Chicago is my layover.I watch a true master make my sub. He's an artist. It's true. He makes the sub perfectly. He makes mine and hands it to me and I look him in the eyes and say, "Thank you," because I try to do that, and he looks at me, perhaps a little surprised, and says, "You're welcome."
I can tell he is one of the good people and I wonder why all the good people are working the crappy jobs.
I'm stuck here with enough time to eat and write a little and I witness a few moments of Chicago personality. They are nice, polite people in a way and I can't help wonder if underneath their polite use of the word "Ma'am," they are really liars and cheaters like my last ex-girlfriend, who was from Chicago. Actually, I wonder this of just about ALL humans, now.
I'm on the plane and I'm finishing this up: it was neat to board the plane by going downstairs and walking across the pavement, feet touching the road that leads to the runway. It was neat to size up the aircraft from the ground. And thank goodness – it is impossible, but the flight is not full. I have a free seat to my right.