide.  She told me the story of her city.  "This is where Alexander I lived and this was Catherine's palace.  We have Nicholas's statute over here and the lighthouse over there."  We wound our way through unfamiliar comfortable streets filled with the voices of life.  

The Fortress of Peter and Paul stands chief among the buildings in this dream.  Walking through the walled city I found myself taking pictures and wondering about their story.  Who lived here?  Who walked here?  Who rested in the safety of the mamoth walls?  And Why?  What did they hide from?  I could almost feel their sense of safety, hear their hushed whispers.  

Sometimes it rained - hard, chilly raindrops forcing up the umbrellas and drawing strangers closer together.  Unexpectedly, around another corner, the sun would shine and the skies would clear.  Equally by turns it was cool and warm.  A day which couldn't make up its mind what kind of day it wanted to be.

Still we walked.  Sometimes strolling, sometimes with purpose, sometimes with crowds, sometimes without.  Always surrounded by the story.

We happened on a parade at one point.  WWII veterans and their families holding pictures of those lost in the Great War.  This city felt the cost of the war in devastating fashion.  The survivors are grateful for those who paid the price to hold the land.  They celebrate with intense pride.  The uniforms, the flowers, the pictures, the stories flowed through the street with the rain playing softly overhead.  

We stopped for coffee at another point.  Like Goldilocks we tried first this spot then that before we found a place that was just right.  Hot coffee, sweet treats, gentle conversation refreshed us both.

As we exited the last Metro I caught sight of a painting tossed on the street.  In the broken fragment I could see perfect blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.  A building grew in the painting it's rounded turret strutting its strength against nature.  "I'm still here!"  It shouted behind the billboard tacked to its face.  "Don't let the modern facade fool you.  I have watched the gate for centuries.  I saw Napoleon and Hitler trying to take me away.  Neither Soviet rule nor winter's blizzard could change my stand.  You may paint me with advertisements or bathe my stone in whitewash.  The fact remains.  I am still here."

As I lay my head down at the end of the day, I realized it was not a dream at all.  I really did come to St. Petersburg.  I really did see, hear, taste, feel these things.  And another day awaits.

I thought I was awake, but found myself still in the dream.

Another swirl of color, sound and smells swished about me.  The sun was out now and shining brightly.  Golden domes atop fortress buildings glimmered in the horizon as I walked a new route. 

“There is Bro. Turner’s favorite bookstore.”  “There is my favorite palace.”  “There is St. Isaac’s Cathedral.”  Over and over the phrases of my friend crowded into my hearing as she tried to show me all of the best and share with me her abundant knowledge. 

Passing The Church of the Spilled Blood, a remarkable piece of architecture, I was caught by the sound of a quiet flute dancing among the trees.  Wearing black and strolling carelessly, the flutist interacted with his audience.  I drank in the peaceful sounds a moment before continuing.

“We were here yesterday.  Remember when we crossed the bridge after the parade?  That’s where we were.”  My friend stood pointing and, to my surprise, I did remember.  The bridge with the four horses prancing above beckoned us to go on.

Another dash of music surprised me upon a wall outside of a hotel.  I didn’t know the song, but gave it a passing glance to honor its existence.

Through this passage and that, winding behind and between the ancient buildings, we finally erupted into a bright square.  “Now we’re here.  There is The Hermitage.” 

Ah!  The Hermitage!  Frosted in mint and cream, the elegance was almost more than one could fathom.  To our right a spare, modernist, clean-lined building humbly held court.  Court isn’t all that it held, however.  It also held a Kandinsky Exhibit. Up a glass staircase, through a winding passageway and then there it was!  The very thing I wished to see. 

Many years ago I had received a print of the Kandinsky painting “Winter Landscape” which has hung in some manner of honor or another ever since.  The colors carried a promise for me that someday I would see the real painting, I would stand before it.  And now, here in my dream, I stood. 

“Thanks, God,” I whispered. 

But Kandinsky wasn’t the only artist present in this dream!  We gazed at Da Vinci, danced with Matisse, rested with Monet, laughed with Van Gogh and a host of many others inside The Hermitage.  Wandering through the labyrinth of rooms my heart was overwhelmed with the beauty and contrasts of expression.

Many tired hours later we were home again.  The welcoming apartment with its fresh baked chicken covered with tomatoes and mozzarella opened its doors.  Wearily we rested.  Sharing again our lives and finding so many commonalities, so many subtle differences.  Born on opposite sides of the Cold War we found kindred spirits.

Sunday dawned early, but not early enough and we quickly made our way to the train which would return me to Moscow.  Brisk steps, brisk breeze and brisk good-byes jumbled together on the platform of the waiting train.  Out of breath, I sat in my seat, closed my eyes and slept.

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