Obamarama - Day Three

The University of Chicago has been associated with over 70 Nobel laureates, a world record. Not only that, but Barack Obama taught constitutional law there for 12 years. And that, in part at least, is what my story is about – Chicago and its history with Presidents, especially Obama.
Rather than mangle with public transport to get there, I opt for a cab, only to be denied by fate. Inexplicably my ATM card has stopped working, leaving me without enough money for a taxi across the city.
I only have about $7 in my pocket so I send a pre-emptively apologetic email to the media contact at the uni and head to the train station. Looking at the map, Garfield station seems to be within sight of the UOC so that’s where I get off. Already half an hour late, I walk in what I think is the right direction, sweaty, frustrated and in no way ready to do a proper interview.
It quickly becomes clear that the uni isn’t within sight. Not only that, but I suddenly seem to be in the middle of a Wire-esque project . It’s less immediately intimidating that, say, Nitshill but it’s not too nice all the same. The fact that I haven’t seen a cab in 15 minutes doesn’t bode well either. It’s been longer since I saw another white face too and with slightly blonder hair than I had yesterday (thanks to the endless sun) I stick out like a polar bear in grizzly country.
A middle aged dude in a blue vest walks past and roars to one of his friends, “It ain’t easy, being Cheesy!” And, after my turtle head has retracted, I take the time to note that he’s got a grizzled voice like James Brown gargling gravel.
Amused as I am by this, though, I’m still not in a friendly neighbourhood, nor am I any closer to my interviewee. Desperate, I hail a police wagon. Inside an enormous black cop grudgingly ends a call to his woman and asks me what I’m doing. A bit of to-ing, fro-ing and dumb foreigner routine later and I find myself in the back of the car.
The seats are hard, the leg space non-existent – this certainly isn’t the kind of chauffeuring I imagined I’d be getting at the start of the week. But I can’t stop grinning all the same.
The cop talks a bit, politely hinting that I’m an idiot. “Actually a new study came out and it said that the corner you were just waiting on is the second most dangerous neighbourhood in America. One in four people experience violent crime, so they say anyway.” I’m very proud of this fact, although slightly sceptical; he is too.
“Personally I work more dangerous corners in Chicago, let alone the rest of the country.”
A few minutes later I’m at the University, receiving a bear of a handshake from the cop and being ushered into the complex. I talk to a professor of black politics, who despite being bombarded with the same pissy questions for the past couple of years (“So do you actually know Him? What about Her?”) is polite and friendly.
After finishing up the Obama stuff I’m led to the Oriental Institute. The University of Chicago is an old, rich university and as such is a world leader in many fields, including archaeology. They have 11 digs around the world discovering things for the first time, bringing artefacts back here or sometimes trading them with institutions like the British Museum and the Louvre. It’s an incredible place, all backed by old Rockefeller money.

I leave the university and take the much safer over-ground train back to the city centre. Inexplicably, although I’m again the only white person in sight, the conductor moves through the train and asks for everyone’s ticket but mine. I certainly don’t offer to buy on either; as anyone who has commuted between Glasgow and Ayr will tell you, there are few more satisfying things in life than a free train fare.

I get off at Grant Park (which is dedicated to an American president and has a statue of Lincoln; meanwhile, in Lincoln Park there is a statue of Grant). This weekend sees the start of Taste of Chicago, an enormous, sprawling food fair that gives most of the city an excuse to be extra-special fat bastards, while also putting on a bit of music. I walk through the carnage and don’t stop, not even when offered cocaine by a fragile looking slinger near The Bean.
A quick turn around at Ritz Carlton, where I’ll be spending my last two nights, and I’m out again, this time to the Donald Trump Tower. It’s one of the tallest structures in a city of skyscrapers, all shiny and imposing at the river’s edge. They’ve just opened a new bar for posers and are keen for coverage, so that’s where I find myself. If the clientele are to be judged on their conversation, then there can be little doubt that they are all shit people, albeit a rich and good looking shade of shit. With my backpack that now reeks of sweat and my humidity-generated afro, I look like a hobo that snuck in the back door, but I’m essentially a VIP which almightily pisses off a lot a preening dicks that are on a two hour waiting list to get in.
I double check with the manager that everything is free, then order three courses and three cocktails which quickly make me horribly tipsy. I’m supposed to be writing tonight and after the day it’s been I probably should. That window of opportunity has passed though; once again, it’s bed time.