the departure

It all started on the way to the airport, as many a tale does. Not that this is really a tale - more like a sketch of sorts; an observational sphinx that rears its head during occasional moments of reflection. We were ahead of schedule, but I'd missed my flight to Saint Louis from New York the week beforehand and was still a tad agitated with my recent negligence; a league or two shy of anxious, I didn't mind sitting around O'Hare for a few hours and catching up on the weekly periodicals. Might as well, now that they're trying to charge $7 for the Economist. (and $45 pesos on the Recoleta stands, mind you. Didn't think reactionaries could also be opportunists, a friend of mine from Bushwick might have quipped.) In any case, I would need at least a short hour to mull over my pack of Camels and the summertime continent I was henceforth abandoning.

Brasil had just beaten the North Koreans, and my uncle was to bring me to the airport at 5:30. This is neither the time nor the place for a meritable character sketch, though a proper rendition of such would be, of no doubt, unquestionable benefit to humankind. I say that without any facetiousness or hint of irony. This chap is one truly funny bastard. That being said, we set off for O'Hare around 6:15, slightly behind schedule but with enough slack to check in before the 9:10 haul to Sao Paulo. After pretending to rear-end a Hyundai with his Audi A8 - and coming alarmingly close to doing so - we were met with uncanny delay of sorts, even by Chicago rush-hour standards within a missile's throw of the world's fourth busiest airport (I'll let the reader divine the first three). The standstill, shall we say, posed a particularly interesting dilemma. Historically speaking, I've always find it more than remotely difficult to engage with this particular uncle, if not with older relatives in general whom I only encounter on rare occasions. Within recent years, however, and with one particular occasion in mind, he'd displayed several miraculous gems of comedic genius - if you were able to consign a layer or two of social conditioning to oblivion. (For instance, the time on New Years day with Christoph when my uncle pretended he was going to run over the poor Mexican lad standing in the cold and taking orders at the hotdog joint; only minutes later, he offered the same bloke $100 if he could read the signature on the credit card receipt. A bold fresh piece of humanity, I must admit.) The question of breaking the ice, however, is always the same: where to begin?

I thought I could knock at the golden gates of comedic folly with the odd quip on whether or not Lebron was thinking of coming to the Bulls from Cleveland. Twas the only thing I could muster about sports and Chicago, apart from the recent Stanley Cup parade (and my uncle didn't strike me as much of a hockey type). "Now why would he wanna do that?" Uh oh. "Oh I don't know," I blustered, "they say Chicago's a much bigger market." "You think that guy give's a shit about the market?" Fuck. "Maybe he wants to go to Miami," he continued. "Oh yes, good point," I feebly reply, "that's certainly a possibility." He pauses, before resuming, "Think I give a rat's ass about those guys? Absurd, the amount of money they make. Fucking kiddin' me," was the general response. (Keep in mind that none of this is verbatum - I'm merely trying to recapture the essence of what is now a five day old memory. Not particularly mnemonically ambitious, I know.) 0 for 1 - but at least we're onto Miami.

My uncle then went on to recount his most recent experience in that lovely Floridian hedonopolos - the highlight of which was the extraordinary people watching in the hotel's lobby. I can only imagine. (I do envy witnessing the monstrously fabulous gems that are said to exist in that town - if only from a somewhat (temporally) short, if not sweet, distance.) Somehow, we get to the topic of stripclubs - of which, to my great relief, neither of us were big fans. Were the opposite the case for either party, things could have become slightly more awkward, as each either sought to play down his 'sensibilities' - or subtly justify his own lack thereof; en fin, that wasn't the case - and we could get back to more important matters - like finding the terminal, for instance.

"So where am I taking you anyway?" he fondly repeated every third minute or so. "Oh I'm pretty sure there will be a sign up ahead," I reply with the wisdom of an ancient sage. "You sure about that?" "Ye-yeah," I stammer, "I think so." "I think, therefore I am - they teach you about that, eh?" For some reason, I hesitate just enough for him to answer his own question: "Immaan-yua-al Kant." Seconds later, I come to my mnemonic senses, "No, I think it might've actually been Descartes." "Whatever... they're cousins, anyway," he assures me. "Nothing but a bunch of screwballs, those Europeans. Mothers, brothers, aunts and uncles, who knows what the fuck those nutjobs are up to over there." My love and appreciation for the New World have grown seven-fold ever since.

We reached but another interminable light - at which point I began to wonder if I really should've have watched the rest of that game after all. As we sat in the rain and funneled the stations for the usual inaudible high-afternoon mutterings, some crafty chap zips by on the left, a blasphemous violation of both those holy yellow stripes - and our notion of order, not to mention our pride and sense of urgency, mind you. As we inch forward in the early summer drizzle, my uncle reminds me of the civic costs of such an undertaking. "All it takes is one cop - and POOF you're in the slammer for some bullshit you didn't do. You never know with these guys; they got mix-ups all the time. We get pulled over and all they gotta do is screw up their records and BAM you're on the phone with your lawyer and missing your flight. Now, you got any idea how to get to the airport?" Before I can answer, he's driven up the curb and onto the 10 foot wide median separating the four-lane road at the upcoming intersection. He hits the accelerator and we buzz pass the remaining 30-40 cars dutifully inching toward the blinking red light at the intersection. We momentarily pause at the corner, before hitting a hard left onto the perpendicular thorough-fare. "Bunch of suckers," he reminds me, as we scurry on into the horizon and make for the terminal.